ANTHOLOGIES BY CAROLYN WELLS A VERS DE SOCIETE ANTHOLOGY A WHIMS EY ANTHOLOGY A SATIRE ANTHOLOGY A PARODY ANTHOLOGY A NONSENSE ANTHOLOGY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS A Parody Anthology BY CAROLYN WELLS AUTHOR OF "A NONSENSE ANTHOLOGY* NEW YORK CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 1922 /cxv^<-x-C. COPYRIGHT, 1904, BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS Printed in the United States of America Published September, 1904 TO MRS. THEODORE ROOSEVELT 592643 NOTE ACKNOWLEDGMENT is hereby gratefully made to the pub- lishers of the various parodies for permission to include them in this compilation. The parodies from "Diversions of the Echo Club/* by Bayard Taylor, and Mary and Her Lamb, from " New Waggings of Old Tales," by Frank Dempster Sherman, are published by permission of Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Company. By the courtesy of John Lane are included the parodies of Anthony C. Deane, from his volume " New Rhymes for Old ; " and those of Owen Seaman, from volumes "In Cap and Bells " and " The Battle of the Bays." Bed During Exams is from " Cap and Gown," published by Messrs. L. C. Page & Company. The Golfer's Rubaiyat, by H. C. Boynton, is from "A Book of American Humorous Verse," published by Messrs. Herbert S. Stone & Company. Staccato to O Le Lupe is from " Last Scenes from Vaga- bondia," by Bliss Carman and Richard Hovey, published by Messrs. Small, Maynard & Company. The two poems by Ben King are published by Forbes & Co. The following are published by Charles ScribneFs Sons : Song, from " The Book of Joyous Children," by Jamej Whitcomb Riley ; Home Sweet Home, and Imitation, from " Poems" of H. C. Bunner ; and Song of a Heart, and Godiva, from "Overheard in a Garden," by Oliver Herford. CONTENTS AFTER OMAR KHAYYAM PAGE The Golfer's Rubaiyat . . . H. W. Boynton ... 3-^ An Omar for Ladies . . . Josephine Daskam Bacon 5. The Modern Rubaiyat . . Kate Masterson ... 7 Lines Written by Request . Owen Seaman .... 10 The Baby's Omar .... Carolyn Wells ... 12 AFTER CHAUCER Ye Clerk e of ye Wethere . Anonymous .... 14 AFTER SPENSER A Portrait John Keats .... 15 AFTER SHAKESPEARE The Bachelor's Soliloquy . Anonymous . . . . . 17 Poker Anonymous 18 Toothache Anonymous 19 A Dreary Song Shirley Brooks ... 20 To the Stall-holders at a Fancy Fair W. S. Gilbert .... 21 Song . . /. W. Riley 22 The Whist Player's Soliloquy Carolyn Wells . . . . 23 AFTER WITHER Answer to Master Wither's Song Ben Jonson .... 25 AFTER HERRICK Song *, Oliver Herford ... 27 To Julia Under Lock and Key Owen Seaman . ... 27^*" AFTER NURSERY RHYMES An Idyll of Phatte and Leene Anonymous 29 Nursery Song in Pidgin English Anonymous 30 [ixj Contents PAGE The House that Jack Built . Samuel Taylor Coleridge 31 Boston Nursery Rhymes . . Rev. Joseph Cook ... 32 A Song of a Heart .... Oliver Herford ... 33 The Domicile of John . . . A. Pope ...... 34 Mary and the Lamb .... Frank Dempster Sherman 37 AFTER WALLER The Aesthete to the Rose . Punch 40 AFTER DRYDEN Three Blessings Anonymous 41 Oyster Crabs Carolyn Wells ... 41 AFTER DR. WATTS The Voice of the Lobster \ Lewis Carroll .... 42 The Crocodile Lewis Carroll .... 43 AFTER GOLDSMITH When Lovely Woman . . . Phoebe Cary .... 44 AFTER BURNS Gaelic Speech Anonymous .... 45 -My Foe Anonymous .... 46 Rigid Body Sings . . . . /. C. Maxwell .... 48 AFTER CATHERINE FANSHAWE Cockney Enigma on the Letter H Horace Mayhew ... 49 AFTER WORDSWORTH . - On Wordsworth Anonymous .... 51 Jacob Phoebe Cary .... 51 Fragment . Catherine M. Fanshawe 52 Jane Smith Rudyard Kipling . . 54 * Only Seven ' Henry S. Leigh ... 55 Lucy Lake Newton Mackintosh . . 57 AFTER SIR WALTER SCOTT Young Lochinvar .... Anonymous .... 58 AFTER COLERIDGE The Ancient Mariner . . . Anonymous 61 Striking Charles S. Calverley . 64 Contents \FTER SOUTHEY p AGB The Old Man's Cold . . . Anonymous .... 66 Father William Lewis Carroll .... 67 Lady Jane A. T. Quiller-Couch . 69 \FTER CAMPBELL The New Arrival .... George W. Cable ... 72 John Thompson's Daughter . Phoebe Gary .... 73 A.FTER THOMAS MOORE The Last Cigar Anonymous .... 76 'T was Ever Thus .... Anonymous .... 77 There 's a Bower of Bean- Vines Phcebe Gary .... 78 Disaster . Charles S. Calverley . 79 Sarah's Halls Judy 80 'T was Ever Thus .... Henry S. Leigh ... 81 AFTER JANE TAYLOR The Bat Lewis Carroll ... 82 AFTER BARRY CORNWALL The Tea Tom Hood, Jr. ... 83 AFTER BYRON The Rout of Belgravia . . Jon Duan 84 A Grievance /. K. Stephen 85 AFTER CHARLES WOLFE The Burial of the Bachelor . Anonymous 88 Not a Sou had He Got >. . R. Harris Barham . . 89 The Marriage of Sir John Smith Phoebe Gary 91 AFTER MRS. HEMANS The Thyroid Gland . . . . JR. M. 93 AFTER KEATS Ode on a Jar of Pickles . . Bayard Taylor ... 94 AFTER HEINE Imitation H. C. Bunner ... 96 Commonplaces Rudyard Kipling . . 97 [xi] Contents AFTER HOOD The Dripping Sheet . . . I Remember, I Remember . AFTER ALFRED BUNN A Yule Tide Parody . . . Self-Evident AFTER LORD MACAULAY The Laureate's Tourney . . AFTER EMERSON Mutton . AFTER MARY HOWITT The Lobster Quadrille . . . AFTER MRS. BROWNING In the Gloaming Gwendoline AFTER LONGFELLOW The Modern Hiawatha . . Higher Topside Galah Excelsior The Day is Done .... A Psalm of Life How Often Desolation The Birds and the Pheasant . AFTER WHITTIER Hiram Hover AFTER MRS. NORTON The Horse and his Master . The New Version .... AFTER POE What Troubled Poe's Raven The Amateur Flute .... Samuel Brown . . . . . The Promissory Note . . . [ xii Anonymous . . . Phoebe Gary . . . Anonymous J. R. Planchl . . . William Aytoun . Anonymous Lewis Carroll . . . Charles S. Calverley Bayard Taylor . . Anonymous Anonymous . . . Anonymous . . . Anonymous , . . Phcebe Cary . . '. Phoebe Cary . . . Ben King .... Thomas Masson . Punch . Bayard Taylor Philip F. Allen W.J. Lampton John Bennett . Anonymous Phcebe Cary Bayard Taylor J PAGE 98 101 103 IO4 105 "3 114 116 118 120 120 122 124 126 127 129 '3<> 131 133 I3J 138 139 140 142 F43 Contents PACK The Cannibal Flea .... Tom Hood, Jr. . . . 145. Annabel Lee Stanley Huntlcy . . . 147 The Bells Judy 148 The Goblin Goose .... Punch 150 AFTER LORD HOUGHTON Love and Science Anonymous .... 153 AFTER TENNYSON The Bather's Dirge . . . Tennyson Minor . . . 155 Little Miss Muffet .... Anonymous .... 156 The Musical Pitch .... Anonymous .... 158 To an Importunate Host . . Anonymous .... 158 The Village Choir .... Anonymous 159 The Biter Bit William Aytoun . . . 161 The Laureate William Aytoun . . . 163 The Lay of the Lovelorn . . William Aytoun . . . 165- In Immemoriam Cuthbert Bedc .... 1 74 Sir Eggnogg Bayard Taylor . . . 175 Godiva Oliver Herford . . . 177 A Laureate's Log .... Punch 178 The Recognition .... Wm. Sawyer . . . . 180 The Higher Pantheism in a Nutshell A. C. Swinburne . .180 Timbuctoo ........ W. M. Thackeray . . 183 AFTER TUPPER Of Friendship ..... Charles S. Calverley . 185 Of Reading Charles S. Calverley . 186 AFTER THACKERAY The Willow-Tree . . . . W. M. Thackeray, . . 188 AFTER CHARLES DICKENS Man's Place in Nature . . Anonymous .... 191 AFTER ROBERT BROWNING Home Truths from Abroad . Anonymous . . . . 193 After Browning Anonymous 194 The Cock and the Bull . . Charles S. Calverley . i<^5 A Staccato to O Le Lupe . Bliss Carman .... 200 Contents By the Sea Bayard Taylor . Bayard Taylor . Rudyard Kipling Rudyard Kipling J. K. Stephen . . /. K. Stephen . . A. C. Swinburne Anonymous . . Bayard Taylor Judy PAGE . . 203 . . 205 . . 206 . . 210 . . 210 . . 212 215 . . 2I 9 . . 220 Angelo Orders his Dinner . The Flight of the Bucket . . The Jam Pot Imitation of Robert Browning The Last Ride Together . . Up the Spout AFTER WALT WHITMAN An American, one of the Roughs, a Kosmos . . . Camerados Imitation of Whitman . . . Imitation of Whitman . . . The Poet and the Woodrouse y. K. Stephen . A. C. Swinburne . . . 224 . . 22 4 AFTER CHARLES KINGSLEY Three Little Fishers . . . Frank H. Stauffer . . 229 The Three Poets .... Lilian Whiting ... 230 AFTER MRS. R. H. STODDARD The Nettle . " Bayard Taylor . . . 231 . AFTER BAYARD TAYLOR Hadramaut Bayard Taylor . . . 233 AFTER WILLIAM MORRIS Estunt the Griff .... Rudyard Kipling . . 235 AFTER ALFRED AUSTIN An Ode Anthony C. Deane . . 237 AFTER W. S. GILBERT Ode to a London Fog . . . Anonymous .... 239 President Garfield .... Anonymous 240 Propinquity Needed . . . Charles Battell Loomts . 241 AFTER R. H. STODDARD The C antelope Bayard Taylor . . . 243 AFTER A. A. PROCTOR The Lost Voice A. H. S. 244 The Lost Ape /. W. G. W. .... 245 The Lost Word C. H. Webb .... 246 [xiv] Contents AFTER GEORGE MEREDITH PAGE At the Sign of the Cock . . Owen Seaman .... 248 AFTER D. G. ROSSETTI A Christmas Wail . . . . Anonymous .... 252 Ballad Charles S. Calverley . 253 Cimabuella Bayard Taylor . . . 255 The Poster Girl Carolyn Wells ... 257 AFTER JEAN INGELOW Lovers, and a Reflection . . Charles S. Calverley . 259 The Shrimp Gatherers . . Bayard Taylor . . . 261 AFTER CHRISTINA ROSSETTI Remember . Judy 263 AFTER LEWIS CARROLL Waggawocky Shirley Brooks . . . 264 The Vulture and the Hus- band-Man A. C. Hilton .... 265 AFTER A. C. SWINBURNE Gillian Anonymous .... 268 Atalanta in Camden-town . Lewis. Carroll .... 270 The Manlet Lewis Carroll .... 272 If Mortimer Collins . .274 The Maid of the Meerschaum Rudy ard Kipling . . 275 Quaeritur Rudyard Kipling . . 277 A Melton Mowbray Pork-pie Richard Le Gallienne . 278 Foam and Fangs .... Walter Parke .... 278 A Song of Renunciation . . Owen Seaman .... 279 Nephelidia A. C. Swinburne ... 282 The Lay of Macaroni . . . Bayard Taylor . . . 284 AFTER BRET HARTE The Heathen Pass-ee . . . A. C. Hilton . . . . 286 DeTeaFabula A. T. Quiller-Couch . . 289 AFTER AUSTIN DOB SON The Prodigals Anonymous 292 AFTER ANDREW LANG Bo-Peep ........ Anthony C. Deane . . 294 [XV] L'ont ent s AFTER W. E. HENLEY PAGE Imitation Anthony C. Deane . . 296 AFTER R. L. STEVENSON Bed During Exams .... Clara Warren Vail . . 298 AFTER OSCAR WILDE More Impressions .... Oscuro Wildgoose . . 299 Nursery Rhymes a la Mode Anonymous .... 299 A Maudle-In Ballad . . . Punch 300 Quite the Cheese . . . . H. C. Waring ... 302 AFTER WILLIAM WATSON The Three Mice Anthony C. Deane . . 304 AFTER KIPLING Fuzzy Wuzzy Leaves Us . . E. P. C. 305 A Ballad Guy Wetmore Carryl . 307 Jack and Jill Anthony C. Deane . . 309 The Legend of Realism . . Hilda Johnson . . . 313 AFTER STEPHEN PHILLIPS Little Jack Homer .... Anthony C. Deane . . 315 AFTER FIONA MCLEOD The Cult of the Celtic . . Anthony C. Deane . . 317 AFTER VARIOUS WRITERS OF VERS DE SOCIETE Behold the Deeds . . . . H. C. Bunner .... 319 Culture in the Slums . . . W. E. Henley .... 322 A Ballade of Ballade-Mongers Augustus Moore . . . 322 AFTER VARIOUS POPULAR SONGS Beautiful Snow Anonymous 324 The Newest Thing in Christ- mas Carols Anonymous 325 The Tale of Lord Lovell . . Anonymous 326 '* Songs Without Words " . Robert J. Burdette . . 327 The Elderly Gentleman . . George Canning . . . 328 Turtle Soup Lewis Carroll .... 329 Some Day F. P. Doveton .... 329 If I Should Die To-night . Ben King 331 f xvi ] Contents PACK A Love Song . ..... Dean Swiff . . . . . 331 Old Fashioned Fun . . . W. M. Thackeray . . 333 THEMES WITH VARIATIONS Home Sweet Home with Variations . . . . . . H. C. Bunner .... 334 MODERN VERSIFICATION ON ANCIENT THEMES Goose a la Mode ..... Cavazza 346 Three Children Sliding 346 Jack and Jill E. Cavazza 347 Jack and Jill ' Charles Battell Loonns . 348 The Rejected " National Hymns " Robert Henry Newell . 352 A Theme with Variations . Barry Pain .... 356 The Poets at Tea .... Barry Pain .... 359 The Poets at a House Party Carolyn Wells . . . . 363 An Old Song by New Singers A. C. Wilkie .... 368 INDEX OF TITLES 375 INDEX OF AUTHORS . . . 385 INDEX OF AUTHORS PARODIED 395 xvii ] INTRODUCTION INTRODUCTION PARODY AS A FINE ART f 1 ^HE fact that parody has been ably defended I by many of the world's best minds proves that it is an offensive measure, at least from some viewpoints. But an analysis of the argu- ments for and against seems to show that parody is a true and legitimate branch of art, whose appreciation depends upon the mental bias of the individual. To enjoy parody, one must have an intense sense of the humorous and a humorous sense of the intense ; and this, of course, presupposes a mental attitude of wide tolerance and liberal judgments. Parodies are not for those who cannot under- stand that parody is not necessarily ridicule. Like most other forms of literature, unless the intent of the writer be thoroughly understood and appreciated, the work is of little value to the reader. The defenders of parody have sometimes en- deavored to prove that it has an instructive value, and that it has acted as a reforming influence A Parody Anthology against mannerisms and other glaring defects. One enthusiastic partisan confidently remarks: u It may gently admonish the best and most established writer, when, from haste, from care- lessness, from over-confidence, he is in danger of forfeiting his reputation ; it may gently lead the tyro, while there is yet time, from the wrong into the right path." But this ethical air-castle is rudely shattered by facts, for what established writer ever changed his characteristic effects as a result of the parodies upon his works, or what tyro was ever parodied ? It has been said, too, that a good parody makes us love the original work better ; but this state- ment seems to lack satisfactory proof except, perhaps, on the principle that a good parody may lead us to know the original work more thoroughly. Perhaps the farthest fetched argument of the zealous advocates of the moral virtues of parody is found in Lord Jeffrey's review of the well- known a Rejected Addresses," where he says, "The imitation lets us more completely into the secret of the original author, and enables us to under- stand far more clearly in what the peculiarity of his manner consists than most of us would ever have done without this assistance." If this be true at all, it is exemplified in very few instances, [ xxii ] Introduction and is one of the least of the minor reasons for the existence of a paro'dy. The main intent of the vast majority of paro- dies is simply to amuse ; but to amuse intelli- gently and cleverly. This aim is quite high enough, and is in no way strengthened or im- proved by the bolstering up qualities of avowed virtuous influences. The requirements of the best parody are in a general way simply the requirements of the best literature of any sort ; but, specifically, the true parodist requires an exact mental balance, a fine sense of proportion and relative values, good- humor, refinement, and unerring taste. Self-con- trol and self-restraint are also needed ; a parodist may go to the very edge, but he must not fall over. The fact that poor parodies outnumber the good ones in the ratio of about ten to one (which is not an unusual percentage in any branch of literature), is because a wide and generous sense of humor is so rarely found in combination with the somewhat circumscribed quality of good taste. It is, therefore, on account of the abuse of parody, and not the use of it, that a defence of the art has been found necessary. The parody has the sanction of antiquity, and though its absolute origin is uncertain, and various [ xxiii ] A Parody Anthology u Fathers of Parody " have been named, it is safe to assume that it began with the Greeks. The Romans, too, indulged in it, and its continuance has been traced all through the Middle Ages ; but these ancient parodies, however acceptable in their time, are of little interest to us now, save as heirlooms. Their wit is coarse, their humor heavy ; they are usually caustic and often irreverent. In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries the art of parody began to improve, and during the nineteenth it rose to a height that demanded recognition from the literary world. It is interesting to note that the age of English parody was ushered in by such masterpieces as the " Rolliad " and the " Anti-Jacobin," followed by tne " Rejected Addresses, " and the " Bon Gaultier Ballads." Later camevThackeray, Calverley, Swin- burne and Lewis Carroll, also Bayard Taylor, Bret Harte, and Phoebe Gary. More modern still is the work of Rudyard Kipling, Anthony C. Deane, H. C. Bunner, and Owen SeamanT} Though some of these are classed among the minor poets, they are all major parodists and ap- proach their work armed at all points. The casual critic of parodies, as a rule, divides them into two classes, which, though under vari- ous forms of terminology, resolve themselves into [ xxiv ] Introduction of sound and parodies of sensed But there are really three great divisions, which may be called u word-rendering," u form-rendering," and " sense-rendering." y The first, mere ^vord-rendcrin^ is simply an imitation of the original, and depends for its interest entirely upon the substitution of a trivial or commonplace motive for a lofty one, and following as nearly as possible the original words.^ /V Form-rendering is the imitation of the style of an author, preferably an author given to mannerisms or affectation of some sort.^XThe third division, sense-rendering, is by far the most meritorious, anc 1 utilizes not only the original writer's diction and style, but follows a train of thought precisely along the lines that he would have pursued from the given premises.^ This class of parody is seen at its best in Cath- erine Fanshawe's " Imitation of Wordsworth," and Calverley's " The Cock and the Bull." But though parodies of this sort are of more serious worth, the other classes show examples quite as good in their own way. Lewis Carroll's immortal parody of Souther's., u Father William " is merely a burlesque of the word-rendering type, yet it is perfect of its kind and defies adverse criticism. [ xxv ] A Parody Anthology Miss Gary was a pioneer of parody in America and one of the few women writers who have done clever work of this sort. Miss Gary's parodies are numerous and uniformly first-class examples of their kind. They are collected in a small book, now out of print, and are well worth reading. Of course, parodies which burlesque the actual words of the original are necessarily parodies of some particular poem, and often not so good an imitation of the style of the author. More difficult than the parody of a particular poem is ^hejunitatjorx or burlesque of the literary style of an author. To accomplish this, the paron- dist must be himself a master of style, a student of language, and possessed of a^power of mimicry with an instant appreciation of opportunities. "Diversions of the Echo Club," by Bayard Taylor, are among the best of this class of paro- dies. Aside from their cleverness they are marked by good taste, fairness, justice, and a true poetic instinct. Naturally, parodies of literary style are founded on the works of those authors whose individual characteristics invite imitation. Parody is inevitable where sense is sacrificed to sound, where affectations of speech are evident, or where unwarrantable extravagance of any sort is [ xxvi ] Introduction indulged in. This explains the numerous (and usually worthless) parodies of Walt Whitman. Swinburne and Browning are often parodied for these (perhaps only apparent) reasons, and the poets of the aesthetic school of course offered especially fine opportunities. Parodies of Rossetti and his followers are often exceedingly funny, though not at all difficult to write, as the originals both in manner and matter fairly invite absurd incongruities. Nursery Rhymes seem to find favor with the parodists as themes to work upon. A collection of Mother Goose's Melodies as they have been reset by clever pens, would be both large and interesting. The masters of parody, however, are as a rule to be found among the master poets. Thackeray turned his genius to imitative account ; Swinburne parodied himself as well as his fellow-poets ; Rud- yard Kipling has done some of the best parodies in the language, and C. S. Calverley's burlesques are classics. The work of these writers may be said to be in the third class ; for not only do they pre- serve the diction and style of the author imitated, but they seem to go beyond that, and, assimilating for the moment his very mentality, caricature not only his expressed thoughts but his abstract cerebrations. [ xxvii ] A Parody Anthology It is easy to understand how Swinburne with his facile fancy and wonderful command of words could be among the best parodists. In his " Heptalogia " are long and careful parodies of no less than seven prominent poets, each of which is a masterpiece, and the parody of Browning is especially good. Browning, of course, has always been a tempting mark for the parodists, but though it is easy to imitate his eccentricities superficially, it is only the greater minds that have parodied his subtler peculiarites. Among the best are Calverley's and Kipling's. Kipling's parodies, written in his early days, and not often to be found in editions of his collected works, rank with the highest. His parody of Swinburne, while going to the very limit of legiti- mate imitation, is restrained by a powerful hand, and so kept within convincing bounds. The great fault with most parodies of Swinburne is that exag- geration is given play too freely, and the result is merely a meaningless mass of sound. Clever in a different way is Owen Seaman's parody of Swin- burne. Mr. Seaman is one of the most brilliant of modern parodists and his parodies, though long, are perfect in all respects. Among the most exquisite parodies we have ever read must be counted those of Anthony C. Deane, originally published in various London [ xxviii ] Introduction papers, and Calverley's works are too well known even to require mention. The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam is often parodiec^, but rarely worthily. One reason for this lies in the fact that it is not Omar who is parodied at all, but Fitzgerald ; consequently, the imitation is merely a form-rendering and more often only lines in the Rubaiyat metre. Shakespeare, with the exception of one or two of his most hackneyed speeches, is rarely parodied ; doubtless owing to the fact that his harmonious work shows no incongruities of matter or manner, and strikes no false notes for the parodists to catch at. The extent of the domain of parody is vastly larger than is imagined by the average reader, and its already published bibliographies show thousands of collected parodies of varying degrees of merit. Of all the poets Tennyson has probably been parodied the most'; followed closely in this respect by Edgar Allan Poe. After these, Browning, Swinburne, and Walt Whitman ; then Moore, Wordsworth, Longfellow, and Thomas Campbell. Of single poems the one showing the greatest number of parodies is u My Mother," by Ann Taylor ; after this those most used for the purpose have been The Raven," Gray's " Elegy," " The Song of the Shirt," The May Queen," " Locksley [ xxix ] A Parody Anthology Hall," "The Burial of Sir John Moore," and Kingsley's "Three Fishers." Parody, then, is a tribute to popularity, and con- sequently to merit of one sort or another, and in the hands of the initiate may be considered a touch-stone that proves true worth. [ xxx A PARODY ANTHOLOGY Parody Anthology AFTER OMAR KHAYYAM THE GOLFER'S RUBAIYAT WAKE ! for the sun has driven in equal flight The stars before him from the Tee of Night, And holed them every one without a Miss, Swinging at ease his gold-shod Shaft of Light. Now, the fresh Year reviving old Desires, The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires, Pores on this Club and That with anxious eye, And dreams of Rounds beyond the Rounds of Liars, Come, choose your Ball, and in the fire of Spring, Your Red Coat and your wooden Putter fling; The Club of Time has but a little while To waggle, and the Club is on the swing. A Bag of Clubs, a Silver Town or two, A Flask of Scotch, a Pipe of Shag, and Thou Beside me caddying in the Wilderness Ah, Wilderness were Paradise enow. [ 3 ] A Pa,roay Anthology Myself, when young, did eagerly frequent Jamie and His, and heard great argument Of Grip, and Stance, and Swing ; but evermore Found at the Exit but a Dollar spent. With them the seed of Wisdom did I sow, And with mine own hand sought to make it grow ; And this was all the Harvest that I reap'd : u You hold it in this Way, and you swing it So." The swinging Brassie strikes ; and, having struck, Moves on ; nor all your Wit or future Luck Shall lure it back to cancel half a Stroke, Nor from the Card a single Seven pluck. No hope by Club or Ball to win the Prize ; The batter'd, blacken'd Remade sweetly flies, Swept cleanly from the Tee ; this is the Truth Nine-tenths is Skill, and all the rest is Lies. And that inverted Ball they call the High, By which the Duffer thinks to live or die, Lift not your hands to It for help, for it As impotently froths as you or I. Yon rising Moon that leads us home again, How oft hereafter will she wax and wane ; How oft hereafter rising, wait for us At this same Turning and for One in vain. [4] A Parody Anthology And when, like her, my Golfer, I have been And am no more above the pleasant Green, And you in your mild Journey pass the Hole I made in One ah, pay my Forfeit then ! H. W. Boynton. AN OMAR FOR LADIES* ONE for her Club and her own Latch-key fights, Another wastes in Study her good Nights. Ah, take the Clothes and let the Culture go, Nor heed the grumble of the Women's Rights ! Look at the Shop-girl all about us u Lo, The Wages of a month," she says, "I blow Into a Hat, and when my hair is waved, Dpubtless my Friend will take me to the Show." And she who saved her coin for Flannels red, And she who caught Pneumonia instead, Will both be Underground in Fifty Years, And Prudence pays no Premium to the dead. TV exclusive Style you set your heart upon Gets to the Bargain counters and anon Like monograms on a Saleslady's tie Cheers but a moment soon for you 't is gone. Think, on the sad Four Hundred's gilded halls, Whose endless Leisure ev'n themselves appalls, How Ping-pong raged so high then faded out To those far Suburbs that still chase its Balls. * Copyright, 1903, by Harper & Brothers. [ 5 ] A Parody Anthology They say Sixth Avenue and the Bowery keep The dernier cri that once was far from cheap ; Green Veils, one season chic Department stores Mark down in vain no profit shall they reap. I sometimes think that never lasts so long The Style as when it starts a bit too strong ; That all the Pompadours the parterre boasts Some Chorus-girl began, with Dance and Song. And this Revival of the Chignon low That fills the most of us with helpless Woe, Ah, criticise it Softly ! for who knows What long-necked Peeress had to wear it so ! Ah, my beloved, try each Style you meet ; To-day brooks no loose ends, you must be neat. To-morrow ! why, to-morrow you may be Wearing it down your back like Marguerite ! For some we once admired, the Very Best That ever a French hand-boned Corset prest, Wore what they used to call Prunella Boots, And put on Nightcaps ere they went to rest. And we that now make fun of Waterfalls They wore, and whom their Crinoline appalls, Ourselves shall from old dusty Fashion plates Assist our Children in their Costume balls. [6] A Parody Anthology Ah, make the most of what we yet may wear, Before we grow so old that we don't care ! Before we have our Hats made all alike, Sans Plumes, sans Wings, sans Chiffon, and sans Hair ! ^ Josephine Daskam Bacon. THE MODERN RUBAIYAT (Dob ley's Version) HARK ! for the message cometh from the King! Winter, thy doom is spoke ; thy dirges ring, Thy time is o'er and through the Palace door Enter the Princess ! Hail the new-crowned Spring ! Comes she all rose-crowned, glowing with the Joy Of Laughter and of Cupid, the God-Boy ; Buds bursting on the bough in welcoming To Her we Love, whose loving will not cloy ! List ! from the organ rippling in the Street Come sounds rejoicing, glad Her reign to greet. The Shad is smiling in the Market Place And eke the Little Neck ! Ah Life is Sweet ! Come, let us lilt a Merry Little Song And in an Automobile glide along Into the glory of the Year's new Birth. Hasten ! Oh, haste ! For this is Spring, I Think ! [7] A Parody Anthology Come where the Bonnets bloom within the Grove And let us pluck them for the One we Love ; Violets and Things and chiffon-nested Birds. Tell me didst ever see a Glass-Eyed Dove ? Think you how many Springs will go and come When We are Dead Ones and the busy Hum Of life will never reach us Nothing Done And Nothing Doing in the Silence Glum ! Listen ! the cable car's Gay Gong has rang, The Elevated on its perch, A-clang. Like to a District Messenger astir. Thought you, it was a Nightingale that sang ? Ah ! my Beloved, when it 's Really Spring We know it by the Buds a-blossoming, Signals from earth to sky Tremendous Sounds That might to Some mean any Ancient Thing ! Then let us to the Caravan at Once, The Sawdust where the Peanut haunts The air with strange sweet Odors And the Elephant does Wild and Woolly Stunts ! Asparagus is glowing on the Stall, The Spring lamb cavorts on the Menu tall ; Strawberries ripe a Dollar for the Box : Would n't it jar You somehow, After all ? [8] A Parody Anthology A Book of Coon Songs underneath the Bough, A Jug of Wine, a Dozen Buns, and Thou Beside me singing rag-time ? I don't know ? I wonder would a dozen be enow ? I sent my soul afling through Joy and Pain For Information that the Winds might deign . Softly the breezes pitched it, Russie-curved, And whispered slowly sadly " Guess Again.' ' Sometimes I think the Glories that they Sing Are like the grape-vine the Fox tried to cling; But take- To-day and make the Most of It, I think it 's Just Too Sweet for anything ! What of To-morrow say you ? Oh, my Friend To-morrow 's Not been Touched. It 's yet to Spend. I often wonder if we' should expire If we could but Collect the Gold we Lend ! Ah, Love ! could Thou and I Creation run, How Different our Scheme! The Summer's sun Would see another Springtime blossoming Another Summer's Rose to Follow On ! And Leaning from the Sky a Little Star Would Tell Us from the Canopy afar What now we Grope for in the Dinky-dink, And wonder blindly, vaguely, What we Are ! [9] A Parody Anthology And when Alone you dream your fancies ripe, Thyself all Hasheesh-fed My Prototype ! Smoke Up and when you gather with the Group Where I made One Turn Down an Empty Pipe ! Kate Master s on. LINES WRITTEN ( BY REQUEST ") FOR A DINNER OF THE OMAR KHAYYAM CLUB MASTER, in memory of that Verse of Thine, And of Thy rather pretty taste in Wine, We gather at this jaded Century's end, Our Cheeks, if so we may, to incarnadine. Thou hast the kind of Halo which outstays Most other Genii's. Though a Laureate's bays Should slowly crumple up, Thou livest on, Having survived a certain Paraphrase. The Lion and the Alligator squat In Dervish Courts the Weather being hot- Under Umbrellas. Where is Mahmud now? Plucked by the Kitchener and gone to Pot ! Not so with thee ; but in Thy place of Rest, Where East is East and never can be West, Thou art the enduring Theme of dining Bards ; O make allowances ; they do their Best. [ 10] A Parody Anthology Our Health Thy Prophet's health is but so-so ; Much marred by men of Abstinence who know Of Thee and all Thy loving Tavern-lore Nothing, nor care for it one paltry Blow. Yea, we ourselves, who beam around Thy Bowl, Somewhat to dull Convention bow the Soul, We sit in sable Trouserings and Boots, Nor do the Vine-leaves deck a single Poll. How could they bloom in uncongenial air ? Nor, though they bloomed profusely, should we wear Upon our Heads so tight is Habit's hold Aught else beside our own unaided Hair. The Epoch curbs our Fancy. What is more To BE, in any case, is now a Bore. Even in Humor there is nothing new; There is no Joke that was not made before. But Thou ! with what a fresh and poignant sting Thy Muse remarked that Time was on the Wing ! Ah, Golden Age, when Virgin was the Soil, And Decadence was deemed a newish Thing. These picturesque departures now are stale ; The noblest Vices have their vogue and fail ; Through some inherent Taint or lack of Nerve We cease to sin upon a generous scale. A Parody Anthology This hour, though drinking at my Host's expense, I fear to use a fine Incontinence, For terror of the Law and him that waits Outside, the unknown X, to hale us hence. For, should he make of us an ill Report As pipkins of the more loquacious Sort, We might be lodged, the Lord alone knows where, Save Peace were purchased with a pewter Quart. And yet, O Lover of the purple Vine, Haply Thy Ghost is watching how we dine ; Ah, let the Whither go ; we '11 take our chance Of fourteen days with option of a Fine. Master, if we, Thy Vessels, staunch and stout, Should stagger, half-seas-over, blind with Doubt, In sound of that dread moaning of the Bar, Be near, be very near, to bail us out ! Owen Seaman. THE BABY'S OMAR OMAR 'S the fad ! Well then, let us indite The shape of verse old Omar used to write; And Juveniles are up. So we opine A Baby's Omar would be out of sight ! A Parody Anthology Methinks the stunt is easy. Stilted style, A misplaced Capital once in a while, Other verse writers do it like a shot ; And can't I do it too ? Well, I should Smile ! But how I ramble on. I must dismiss Dull Sloth, and set to Work at once, I wis ; I sometimes think there's nothing quite so hard As a Beginning. Say we start like this: [ndeed, indeed my apron oft before [ tore, but was I naughty when I tore ? And then, and then came Ma, and thread in hand Repaired the rent in my small pinafore. A Penny Trumpet underneath the Bough, A Drum that's big enough to make a Row; A Toy Fire-Engine, and a squeaking Doll, Oh, Life were Pandemonium enow. Come, fill the Cup, then quickly on the floor Your portion of the Porridge gaily pour. The Nurse will Spank you, and she '11 be discharged, Ah, but of Nurses there be Plenty more. Yes, I can do it ! Now, if but my Purse Some kindly Editor will reimburse, I '11 write a Baby's Omar ; for I 'm sure These Sample Stanzas here are not so worse. Carolyn Wells. t'3] A Parody Anthology AFTER CHAUCER YE CLERKE OF YE WETHERE ACLERKE ther was, a puissant wight was hee, Who of ye wethere hadde ye maisterie ; Alway it was his mirthe and his solace To put eche seson's wethere oute of place. Whanne that Aprille shoures wer our desyre, He gad us Julye sonnes as hotte as fyre ; But sith ye summere togges we donned agayne, Eftsoons ye wethere chaunged to cold and rayne. Wo was that pilgrimme who fared forth a-foote, Without ane gyngham that him list uppe-putte; And gif no mackyntosches eke had hee, A parlous state that wight befelle pardie ! We wist not gif it nexte ben colde or hotte, Cogswounds ! ye barde a grewsome colde hath gotte ! Certes, that clerke 's ane mightie man withalle, Let non don him offence, lest ille befalle. Anonymous. A Parody Anthology AFTER SPENSER A PORTRAIT HE is to weet a melancholy carle : Thin in the waist, with bushy head of hair, As hath the seeded thistle, when a parle It holds with Zephyr, ere it sendeth fair Its light balloons into the summer air; Thereto his beard had not begun to bloom. No brush had touched his cheek, or razor sheer; No care had touched his cheek with mortal doom, But new he was and bright, as scarf from Persian loom. Ne cared he for wine, or half and half; Ne cared he for fish, or flesh, or fowl; And sauces held he worthless as the chaff; He 'sdeigned the swine-head at the wassail-bowl : Ne with lewd ribbalds sat he cheek by jowl ; Ne with sly lemans in the scorner's chair 5 But after water-brooks this pilgrim's soul Panted and all his food was woodland air; Though he would oft-times feast on gilliflowers rare The slang of cities in no wise he knew, Tipping the wink to him was heathen Greek ; He sipped no " olden Tom," or " ruin blue," Or Nantz, or cherry-brandy, drunk full meek [ >5 ] A Parody Anthology By many a damsel brave and rouge of cheek ; Nor did he know each aged watch man's beat, Nor in obscured purlieus would he seek For curled Jewesses, with ankles neat, Who, as they walk abroad, make tinkling with their feet. John Keats. [16] A Parody Anthology AFTER SHAKESPEARE THE BACHELOR'S SOLILOQUY TO wed, or not to wed ? That is the question Whether 't is nobler in the mind to suffer The -pangs and arrows of outrageous love Or to take arms against the powerful flame And by oppressing quench it. To wed to marry And by a marriage say we end The heartache and the thousand painful shocks Love makes us heir to 'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished ! to wed to marry E^cghance a scold ! aye, there 's the rub ! _^/ For in that wedded life what ills may come When we have shuffled off our single state Must give us serious pause. There 's the respect That makes us Bachelors a numerous race. For who would bear the dull unsocial hours Spent by unmarried men, cheered by no smile To sit like hermit at a lonely board In silence ? Who would bear the cruel gibes With which the Bachelor is daily teased When he himself might end such heart-felt griefs By wedding some fair maid ? Oh, who would live Yawning and staring sadly in the fire Till celibacy becomes a weary life [^ ['7] A Parody Anthology But that the dread of something after wed-lock (That undiscovered state from whose strong chains No captive can get free) puzzles the will And makes us rather choose those ills we have Than fly to others which a wife may bring. Thus caution doth make Bachelors of us all, And thus our natural taste for matrimony Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought. And love adventures of great pith and moment With this regard their currents turn away And lose the name of Wedlock. POKER O draw, or not to draw, that is the ques- tion : Whether 't is safer in the player to take The awful risk of skinning for a straight, Or, standing pat, to raise 'em all the limit And thus, by bluffing, get in. To draw, to skin ; No more and by that skin to get a full, Or two pairs, or the fattest bouncing kings That luck is heir to 't is a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To draw to skin ; To skin ! perchance to burst ay, there 's the rub ! For in the draw of three what cards may come, When we have shuffled off th' uncertain pack, Must give us pause. There 's the respect That makes calamity of a bobtail flush ; For who would bear the overwhelming blind, r '8 ] A Parody Anthology The reckless straddle, the wait on the edge, The insolence of pat hands and the lifts That patient merit of the bluffer takes, When he himself might be much better off By simply passing ? Who would trays uphold, And go out on a' small progressive raise, But that the dread of something after call The undiscovered ace-full, to whose strength Such hands must bow, puzzles the will, And makes us rather keep the chips we have Than be curious about the hands we know not of. Thus bluffing does make cowards of us all: And thus the native hue of a four-heart flush Is sicklied with some dark and cussed club, And speculators in a jack-pot's wealth With this regard their interest turn away And lose the right to open. Anonymous. TOOTHACHE TO have it out or not. That is the question-^ Whether 't is better for the jaws to suffer The pangs and torments of an aching tooth Or to take steel against a host of troubles, And, by extracting them, end them ? To pull to tug ! No more : and by a tug to say we end The toothache and a thousand natural ills The jaw is heir to. 'T is a consummation Devoutly to be wished ! To pull to tug ! [ '9] A Parody Anthology To tug perchance to break ! Ay, there 's the rub, For in that wrench what agonies may come When we have half dislodged the stubborn foe, Must give us pause. There's the respect That makes an aching tooth of so long life. For who would bear the whips and stings of pain, The old wife's nostrum, dentist's contumely ; The pangs of hope deferred, kind sleep's delay; The insolence of pity, and the spurns, That patient sickness of the healthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make For one poor shilling ? Who would fardels bear, To groan and sink beneath a load of pain ? But that the dread of something lodged within The linen-twisted forceps, from whose pangs No jaw at ease returns, puzzles the will, And makes it rather bear the ills it has Than fly to others that it knows not of. Thus dentists do make cowards of us all, And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of fear ; And many a one, whose courage seeks the door, With this regard his footsteps turns away, Scared at the name of dentist. Anonymous^ A DREARY SONG ELL, don't cry, my little tiny boy, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain Amuse yourself, and break some toy, For the rain it raineth every day. W A Parody Anthology Alas, for the grass on Papa's estate, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, He Ml have to buy hay at an awful rate, For the rain it raineth every day. Mamma, she can't go out for a drive, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, How cross she gets about four or five, For the rain it raineth every day. If I were you I 'd be off to bed, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, Or the damp will give you a cold in the head, For the rain it raineth every day. A great while ago this song was done, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, And I, for one, cannot see it's fun, But the Dyces and the Colliers can they say. Shirley Brooks. TO THE STALL-HOLDERS AT A FANCY FAIR WITH pretty speech accost both old and young, And speak it trippingly upon the tongue; Rut if you mouth it with a hoyden laugh, With clumsy ogling and uncomely chaff As I have oft seen done at fancy fairs, I had as lief a huckster sold my wares, ' A Parody Anthology Avoid all so-called beautifying, dear. Oh ! it offends me to the soul to hear The things that men among themselves will say Of some soi-disant " beauty of the day," Whose face, when she with cosmetics has cloyed it, Out-Rachels Rachel ! pray you, girls, avoid it. Neither be you too tame but, ere you go, Provide yourselves with sprigs of mistletoe ; Offer them coyly to the Roman herd But don't you suit u the action to the word," For in that very torrent of your passion Remember modesty is still in fashion. Oh, there be ladies whom I 've seen hold stalls Ladies of rank, my dear to whom befalls Neither the accent nor the gait of ladies ; So clumsily made up with Bloom of Cadiz, Powder-rouge lip-salve that I 've fancied then They were the work of Nature's journeymen. W. S. Gilbert. SONG WITH a hey ! and a hi ! and a hey-ho rhyme ! Oh, the shepherd lad He is ne'er so glad As when he pipes, in the blossom-time, So rare ! While Kate picks by, yet looks not there. So rare ! so rare ! With a hey ! and a hi ! and a ho ! The grasses curdle where the daisies blow ! A Parody Anthology With a hey ! and a hi ! and a hey-ho vow ! Then he si % ps her face At the sweetest place And ho ! how white is the hawthorn now ! So rare ! And the daisied world rocks round them there. So rare ! so rare ! With a hey ! and a hi ! and a ho ! The grasses curdle where the daisies blow ! James Whitcomb Riley. THE WHIST-PLAYER'S SOLILOQUY TO trump, or not to trump$ that is the ques- tion : Whether 't is better in this case to notice The leads and signals of outraged opponents, Or to force trumps against a suit of- diamonds, And by opposing end them ? To trump, to take, No more ; and by that trick to win the lead And after that, return my partner's spades For which he signalled, 't is a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To trump to take, To take ! perchance to win ! Ay, there 's the rub ; For if we win this game, what hands may come When we have shuffled up these cards again. Play to the score ? ah ! yes, there 's the defect That makes this Duplicate Whist so much like work. A Parody Anthology For who would heed the theories of Hoyle, The laws of Pole, the books of Cavendish, The Short-Suit system, Leads American, The Eleven Rule Finesse, The Fourth-best play, The Influence of signals on The Ruff, When he himself this doubtful trick might take With a small two-spot ? Who would hesitate, But that the dread of something afterwards, An undiscovered discard or forced lead When playing the return, puzzles the will, And makes us rather lose the tricks we have To win the others that we know not of? Thus Duplicate Whist makes cowards of us all ; And thus the native hue of Bumblepuppy Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought. And good whist-players of great skill and judg- ment, With this regard their formulas defy, And lose the game by ruffing. Carolyn Wells. 04] A Parody Anthology AFTER WITHER ANSWER TO MASTER WITHER'S SONG, "SHALL I, WASTING IN DESPAIR?" OH ALL I, mine affections slack, ^S 'Cause I see a woman's black? ^^^ Or myself, with care cast down, 'Cause I see a woman brown ? Be she blacker than the night, Or the blackest jet in sight ! If she be not so to me, What care I how black she be ? Shall my foolish heart be burst, 'Cause I see a woman 's curst ? Or a thwarting hoggish nature Joined in as bad a feature ? Be she curst or fiercer than Brutish beast, or savage man ! If she be not so to me, What care I how curst she be ? Shall a woman's vices make Me her vices quite forsake ? Or her faults to me made known, Make me think that I have none ? A Parody Anthology Be she of the most accurst, And deserve the name of worst ! If she be not so to me, What care I how bad she be ? 'Cause her fortunes seem too low, Shall I therefore let her go ? He that bears an humble mind And with riches can be kind, Think how kind a heart he 'd have, If he were some servile slave ! And if that same mind I see What care I how poor she be ? Poor, or bad, or curst, or black, I will ne'er the more be slack ! If she hate me (then believe !) She shall die ere I will grieve! If she like me when I woo I can like and love her too ! If that she be fit for me ! What care I what others be ? Ben Jon son A Parody Anthology AFTER HERRICK SONG ATHER Kittens while you may, Time brings only Sorrow ; And the Kittens of To-day Will be Old Cats To-morrow. Oliver Herford. TO JULIA UNDER LOCK AND KEY (A form of betrothal gift in America is an anklet secured by a padlock, of which the other party keeps the WHEN like a bud my Julia blows In lattice-work of silken hose, Pleasant I deem it is to note How, 'neath the nimble petticoat, Above her fairy shoe is set The circumvolving zonulet. And soothly for the lover's ear A perfect bliss it is to hear About her limb so lithe and lank My Julia's ankle-bangle clank. A Parody Anthology Not rudely tight, for 't were a sin To corrugate her dainty skin ; Nor yet so large that it might fare Over her foot at unaware ; But fashioned nicely with a view To let her airy stocking through : So as, when Julia goes to bed, Of all her gear disburdened, This ring at least she shall not doff Because she cannot take it off. And since thereof I hold the key, She may not taste of liberty, Not though she suffer from the gout, Unless I choose to let her out. Owen A Parody Anthology AFTER NURSERY RHYMES AN IDYLL OF PHATTE AND LEENE THE hale John Sprat oft called for shortness, Jack Had married had, in fact, a wife and she Did worship him with wifely reverence. He, who had loved her when she was a girl, Compass'd her, too, with sweet observances ; E'en at the dinner table did it shine. For he liking no fat himself he never did, With jealous care piled up her plate with lean, Not knowing that all lean was hateful to her. And day by day she thought to tell him o 't, And watched the fat go out with envious eye, But could not speak for bashful delicacy. At last it chanced that on a winter day, The beef a prize joint ! little was but fat ; So fat, that John had all his work cut out, To snip out lean fragments for his wife, Leaving, in very sooth, none for himself; Which seeing, she spoke courage to her soul, Took up her fork, and, pointing to the joint Where 't was the fattest, piteously she said ; u Oh, husband ! full of love and tenderness ! What is the cause that you so jealously A Parody Anthology Pick out the lean for me. I like it not ! Nay, loathe it 'tis on the fat that I would feast; O me, I fear you do not like my taste ! " Then he, dropping his horny-handled carving knife, Sprinkling therewith the gravy o'er her gown, Answer'd, amazed: "What! you like fat, my wife! And never told me. Oh, this is not kind! Think what your reticence has wrought for us ; How all the fat sent down unto the maid Who likes not fat for such maids never do Has been put in the waste-tub, sold for grease, And pocketed as servant's perquisite ! Oh, wife ! this news is good ; for since, perforce, A joint must be not fat nor lean, but both ; Our different tastes will serve our purpose well; For, while you eat the fat the lean to me Falls as my cherished portion. Lo ! 't is good ! " So henceforth he that tells the tale relates In John Sprat's household waste was quite un- known ; For he the lean did eat, and she the fat, And thus the dinner-platter was all cleared. Anonymous. NURSERY SONG IN PIDGIN ENGLISH a songee sick a pence, Pockee muchee lye ; ozen two time blackee bird Cookee in e pie. [ 30] . A Parody Anthology When him cutee topside Birdee bobbery sing ; Himee tinkee nicey dish Setee force King ! Kingee in a taikee loom Countee muchee money ; Queeny in e kitchee, Chew-chee breadee honey. Servant galo shakee, Hangee washee clothes ; Cho-chop comee blackie bird, Nipee off her nose ! Anonymous. THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT \ ND this reft house is that the which he built, /-\ Lamented Jack ! and here his malt he piled. x Cautious in vain ! these rats that squeak so wild, Squeak not unconscious of their father's guilt. Did he not see her gleaming through the glade ! Belike 't was she, the maiden all forlorn. What though she milked no cow with crumpled horn, Yet, aye she haunts the dale where erst she strayed : And aye before her stalks her amorous knight ! Still on his thighs their wonted brogues are worn, And through those brogues, still tattered and betorn, His hindward charms gleam an unearthly white. Samuel Taylor Coleridge. [ 31 ] A Parody Anthology BOSTON NURSERY RHYMES RHYME FOR A GEOLOGICAL BABY TRILOBITE, Graptolite, Nautilus pie ; Seas were calcareous, oceans were dry, Eocene, miocene, pliocene Tuff, Lias and Trias and that is enough. RHYME FOR ASTRONOMICAL BABY BYE Baby Bunting, Father 's gone star-hunting ; Mother 's at the telescope Casting baby's horoscope. Bye Baby Buntoid, Father 's found an asteroid ; Mother takes by calculation The angle of its inclination. RHYME FOR BOTANICAL BABY T ITTLE bo-peepals Has lost her sepals, ~f And can't tell where to find them ; In the involucre By hook or by crook or She '11 make up her mind .ot to mind them. A Parody Anthology RHYME FOR A CHEMICAL BABY OH, sing a song of phosphates, Fibrine in a line, Four-and-twenty follicles In the van of time. When the phosphorescence Evoluted brain, Superstition ended, Men began to reign. Rev. Joseph Cook. A SONG OF A HEART UPON a time I had a Heart, And it was bright and gay ; 'And I gave it to a Lady fair To have and keep alway. She soothed it and she smoothed it And she stabbed it till it bled ; She brightened it and lightened it And she weighed it down with lead. She flattered it and battered it And she filled it full of gall; Yet had I Twenty Hundred Heats, Still should she have them all. Oliver Herford. [3] [33] A Parody 'Anthology THE DOMICILE OF JOHN BEHOLD the mansion reared by Daedal Jack ! See the malt stored in many a plethoric sack, In the proud cirque of Ivan's Bivouac ! Mark how the rat's felonious fangs invade The golden stores in John's pavilion laid ! Anon, with velvet foot and Tarquin strides, Subtle Grimalkin to his quarry glides ; Grimalkin grim, that slew the fierce rodent, Whose tooth insidious Johann's sackcloth rent ! Lo ! Now the deep-mouthed canine foe's assault ! That vexed the avenger of the stolen malt, Stored in the hallowed precincts of that hall, That rose complete at Jack's creative call. Here stalks the impetuous cow with the crumpled horn, Whereon the exacerbating hound was torn Who bayed the feline slaughter-beast that slew The rat predaceous, whose keen fangs ran through The textile fibres that involved the grain That lay in Hans' inviolate domain. Here walks forlorn the damsel crowned with rue, Lactiferous spoils from vaccine dugs who drew Of that corniculate beast whose tortuous horn Tossed to the clouds, in fierce vindictive scorn, [ 34] A Parody Anthology The baying hound whose braggart bark and stir Arched the lithe spine and reared the indignant fur Of puss, that, with verminicidal claw, Struck the weird rat, in whose insatiate maw Lay reeking malt, that erst in Juan's courts we saw Robed in senescent garb, that seems, in sooth, Too long a prey to Chronos' iron tooth, Behold the man whose amorous lips incline Full with young Eros' osculative sign, To the lorn maiden whose lactalbic hands Drew albulactic wealth from lacteal glands Of that immortal bovine, by whose horn Distort, to realms ethereal was borne The beast catulean, vexer of that sly Ulysses quadrupedal, who made die The old mordaceous rat that dared devour Antecedaneous ale in John's domestic bower. Lo ! Here, with hirsute honors doffed, succinct Of saponaceous locks, the priest who linked In Hymen's golden bands the man unthrift Whose means exiguous stared from many a rift, E'en as he kissed the virgin all forlorn Who milked the cow with implicated horn, Who in fierce wrath the canine torturer skied, That dared to vex the insidious muricide, Who let auroral effluence through the pelt Of that sly rat that robbed the palace that Jack built. [35] A Parody Anthology The loud cantankerous Shanghai comes at last. Whose shouts aroused the shorn ecclesiast, Who sealed the vows of Hymen's sacrament To him who, robed in garments indigent, Exosculates the damsel lachrymose, The emulgator of the horned brute morose That on gyrated horn, to heaven's high vault Hurled up, with many a tortuous somersault, The low bone-cruncher, whose hot wrath pursued The scratching sneak, that waged eternal feud With long-tailed burglar, who his lips would smack On farinaceous wealth, that filled the halls oi Jack. Vast limbed and broad the farmer comes at length. Whose cereal care supplied the vital strength Of chanticleer, whose matutinal cry Roused the quiescent form and ope'd the eye Of razor-loving cleric, who in bands Connubial linked the intermixed hands Of him, whose rent apparel gaped apart, And the lorn maiden with lugubrious heart, Her who extraught the exuberant lactic flow Of nutriment from that cornigerent cow, Eumer.idal executor of fate, That to sidereal altitudes elate Cerberus, who erst with fang lethiferous Left lacerate Grimalkin latebrose That killed the rat That ate the malt That lay in the house that Jack built. A. Pope. [ 36] A Parody Anthology MARY AND THE LAMB MARY T what melodies mingle To murmur her musical name ! It makes all one's finger-tips tingle Like fagots, the food of the flame; About her an ancient tradition A romance delightfully deep Has woven in juxtaposition With one little sheep, One dear little lamb that would follow Her footsteps, un wearily fain. Down dale, over hill, over hollow, To school and to hamlet again ; A gentle companion, whose beauty Consisted in snow-driven fleece, And whose most imperative duty Was keeping the peace. His eyes were as beads made of glassware, His lips were coquettishly curled, His capers made many a lass swear His caper-sauce baffled the world ; His tail had a wag when it relished A sip of the milk in the pail, And this fact has largely embellished The wag of this tale. [ 37 ] A Parody Anthology One calm summer day when the sun was A great golden globe in the sky, One mild summer morn when the fun was Unspeakably clear in his eye, He tagged after exquisite Mary, And over the threshold of school He tripped in a temper contrary, And splintered the rule. A great consternation was kindled Among all the scholars, and some Confessed their affection had dwindled For lamby, and looked rather glum ; But Mary's schoolmistress quick beckoned The children away from the jam, And said, sotto voce, she reckoned That Mame loved the lamb. Then all up the spine of the rafter There ran a most risible shock, And sorrow was sweetened with laughter At this little lamb of the flock ; And out spoke the schoolmistress Yankee, With rather a New Hampshire whine, " Dear pupils, sing Moody and Sankey, Hymn c Ninety and Nine.' ' Now after this music had finished, And silence again was restored, The ardor of lamby diminished, His quips for a moment were floored [ 38] A Parody Anthology Then cried he, " Bah-ed children, you blundered When singing that psalmistry, quite. I 'm labelled by Mary, < Old Hundred/ And I 'm labelled right." Then vanished the lambkin in glory, A halo of books round his head : What furthermore happened the story, Alackaday ! cannot be said. And Mary, the musical maid, is To-day but a shadow in time ; Her epitaph, too, I 'm afraid is Writ only in rhyme. She 's sung by the cook at her ladle That stirs up the capering sauce ; She 's sung by the nurse at the cradle When ba-ba is restless and cross ; And lamby, whose virtues were legion, Dwells ever in songs that we sing, He makes a nice dish in this region To eat in the spring! Prank Dempster Sherman. [39] A Parody Anthology AFTER WALLER THE AESTHETE TO THE ROSE GO, flaunting Rose ! . Tell her that wastes her love on thee, That she nought knows Of the New Cult, Intensity, If sweet and fair to her you be. Tell her that 's young, Or who in health and bloom takes pride, That bards have sung Of a new youth at whose sad side Sickness and pallor aye abide. Small is the worth Of Beauty in crude charms attired. She must shun mirth, Have suffered, fruitlessly desired, And wear no flush by hope inspired. Then die, that she May learn that Death is passing fair; May read in thee How little of Art's praise they share, Who are not sallow, sick, and spare ! Punch. \ 40 1 A Parody Anthology AFTER DRYDEN THREE BLESSINGS r I AHREE brightest blessings of this thirsty race, (Whence sprung and when I don't propose to trace) ; Pale brandy, potent spirit of the night, Brisk soda, welcome when the morn is bright j To make the third, combine the other two, The force of nature can no further go. Anonymous* OYSTER-CRABS THREE viands in three different courses served, Received the commendation they deserved. The first in succulence all else surpassed ; The next in flavor ; and in both, the last. For Nature's forces could no further go ; To make the third, she joined the other two. Carolyn Wells *] A Parody Anthology AFTER DR. WATTS THE VOICE OF THE LOBSTER c ' r I ^ IS the voice of the Lobster: I heard him declare c You have baked me too brown, I must sugar my hair.' As a duck with its eyelids, so he with his nose Trims his belt and his buttons, and turns out his toes. When the sands are all dry, he is gay as a lark, And will talk in contemptuous tones of the Shark : But, when the tide rises and sharks are around, His voice has a timid and tremulous sound. u I passed by his garden, and marked, with one eye, How the Owl and the Panther were sharing a pie ; The Panther took pie-crust, and gravy, and meat, While the Owl had the dish as its share of the treat. When the pie was all finished, the Owl, as a boon, Was kindly permitted to pocket the spoon ; While the Panther received knife and fork with a growl, And concluded the banquet by " Lewis CarrolL [4*] A Parody Anthology THE CROCODILE HOW doth the little crocodile Improve his shining tail, And pour the waters of the Nile On every golden scale ! How cheerfully he seems to grin, How neatly spreads his claws, And welcomes little fishes in, With gently smiling jaws ! Lewis Carroll. 43 A Parody Anthology AFTER GOLDSMITH WHEN LOVELY WOMAN WHEN lovely woman wants a favor, And finds, too late, that man won't bend, What earthly circumstance can save her From disappointment in the end ? The only way to bring him over, The last experiment to try, Whether a husband or a lover, If he have feeling is to cry. Phcebe Gary A Parody Anthology AFTER BURNS GAELIC SPEECH; OR, " AULD LANG SYNE" DONE UP IN TARTAN SHOULD Gaelic speech be e'er forgot, And never brocht to min', For she '11 be spoke in Paradise In the days of auld lang syne. When Eve, all fresh in beauty's charms, First met fond Adam's view, The first word that he '11 spoke till her Was, u cumar achum dhu" And Adam in his garden fair, Whene'er the day did close, The dish that he '11 to supper teuk Was always Athole brose. When Adam from his leafy bower Cam oot at broke o' day, He '11 always for his morning teuk A quaich o' usquebae. An' when wi' Eve he'll had a crack, He '11 teuk his sneeshin' horn An' on the tap ye '11 well mitch mark A pony praw Cairngorm. [45 ] A Parody Anthology The sneeshirf mull is fine, my friens The sneeshin' mull is gran' ; We '11 teukta hearty sneesh, my triens, And pass frae han' to han'. When man first fan the want o' claes, The wind an' cauld to fleg. He twisted roon' about his waist The tartan philabeg. An' music first on earth was heard In Gaelic accents deep, When Jubal in his oxter squeezed The blether o' a sheep. The praw bagpipes is gran', my friens, The praw bagpipes is fine ; We'll teukta nother pibroch yet, For the days o' auld lang syne ! Anonymous MY FOE JOHN ALCOHOL, my foe, John, When we were first acquaint, I 'd siller in my pockets, John, Which noo, ye ken, I want ; I spent it all in treating, John, Because I loved you so ; But mark ye, how you Ve treated me, John Alcohol, my foe. [4H- A Parody Anthology John Alcohol, my foe, John, We 've been ower lang together, Sae ye maun tak' ae road, John, /ind I will take anither; Foe we maun tumble down, John, If hand in hand we go ; And I shall hae the bill to pay, John Alcohol, my foe. John Alcohol, my foe, John, Ye 've blear'd out a' my een, And lighted up my nose, John, A fiery sign atween ! My hands wi' palsy shake, John, My locks are like the snow; Ye '11 surely be the death of me, John Alcohol, my foe. John Alcohol, my foe, John, 'T was love to you, I ween, That gart me rise sae ear', John, And sit sae late at e'en; The best o' friens maun part, John, It grieves me sair, ye know ; But "we '11 nae mair to yon town," John Alcohol, my foe. John Alcohol, my foe, John, Ye 've wrought *ne muckle skaith , And yet to part v. i' you, John, I own I 'm unko' laith ; [47] A Parody Anthology But I '11 join the temperance ranks, John, Ye needna say me no; It 's better late than ne'er do weel, John Alcohol, my foe. Anonymous. RIGID BODY SINGS GIN a body meet a body Flyin' through the air, Gin a body hit a body, Will it fly ? and where ? Ilka impact has its measure, Ne'er a' ane hae I, Yet a' the lads they measure me, Or, at least, they try. Gin a body meet a body Altogether free, How they travel afterwards We do not always see. Ilka problem has its method By analytics high; For me, I ken na ane o' them, But what the waur am I ? 7. C. Maxwell [48 ] A Parody Anthology AFTER CATHERINE FANSHAWE COCKNEY ENIGMA ON THE LETTER H I DWELLS in the Herth and I breathes in the Hair; If you searches the Hocean you '11 find that I 'm there ; The first of all Hangels in Holympus am Hi, Yet I 'm banished from 'Eaven, expelled from on 'i g h. But tho' on this Horb I am destined to grovel, I 'm ne'er seen in an 'Ouse, in an 'Ut, nor an 'Ovel; Not an 'Oss nor an 'Unter e'er bears me, alas ! But often I 'm found on the top of a Hass. I resides in a Hattic and loves not to roam, And yet I 'm invariably habsent from 'Ome. Tho' 'ushed in the 'Urricane, of the Hatmosphere part, I enters no 'Ed, I creeps into no 'Art, But look and you '11 see in the Heye I appear. Only 'ark and you '11 'ear me just breathe in the Hear; Tho' in sex not. an 'E, I am (strange paradox !), Not a bit of an 'Effer, but partly a Hox. [4] [ 49 1 A Parody Anthology Of Heternity Hi'm the beginning ! and mark, Tho' I goes not with Noar, I 'm the first in the Hark. I'm never in 'Elth have with Fysic no power; I dies in a Month, but comes back in a Hour. Horace May hew. A Parody Anthology AFTER WORDSWORTH ON WORDSWORTH HE lived amidst th' untrodden ways To Rydal Lake that lead ; A bard whom there was none to praise And very few to read. Behind a cloud his mystic sense, Deep hidden, who can spy ? Bright as the night when not a star Is shining in the sky. Unread his works his "Milk White Doe'' With dust is dark and dim ; It 's still in Longmans' shop, and oh ! The difference to him. Anonymous* JACOB HE dwelt among " Apartments let," About five stories high ; A man, I thought, that none would get, And very few would try. [51 ] A Parody Anthology A boulder, by a larger stone Half hidden in the mud, Fair as a man when only one Is in the neighborhood. He lived unknown, and few could tell When Jacob was not free ; But he has got a wife and O ! The difference to me ! Phoebe FRAGMENT IN IMITATION OF WORDSWORTH r I "\HERE is a river clear and fair, 'T is neither broad nor narrow ; It winds a little here and there It winds about like any hare ; And then it holds as straight a course As, on the turnpike road, a horse, Or, through the air, an arrow. The trees that grow upon the shore Have grown a hundred years or more \ So long there is no knowing : Old Daniel Dobson does not know When first those trees began to grow ; But still they grew, and grew, and grew, As if they 'd nothing else to do, But ever must be growing. is*] A Parody Anthology The impulses of air and sky Have reared their stately heads so high, And clothed their boughs with green; Their leaves the dews of evening quaff, And when the wind blows loud and keen, I 've seen the jolly timbers laugh, And shake their sides with merry glee Wagging their heads in mockery. Fixed are their feet in solid earth Where winds can never blow ; But visitings of deeper birth Have reached their roots below. For they have gained the river's brink, And of the living waters drink. There's little Will, a five years' child He is my youngest boy ; To look on eyes so fair and wild, It is a very joy. He hath conversed with sun and shower, And dwelt with every idle flower, As fresh and gay as them. He loiters with the briar-rose, The blue-bells are his play-fellows, That dance upon their slender stem. And I have said, my little Will, Why should he not continue still A thing of Nature's rearing? A thing beyond the world's control A living vegetable soul, - No human sorrow fearing. [ S3] A Parody Anthology It were a blessed sight to see That child become a willow-tree, His brother trees among. He 'd be four umes as tali as me, And live three times as long. Catherine M. Fansbawe. I JANE SMITH JOURNEYED, on a winter's day, Across the lonely wold ; No bird did sing upon the spray, And it was very cold. I had a coach with horses four, Three white (though one was black), And on they went the common o'er, Nor swiftness did they lack. A little girl ran by the side, And she was pinched and thin. " Oh, please, sir, do give me a ride ! I 'm fetching mother's gin." " Enter my coach, sweet child," said I, " For you shall ride with me ; And I will get you your supply Of mother's eau-de-vie." [54] A Parody Anthology The publican was stern and cold, And said : u Her mother's score Is writ, as you shall soon behold, Behind the bar-room door ! " I blotted out the score with tears, And paid the money down; And took the maid of thirteen years Back to her mother's town. And though the past with surges wild Fond memories may sever, The vision of that happy child Will leave my spirits never ! Rudyard Kipling. ONLY SEVEN (A Pastoral Story after Wordsworth} T MARVELLED why a simple child, That lightly draws its breath, Should utter groans so very wild, And look as pale as Death. Adopting a parental tone, I ask'd her why she cried ; The damsel answered with a groan, "I've got a pain inside! [ 55 ] A Parody Anthology "I thought it would have sent me mad Last night about eleven." Said I, u What is it makes you bad ? How many apples have-you had?" She answered, u Only seven ! " "And are you sure you took no more, My little maid ? " quoth I ; ic Oh, please, sir, mother gave me four, But they were in a pie!" u If that 's the case," I stammer'd out, " Of course you Ve had eleven." The maiden answered with a pout, u I ain't had more nor seven ! " I wonder' d hugely what she meant, And said, " I 'm bad at riddles; But I know where little girls are sent For telling taradiddles. ic Now, if you won't reform," said I, " You '11 never go to Heaven." But all in vain ; each time I try, That little idiot makes reply, u I ain't had more nor seven ! " POSTSCRIPT To borraw Wordsworth's name was wrong, Or slightly misapplied ; And so I 'd better call my song, " Lines after Ache-Inside." Henry S. Leigh- [56] A Parody Anthology LUCY LAKE POOR Lucy Lake was overgrown, But somewhat underbrained. She did not know enough, I own, To go in when it rained. Yet Lucy was constrained to go; Green bedding, you infer. Few people knew she died, but oh, The difference to her ! Newton Mackintosh. tsr) A Parody Anthology AFTER SIR WALTER SCOTT \OUNG LOCHINVAR (The true story in blank verse) OH ! young Lochinvar has come out of the West, Thro' all the wide border his horse has no equal, Having cost him forty-five dollars at the market, Where good nags, fresh from the country, With burrs still in their tails are selling For a song ; and save his good broadsword He weapon had none, except a seven shooter Or two, a pair of brass knuckles, and an Arkansaw Toothpick in his boot, so, comparatively speaking, He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone, Because there was no one going his way. He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for Toll-gates ; he swam the Eske River where ford There was none, and saved fifteen cents In ferriage, but lost his pocket-book, containing Seventeen dollars and a half, by the operation. Ere he alighted at the Netherby mansion He stopped to borrow a dry suit of clothes, And this delayed him considerably, so when r * ] A Parody Anthology He arrived the bride had consented the gallant Came late for a laggard in love and a dastard in war Was to wed the fair Ellen, and the guests had assembled. So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall Among bridesmen and kinsmen and brothers and Brothers-in-law and forty or fifty cousins; Then spake the bride's father, his hand on his sword (For the poor craven bridegroom ne'er opened his head) : " Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in anger, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?" "I long wooed your daughter, and she will tell you I have the inside track in the free-for-all For her affections ! My suit you denied; but let That pass, while I tell you, old fellow, that love Swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide, And now I am come with this lost love of mine To lead but one measure, drink one glass of beer ; There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far That would gladly be bride to yours very truly." The bride kissed the goblet, the knight took it up, He quaffed off the nectar and threw down the mug, Smashing it into a million pieces, while He remarked that he was the son of a gun From Seven-up and run the Number Nine. , She looked down to blush, but she looked up again For she well understood the wink in his eye; A Parody Anthology He took her soft hand ere her mother could Interfere, "Now tread we a measure; first four Half right and left; swing," cried young Lochinvar One touch to her hand and one word in her ear, When they reached the hall-door and the charger Stood near on three legs eating post-hay ; So light to the croup the fair lady he swung, Then leaped to the saddle before her. "She is won! we are gone! over bank! bush, and spar, They '11 have swift steeds that follow " but in the Excitement of the moment he had forgotten To untie the horse, and the poor brute could . Only gallop in a little circus around the H itching-post; so the old gent collared The youth and gave him the awfullest lambasting That was ever heard of on Canobie Lee ; So dauntless in war and so daring in love, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar? Anonymous, A Parody Anthology AFTER COLERIDGE THE ANCIENT MARINER be Wedding Guest's Version of the Affair from His Point of View) IT is an Ancient Mariner, And he stoppeth one of three In fact he coolly took my arm " There was a ship," quoth he. " Bother your ships ! " said I, " is this The time a yarn to spin ? This is a wedding, don't you see, And I am next of kin. " The wedding breakfast has begun, We 're hungry as can be Hold off! Unhand me, longshore man !" With that his hand dropt he. But there was something in his eye, That made me sick and ill, Yet forced to listen to his yarn The Mariner 'd had his will. 6l A Parody Anthology While Tom and Harry went their way I sat upon a stone So queer on Fanny's wedding day Me sitting there alone! Then he began, that Mariner, To rove from pole to pole, In one long-winded, lengthened-out, Eternal rigmarole, About a ship in which he 'd sailed, Though whither, goodness knows, Where " ice will split with a thunder-fit/' And every day it snows. And then about a precious bird Of some sort or another, That was such nonsense ever heard ? Used to control the weather ! Now, at this bird the Manner Resolved to have a shy, And laid it low with his cross-bow -~ And then the larks ! My eye ! For loss of that uncommon fowl, They could n't get a breeze ; And there they stuck, all out of luck, And rotted on the seas. [6* ] A Parody Anthology The crew all died, or seemed to die, And he was left alone With that queer bird. You never heard What games were carried on ! At last one day he stood and watched The fishes in the sea, And said, " I 'm blest ! " and so the ship Was from the spell set free. And it began to rain and blow, And as it rained and blew, The dead got up and worked the ship That was a likely crew ! However, somehow he escaped, And got again to land, But mad as any hatter, say, From Cornhill to the Strand. For he believes that certain folks Are singled out by fate, To whom this cock-and-bull affair Of his he must relate. Describing all the incidents. And painting all the scenes, As sailors will do in the tales They tell to the Marines. t 6 ? 1 A Parody Anthology Confound the Ancient Mariner ! I knew I should be late ; And so it was ; the wedding guests Had all declined to wait. Another had my place, and gave My toast ; and sister Fan Said " J T was a shame. What could you want With that seafaring man ? " I felt like one that had been stunned Through all this wrong and scorn; A sadder and a later man I rose the morrow morn. Anonymous STRIKING IT was a railway passenger, And he lept out jauntilie. " Now up and bear, thou stout porter, My two chattels to me. " Bring hither, bring hither my bag so red, And portmanteau so brown ; (They lie in the van, for a trusty man He labelled them London town:) u And fetch me eke a cabman bold, That I may be his fare, his fare; And he shall have a good shilling, If by two of the clock he do me bring To the Terminus, Euston Square." A Parody Anthology u Now, so to thee the saints alway, Good gentleman, give luck, As never a cab may I find this day, For the cabman wights have struck. And now, I wis, at the Red Post Inn, Or else at the Dog and Duck, Or at Unicorn Blue, or at Green Griffin, The nut-brown ale and the fine old gin Right pleasantly they do suck." " Now rede me aright, thou stout porter, What were it best that I should do : For woe is me, an' I reach not there Or ever the clock strike two." " I have a son, a lytel son ; Fleet is his foot as the wild roebuck's : Give him a shilling, and eke a brown, And he shall carry thy fardels down To Euston, or half over London town, On one of the station trucks." Then forth in a hurry did they twain fare, The gent and the son of the stout porter, Who fled like an arrow, nor turned a hair, Through all the mire and muck : " A ticket, a ticket, sir clerk, I pray : For by two of the clock must I needs away." cc That may hardly be," the clerk did say, " For indeed the clocks have struck." Charles S. Ca her ley. A Parody Anthology AFTER SOUTHEY THE OLD MAN'S COLD AND HOW HE GOT IT (By Nortbey-Soutbey-Eastey-Westey) " "T 7DU are cold, Father William," the young Y man cried, "You shake and you shiver, I say; You Ve a cold, Father William, your nose it is red, Now tell me the reason, I pray." "In the days of my youth," Father William replied (He was a dissembling old man) u I put lumps of ice in my grandpapa's boots, And snowballed my Aunt Mary Ann." " Go along, Father William," the young man cried, u You are trying it on, sir, to-day ; What makes your teeth chatter like bone casta- nets ? Come tell me the reason, I pray." u In the days of my youth," Father William replied^ " I went to the North Pole with Parry ; And now, my sweet boy, the Arc-tic doloreaux Plays with this old man the Old Harry/' [66] A Parody Anthology " Get out ! Father William," the young man cried. u Come, you should n't go on in this way ; You are funny, but still you've a frightful bad cold Now tell me the reason, I pray." " I am cold, then, dear youth," Father William replied ; " I Ve a cold, my impertinent son, Because for some weeks my coals have been bought At forty-eight shillings a ton ! " FATHER WILLIAM U "V 7"OU are old, Father William," the young Y . man said, u And your hair has become very white; And yet you incessantly stand on your head - Do you think, at your age, it is right ? " " In my youth," Father William replied to his son, "I feared it might injure the brain; But now that I 'm perfectly sure I have none, Why, I do it again and again." " You are old," said the youth, " as I mentioned before, And grown most uncommonly fat; Yet you turned a back-somersault in at Pray what is the reason of that ? " A Parody Anthology " In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his gray locks, u I kept all my limbs very supple By the use of this ointment one shilling the box Allow me to sell you a couple." u You are old," said the youth, "and your jaws are too weak For anything tougher than suet ; Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak; Pray, how did you manage to do it ? " " In my youth," said his father, " I took to the law, And argued each case with my wife; And the muscular strength which it gave to my jaw, Has lasted the rest of my life." u You are old," said the youth, u one would hardly suppose That your eye was as steady as ever ; Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose What made you so awfully clever ? " 4 1 have answered three questions and that i enough," Said his father ; u don't give yourself airs ! Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff? Be off, or I '11 kick you downstairs ! " Lewis Carroll [68] A Parody Anthology LADY JANE- (Sappbics) DOWN the green hill-side fro' the castle window Lady Jane spied Bill Amaranth a-workin'; Day by day watched him go about his ample Nursery garden. Cabbages thriv'd there, wi' a mort o' green-stuff Kidney beans, broad beans, onions, tomatoes, Artichokes, seakale, vegetable marrows, Early potatoes. Lady Jane cared not very much for all these : What she cared much for was a glimpse o' Willum Strippin' his brown arms wi' a view to horti- cultural effort. Little guessed Willum, never extra-vain, that Up the green hill-side, i' the gloomy castle, Feminine eyes could so delight to view his Noble proportions. Oni y one day while, in an innocent mood, Moppin' his brow (cos 'twas a trifle sweaty) With a blue kerchief lo, he spies a white un Coyly responding. [69] ' A Parody Anthology Oh, delightsome Love ! Not a jot do you care For the restrictions set on human inter- Course by cold-blooded social refiners ; Nor do I, neither. Day by day, peepin' fro' behind the bean-sticks, Willum observed that scrap o' white a-wavin', Till his hot sighs out-growin' all repression Busted his weskit. Lady Jane's guardian was a haughty Peer, who Clung to old creeds and had a nasty temper; Can we blame Willum that he hardly cared to Risk a refusal ? Year by year found him busy 'mid the bean-sticks Wholly uncertain how on earth to take steps. Thus for eighteen years he beheld the maiden Wave fro' her window. But the nineteenth spring, i' the castle post-bag, Came by book-post Bill's catalogue o' seedlings Mark'd wi' blue ink at u Paragraphs relatin' Mainly to Pumpkins." " W. A. can," so the Lady Jane read, " Strongly commend that very noble Gourd, the Lady Jane, first-class medal, ornamental ; Grows to a great height." [70] A Parody Anthology Scarce a year arter, by the scented hedgerows Down the mown hill-side, fro' the castle gateway Came a long train and, i' the midst, a black bier, Easily shouldered. u Whose is yon corse that, thus adorned wi' gourd leaves Forth ye bear with slow step ? " A mourner answer'd, " 'T is the poor clay-cold body Lady Jane grew Tired to abide in." " Delve my grave quick, then, for I die to-morrow. Delve it one furlong fro* the kidney bean-sticks, Where I may dream she 's goin' on precisely As she was used to." Hardly died Bill when, fro* the Lady Jane's grave, Crept to his white death-bed a lovely pumpkin : Climb'd the house wall and over-arched his head wi' Billowy verdure. Simple this tale ! but delicately perfumed As the sweet roadside honeysuckle. That 's why, Difficult though its metre was to tackle, I 'm glad I wrote it. . A. T. Quiller- Couch A Parody Anthology AFTER CAMPBELL THE NEW ARRIVAL f I A HERE came to port last Sunday night The queerest little craft, Without an inch of rigging on ; I looked and looked and laughed ! It seemed so curious that she Should cross the Unknown water, And moor herself within my room My daughter ! Oh, my daughter ! / Yet by these presents fitness all She 's welcome fifty times, And comes consigned in hope and love And common-metre rhymes. She has no manifest but this, No flag floats o'er the water ; She 's too new for the British Lloyds My daughter ! Oh, my daughter ! Ring out, wild bells and tame ones too, Ring out the lover's moon ; Ring in the little worsted socks, Ring in the bib and spoon. Ring out the muse, ring in the nurse, Ring in the milk and water ; Away with paper, pen, and ink My daughter ! Oh, my daughter ! George Washington Cable. [*] A Parody Anthology JOHN THOMPSON'S DAUGHTER A FELLOW near Kentucky's clime Cries, " Boatman, do not tarry, And I '11 give thee a silver dime To row us o'er the ferry." " Now, who would cross the Ohio, This dark and stormy water ? " " O, I am this young lady's beau, And she, John Thompson's daughter. " We 've fled before her father's spite With great precipitation; And should he find us here to-night, I'd lose my reputation. " They 've missed the girl and purse beside, His horsemen hard have pressed me; And who will cheer my bonny bride, If yet they shall arrest me ? " Out spoke the boatman then in time, " You shall not fail, don't fear it \ I '11 go, not for your silver dime, But for your manly spirit. . u And by my word, the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry ; For though a storm is coming on, I '11 row you o'er the ferry." [ 73 ] A Parody Anthology By this the wind more fiercely rose, The boat was at the landing; And with the drenching rain their clothes Grew wet where they were standing. But still, as wilder rose the wind, And as the night grew drearer ; Just back a piece came the police, Their tramping sounded nearer. " Oh, haste thee, haste ! " the lady cries, u It 's anything but funny ; I '11 leave the light of loving eyes, But not my father's money ! " Apd still they hurried in the face Of wind and rain unsparing ; John Thompson reached the landing place His wrath was turned to swearing. For by the lightning's angry flash, His child he did discover ; One lovely hand held all the cash, And one was round her lover ! " Come back, come back ! " he cried in woe, Across the stormy water ; " But leave the purse, and you may go, My daughter, oh, my daughter ! " [74] A Parody Anthology 'T was vain ; they reached the other shore (Such doom the Fates assign us) ; The gold he piled went with his child, And he was left there minus. Pbcebe Gary, i vs 3 A Parody Anthology AFTER THOMAS MOORE THE LAST CIGAR T I A IS a last choice Havana I hold here alone ; All its fragrant companions In perfume have flown. No more of its kindred To gladden the eye, So my empty cigar case I close with a sigh. I '11 not leave thee, thou lone one 5 To pine ; but the stem I '11 bite ofF and light thee To waft thee to them. And gently I '11 scatter The ashes you shed, As your soul joins its mates in A cloud overhead. All pleasure is fleeting, It blooms to decay ; From the weeds' glowing circle The ash drops away. A last whiff is taken, The butt-end is thrown, And with empty cigar-case, I sit all alone. .Anonymous [76] A Parody Anthology I 'TWAS EVER THUS NEVER bought a young gazelle, To glad me with its soft black eye, But, when it came to know me well, 'T was sure to butt me on the sly. I never drilled a cockatoo, To speak with almost human lip, But, when a pretty phrase it knew, 'T was sure to give some friend a nip. I never trained a collie hound To be affectionate and mild, But, when I thought a prize I 'd found, 'T was sure to bite my youngest child. I never kept a tabby kit To cheer my leisure with its tricks, But, when we all grew fond of it, 'T was sure to catch the neighbor's chicks. I never reared a turtle-dove, To coo all day with gentle breath, But, when its life seemed one of love, 'T was sure to peck its mate to death. I never well I never yet And I have spent no end of pelf Invested money in a pet That did n't misconduct itself. Anonymous, [77] A Parody Anthology "THERE'S A BOWER OF BEAN- VINES" f I ^HERE'S a bower of bean-vines in Benja- min's yard, And the cabbages grow round it, planted for greens ; In the time of my childhood 't was terribly hard To bend down the bean-poles, and pick off the beans. That bower and its products I never forget, But oft, when my landlady presses me hard, I think, are the cabbages growing there yet, Are the bean-vines still bearing in Benjamin's yard ? No, the bean-vines soon withered that once used to wave, But some beans had been gathered, the last that hung on ; And a soup was distilled in a kettle, that gave All the fragrance of summer when summer was gone. Thus memory draws from delight, ere it dies, An essence that breathes of it awfully hard ; As thus good to my taste as 't was then to my eyes Is that bower of bean-vines in Benjamin's yard. Pbcebe Gary. [78] A Parody Anthology DISASTER * r \^ WAS ever thus from childhood's hour ! j My fondest hopes would not decay ; I never loved a tree or flower Which was the first to fade away ! The garden, where I used to delve Short-frock'd, still yields me pinks in plenty ; The pear-tree that I climbed at twelve I see still blossoming, at twenty. I never nursed a dear gazelle ; But I was given a parroquet (How I did nurse him if unwell !) He 's imbecile, but lingers yet. He 's green, with an enchanting tuft ; He melts me with his small black eye; He 'd look inimitable stuffed, And knows it but he will not die ! I had a kitten I was rich In pets but all too soon my kitten Became a full-sized cat, by which I Ve more than once been scratched and bitten And when for sleep her limbs she curPd One day beside her untouch'd plateful, And glided calmly from the world, I freely own that I was grateful. [79] A Parody Anthology And then I bought a dog a queen ! Ah, Tiny, dear departing pug ! She lives, but she is past sixteen And scarce can crawl across the rug. I loved her beautiful and kind ; Delighted in her pert bow-wow ; But now she snaps if you don't mind; 'T were lunacy to love her now. I used to think, should e'er mishap Betide my crumple-visaged Ti, In shape of prowling thief, or trap, Or coarse bull-terrier I should die. But ah ! disasters have their use, And life might e'en be too sunshiny ; Nor would I make myself a goose, If some big dog should swallow Tiny. Charles S. Calverley, SARAH'S HALLS THE broom that once through Sarah's halls, In hole and corner sped, Now useless leans 'gainst Sarah's walls And gathers dust instead. So sweeps the slavey now-a-days So work is shifted o'er, And maids that once gained honest praise Now earn that praise no more ! A Parody Anthology No more the cobweb from its height The broom of Sarah fells ; The fly alone unlucky wight Invades the spider's cells. Thus energy so seldom wakes, All sign that Sarah gives Is when some dish or platter breaks, To show that still she lives. 7*4. 'TWAS EVER THUS I NEVER rear'd a young gazelle, (Because, you see, I never tried); But had it known and loved me well, No doubt the creature would have died. My rich and aged Uncle John Has known me long and loves me well But still persists in living on I would he were a young gazelle. I never loved a tree or flower ; But, if I had, I beg to say The blight, the wind, the sun, or shower Would soon have withered it away. I 've dearly loved my Uncle John, From childhood to the present hour, And yet he will go living on I would he were a tree or flower ! Henry S. Leigh [6] [ 81 l' A Parody Anthology AFTER JANE TAYLOR T THE BAT WINKLE, twinkle, little bat ! How I wonder what you 're at ! Up above the world you fly, Like a tea-tray in the sky. Lewis Carroll. A Parody Anthology AFTER BARRY CORNWALL THE TEA THE tea ! The tea ! The beef, beef-tea ! The brew from gravy-beef for me ! Without a doubt, as I '11 be bound, The best for an invalid 't is found ; It 's better than gruel ; with sago vies ; Or with the cradled babe's supplies. I like beef-tea ! I like beef-tea, I 'm satisfied, and aye shall be, With the brew I love, and the brew I know, And take it wheresoe'er I go. If the price should rise, or meat be cheap, No matter. I '11 to beef-tea keep. I love oh, how I love to guide The strong beef-tea to its place inside, When round and round you stir the spoon Or whistle thereon to cool it soon. Because one knoweth or ought to know, That things get cool whereon you blow. I never have drunk the dull souchong, But I for my loved beef-tea did long, And inly yearned for that bountiful zest, Like a bird. As a child on that I messed And a mother it was and is to me, For I was weaned on the beef beef-tea! Tom Hood, Jr. [83] A Parody Anthology AFTER BYRON THE ROUT OF BELGRAVIA THE Belgravians came down on the Queen in her hold, And their costumes were gleaming with pur- ple and gold, And the sheen of their jewels was like stars on the sea, As their chariots rolled proudly down Piccadill-ee. Like the leaves of Le Follet when summer is green, That host in its glory at noontide was seen ; Like the leaves of a toy-book all thumb-marked and worn, That host four hours later was tattered and torn. For the rush of the crowd, which was eager and vast, Had rumpled and ruined and wrecked as it passed ; And the eyes of the wearer waxed angry in haste, As a dress but once worn was dragged out at the waist. And there lay the feather and fan side by side, But no longer they nodded or waved in their pride ; And there lay lace flounces and ruching in slips, And spur-torn material in plentiful strips. r 8 4 i A Parody Anthology And there were odd gauntlets and pieces of hair ; And fragments of back-combs and slippers were there ; And the gay were all silent, their mirth was all hushed, Whilst the dewdrops stood out on the brows of the crushed. And the dames of Belgravia were loud in their wail, And the matrons of Mayfair all took up the tale ; And they vow as they hurry unnerved from the scene, That it's no trifling matter to call on the Queen. Jon Duan. A GRIEVANCE DEAR Mr. Editor: I wish to say If you will not be angry at my writing But I 've been used, since, childhood's happy day, When I have thought of something, to inditing it; I seldom think of things; and, by the way, Although this metre may not be exciting, it Enables one to be extremely terse, Which is not what one always is in verse. I used to know a man, such things befall The observant wayfarer through Fate's domain He was a man, take him for all in all, We shall not look upon his like again ; [85 ] A Parody Anthology I know that statement 's not original ; What statement is, since Shakespere? or, since Cain, What murder? I believe 'twas Shakespere said it, of Perhaps it may have been your Fighting Editor. Though why an Editor should fight, or why A Fighter should abase himself to edit, Are problems far too difficult and high For me to solve with any sort of credit. Some greatly more accomplished man than I Must tackle them : let 's say then Shakespere said it ; And, if he did not, Lewis Morris may (Or even if he did). Some other day, When I have nothing pressing to impart, I should not mind dilating on this matter. I feel its import both in head and heart, And always did, especially the latter. I could discuss it in the busy mart Or on the lonely housetop ; hold ! this chatter Diverts me from my purpose. To the point : The time, as Hamlet said, is out of joint, And perhaps I was born to set it right, A fact I greet with perfect equanimity. I do not put it down to u cursed spite," I don'f. see any cause for cursing in it. I [86] A Parody Anthology Have always taken very great delight In such pursuits since first I read divinity. Whoever will may write a nation's songs As long as I 'm allowed to right its wrongs. What 's Eton but a nursery of wrong-righters, A mighty mother of effective men; A. training ground for amateur reciters, A sharpener of the sword as of the pen; A factory of orators and fighters, A forcing-house of genius ? Now and then The world at large shrinks back, abashed and beaten, Unable to endure the glare of Eton. I think I said I knew a man : what then ? I don't suppose such knowledge is forbid. We nearly all do, more or less, know men, Or think we do ; nor will a man get rid Of that delusion, while he wields a pen. But who this man was, what, if aught, he did, Nor why I mentioned him, I do not know; Nor what I " wished to say " a while ago. J. K. Stephen, [ 87 J A Parody Anthology AFTER CHARLES WOLFE THE BURIAL OF THE BACHELOR NOT a laugh was heard, not a frivolous note, As the groom to the wedding we carried ; Not a jester discharged his farewell shot As the bachelor went to be married. We married him quickly that morning bright, The leaves of our prayer-books turning, In the chancel's dimly religious light, And tears in our eyelids burning. No useless nosegay adorned his chest, Not in chains but in laws we bound him; And he looked like a bridegroom trying his best To look used to the scene around him. Few and small were the fees it cost, And we spoke not a word of sorrow, But we silently gazed on the face of the lost And we bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought as we hurried him home to be fed, And tried our low spirits to rally, That the weather looked very like squalls overhead For the passage from Dover to Calais. [ 88 1 A Parody Anthology Lightly they '11 talk of the bachelor gone, And o'er his frail fondness upbraid him ; But little he '11 reck if they let him alone, With his wife that the parson hath made him. But half of our heavy task was done, When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we judged by the knocks which had now begun That their cabby was rapidly tiring. Slowly and sadly we led them down, From the scene of his lame oratory ; We told the four-wheeler to drive them to town, And we left them alone in their glory. Anonymous. NOT A SOU HAD HE GOT NOT a sou had he got not a guinea or note, And he looked confoundedly flurried As he bolted away without paying his shot, And the Landlady after him hurried. We saw him again at dead of night, When home from the club returning ; We twigged the Doctor beneath the light Of the gas-lamp brilliantly burfiing. All bare and exposed to the midnight dews, Reclined in the gutter we found him ; And he look'd like a gentleman taking a snooze, With his Marshal cloak around him. [89] A Parody Anthology "The Doctor's as drunk as the d ," we said, And we managed a shutter to borrow ; We raised him, and sighed at the thought that his head Would " consumedly ache" on the morrow. We bore him home, and we put him to bed, And we told his wife and his daughter fo give him, next morning, a couple of red Herrings, with soda-water. Loudly they talked of his money that 's gone And his lady began to upbraid him; But little he reck'd, so they let him snore on 'Neath the counterpane just as we laid him. We tucked him in, and had hardly done When, beneath the window calling, We heard the rough voice of a son of a gun Of a watchman u One o'clock ! " bawling. Slowly and sadly we all walk'd down i'rom hi room in the uppermost story; A rusuiight was placed on the cold hearth-stone, \nd we left him alone in his glory ! \ R. Harris Barb w /// [ 9 J A Parody Anthology \ THE MARRIAGE OF SIR JOHN SMITH NOT a sigh was heard, nor a funeral tone, As the man to his bridal we hurried ; Not a woman discharged her farewell groan, On the spot where the fellow was married. We married him just about eight at night, Our faces paler turning, By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, And the^ gas-lamp's steady burning. No useless watch-chain covered his vest, Nor over-dressed we found him ; But he looked like a gentleman wearing his best, With a few of his friends around him. Few and short were the things we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow, But we silently gazed on the man that was wed, And we bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought, as we silently stood about, With spite and anger dying, How the merest stranger had cut us out, With only half our trying. [9 3 A Parody Anthology Lightly we '11 talk of the fellow that 's gone, And oft for the past upbraid him ; But little he '11 reck if we let him live on, In the house where his wife conveyed him. But our heavy task at length was done, When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the spiteful squib and pun The girls were sullenly firing. Slowly and sadly we turned to go, We had struggled, and we were human ; We shed not a tear, and we spoke not our woe, But we left him alone with his woman. Pbcebe Gary. I 9*J A Parody Anthology AFTER MRS. HEMANS THE THYROID GLAND U TT TE hear thee speak of the thyroid gland, \/V But what thou say'st we don't understand ; Professor, where does the acinus dwell ? We hashed our dissection and can't quite tell. Is it where the mascula lutea flows, And the suprachordial tissue grows ? " u Not there, not there, my class ! " u Is it far away where the bronchi part And the pneumogastric controls the heart ? Where endothelium encardium lines, And a subpericardial nerve intertwines ? Where the subpleural plexus of lymphatics expand ? Is it there, Professor, that gruesome gland ? " " Not there, not there, my class ! " " I have not seen it, my gentle youths, My myxoedemia, I 'm told, it soothes. Landois says stolidly c functions unknown ; ' Foster adopts an enquiring tone. Duct does not lead to its strange recess, Far below the vertex, above the pes, It is there, I am told, my class ! " R. M. [93 ] SI Parody Anthology AFTER KEATS i. ODE ON A JAR OF PICKLES \ SWEET, acidulous, down-reaching thrill /-\ Pervades my sense. I seem to see or hear The lushy garden-grounds of Greenwich Hill In autumn, where the crispy leaves are sere ; And odors haunt me of remotest spice From the Levant or musky-aired Cathay, Or from the saffron-fields of Jericho, Where everything is nice. The more I sniff, the more I swoon away, And what else mortal palate craves, forego. ii. Odors unsmelled are keen, but those I smell Are keener ; wherefore let me sniff again ! Enticing walnuts, I have known ye well In youth, when pickles were a passing pain ; Unwitting youth, that craves the candy stem, And sugar plums to olives doth prefer, And even licks the pots of marmalade When sweetness clings to them. But now I dream of ambergris and myrrh, Tasting these walnuts in the poplar shade. A Parody Anthology m. Lo ! hoarded coolness in the heart of noon, Plucked with its dew, the cucumber is here, As to the Dryad's parching lips a boon, And crescent bean-pods, unto Bacchus dear ; And, last of all, the pepper's pungent globe, The scarlet dwelling of the sylph of fire, Provoking purple draughts; and, surfeited, I cast my trailing robe O'er my pale feet, touch up my tuneless lyre, And twist the Delphic wreath to suit my head. IV. Here shall my tongue in otherwise be soured Than fretful men's in parched and palsied days ; And, by the mid-May's dusky leaves embowered, Forget the fruitful blame, the scanty praise. No sweets to them who sweet themselves were born, Whose natures ooze with lucent saccharine; Who, with sad repetition soothly cloyed, The lemon-tinted morn Enjoy, and find acetic twilight fine. Wake I, or sleep ? The pickle-jar is void. Bayard Taylor. ! 95 A Parody Anthology AFTER HEINE IMITATION MY love she leans from the window Afar in a rosy land ; And red as a rose are her blushes, And white as a rose her hand. And the roses cluster around her, And mimic her tender grace ; And nothing but roses can blossom Wherever she shows her face. I dwell in a land of winter, From my love a world apart, But the snow blooms over with roses At the thought of her in my heart. This German style of poem Is uncommonly popular now ; For the worst of us poets can do it Since Heine showed us how. H. C. Bunner, [ 96 1 Parody Anthology COMMONPLACES AIN on the face of the sea, Rain on the sodden land, And the window-pane is blurred with rain As I watch it, pen in hand. R Mist on the face of the sea, Mist on the sodden land, Filling the vales as daylight fails, And blotting the desolate sand. Voices from out of the mist, Calling to one another : " Hath love an end, thou more than friend, Thou dearer than ever brother ? " Voices from out of the mist, Calling and passing away ; But I cannot speak, for my voice is weak, And . . . this is the end of my lay. Rudyard Kipling, [97] A Parody Anthology AFTER HOOD SONG OF THE SHEET THE DRIPPING SHEET This sheet wrung out of cold or tepid water is thrown around the body, jjhiick rubbing follows, succeeded by the same operation with a dry sheet. Its opera- tion is truly shocking. Dress after to prevent re- marks. WITH nerves all shattered and worn, With shouts terrific and loud, A patient stood in a cold wet sheet A Grindrod's patent shroud. Wet, wet, wet, In douche and spray and sleet, And still, with a voice I shall never forget, He sang the song of the sheet. " Drip, drip, drip, Dashing, and splashing, and dipping; And drip, drip, drip, Till your fat all melts to dripping. It 's oh, for dry deserts afar, Or let me rather endure Curing with salt in a family jar, If this is the water cure. [98] A Parody Anthology " Rub, rub, rub, He '11 rub away life and limb ; Rub, rub, rub It seems to be fun for him. Sheeted from head to foot, I 'd rather be covered with dirt ; I '11 give you the sheet and the blankets to boot, If you '11 only give me my shirt. " Oh, men, with arms and hands, Oh, men, with legs and shins, It is not the sheet you 're wearing out, But human creatures' skins. Rub, rub, rub, Body, and legs, and feet ; Rubbing at once with a double rub, A skin as well as a sheet. " My wife will see me no more She '11 see the bone of her bone, But never will see the flesh of her flesh, For I '11 have no flesh of my own. The little that was my own, They won't allow me to keep; It 's a pity that flesh should be so dear, And water so very cheap. " Pack, pack, pack, Whenever your spirit flags, You 're doomed by hydropathic laws To be packed in cold water rags ; [99] A Parody .Inlhology Rolled up on bed or on floor, Or sweated to death in a chair ; But my chairman's rank my shadow I ; d thank For taking my place in there. " Slop, slop, slop, Never a moment of time ; Slop, slop, slop, Slackened like mason's lime. Stand and freeze and steam Steam or freeze and stand ; I wish those friends had their tongues benumbed : That told me to leave dry land. " Up, up, up, In the morn before daylight, The bathman cries l Get up,' (I wish he were up for a fight). While underneath the eaves, The dry snug swallows cling; But give them a cold wet sheet to their backs, And see if they '11 come next spring. u Oh ! oh ! it stops my breath, 9 (He calls it short and sweet), Could they hear me underneath I '11 shout them from the street ! He says that in half an hour A different man I '11 feel ; That I '11 jump half over the moon and want To walk into a meal ! F I0 ] A Parody Anthology " I feel more nerve and power, And less of terror and grief; I 'm thinking now of love and hope And now of mutton and beef. This glorious scene will rouse my heart, Oh, who would lie in bed ? I cannot stop, but jump and hop, Going like needle and thread." With buoyant spirit upborne, With cheeks both healthy and red, The same man ran up the Malvern Crags, Pitying those in bed. Trip, trip, trip, Oh, life with health is sweet; And still in a voice both strong and quick, Would that its tones could reach the sick, He sang the Song of the Sheet. Anonjmoui I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER T REMEMBER, I remember, The house where I was wed, And the little room from which that night My smiling bride was led. She did n't come a wink too soon, Nor make too long a stay ; But now I often wish her folks Had kept the girl away ! A Parody Anthology I remember, I remember, Her dresses, red and white, Her bonnets and her caps and cloaks, They cost an awful sight ! The " corner lot " on which I built, And where my brother met At first my wife, one washing-day, That man is single yet ! I remember, I remember, Where I was used to court, And thought that all of married life Was just such pleasant sport : My spirit flew in feathers then, No care was on my brow ; I scarce could wait to shut the gate, I 'm not so anxious now ! I remember, I remember, My dear one's smile and sigh \ I used to think her tender heart Was close against the sky. It was a childish ignorance, But now it soothes me not To know I 'm farther off from Heaven Than when she was n't got ! Phcebe Gary. A Parody Anthology AFTER ALFRED BUNN A YULE-TIDE PARODY WHEN other wits and other bards, Their tales at Christmas tell, Or praise on cheap and colored cards The time they love so well, Secure from scorn and ridicule I hope my verse may be, If I can still remember Yule, And Yule remember me. The days are dark, the days are drear, When dull December dies ; But, while we mourn an ended year, Another's star will rise. I hail the season formed by rule For merriment and glee ; So let me still remember Yule, And Yule remember me. The rich plum-pudding I enjoy, I greet the pie of mince ; And loving both while yet a boy, Have loved them ever since. A Parody Anthology More dull were I than any mule That eyes did ever see, If I should not remember Yule, And Yule remember me. Anonymous. SELF-EVIDENT WHEN other lips and other eyes Their tales of love shall tell, Which means the usual sort of lies You Ve heard from many a swell ; When, bored with what you feel is bosh, You 'd give the world to see A friend, whose love you know will wash, Oh, then remember me ! When Signer Solo goes his tours, And Captain Craft 's at Ryde, And Lord Fitzpop is on the moors, And Lord knows who besides ; When to exist you feel a task Without a friend at tea, At such a moment I but ask That you '11 remember me. 7. R. Plancbe [ 104] A Parody Anthology AFTER LORD MACAULAY THE LAUREATE'S TOURNEY By the Hon. TB M. FYTTE THE FIRST TT THAT news, what news, thou pilgrim U ' M / r ^ gray, what news from the southern land ? How fare the bold Conservatives, how is it with Ferrand ? How does the little Prince of Wales how looks our lady Queen ? And tell me, is the monthly nurse once more at Windsor seen ? " u I bring no tidings from the Court, nor from St. Stephen's hall ; I 've heard the thundering tramp of horse, and the trumpet's battle-call ; And these old eyes have seen a fight, which Eng- land ne'er had seen, Since fell King Richard sobbed his soul through blood on Bosworth Green. A Parody Anthology "'He's dead, he's dead, the Laureate's dead!' 'T was thus the cry began, And straightway every garret-roof gave up its minstrel man ; From Grub Street, and from Houndsditch, and from Farringdon Within, The poets all towards Whitehall poured on with eldritch din. " Loud yelled they for Sir James the Graham ; but sore afraid was he ; A hardy knight were he that might face such a minstrelsie. 4 Now by St. Giles of Netherby, my patron Saint, I swear, I'd rather by a thousand crowns Lord Palmerston were here ! u fc What is 't ye seek, ye rebel knaves what make you there beneath ? ' c The bays, the bays ! we want the bays ! we seek the laureate wreath ! We seek the butt of generous wine that cheers the son of song ; Choose thou among us all, Sir Knight we may not tarry long ! ' " Loud laughed the good Sir James in scon c Rare jest it were, I think, But one poor butt of Xeres, and a thousand to drink ! A Parody Anthology An' if it flowed with wine or beer, 'tis easy to be seen, That dry within the hour would be the well of Hippocrene. u c Tell me, if on Parnassus' heights there grow a thousand sheaves ; Or has Apollo's laurel bush yet borne ten hundred leaves ? Or if so many leaves were there, how long would they sustain The ravage and the glutton bite of such a locust train ? u c No ! get ye back into your dens, take counsel for the night, And choose me out two champions to meet in deadly fight ; To-morrow's dawn shall see the lists marked out in Spitalfields, And he who wins shall have the bays, and he shall die who yields ! ' " Down went the window with a crash, in silence and in fear Each ragged bard looked anxiously upon his neighbor near ; Then up and spake young Tennyson 4 Who 's here that fears for death ? 'T were better one of us shall die, than England lose the wreath ! [ -07] A Parody Anthology " c Let's cast the lot among us now, which two shall fight to-morrow ; For armor bright we '11 club our mite, and horses we can borrow ; 'T were shame that bards of France should sneer, and German Dichters too, If none of British song might dare a deed of derringdo ! ' u c The lists of Love are mine,' said Moore, c and not the lists of Mars ; ' Said Hunt, C I seek the jars of wine, but shun the combat's jars ! ' 4 1 'm old,' quoth Samuel Rogers. c Faith,' says Campbell, 4 so am I ! ' c And I'm in holy orders, sir ! ' quoth Tom of Ingoldsby. " c Now out upon ye, craven loons,' cried Moxoh, good at need ; c Bide, if ye will, secure at home, and sleep while others bleed. I second Alfred's motion, boys, let 's try the chance of lot ; And monks shall sing, and bells shall ring, for him that goes to pot.' "Eight hundred minstrels slunk away two hun- dred stayed to draw ; Now Heaven protect the daring wight that pulls the longest straw ! Parody Anthology 'T is done ! 't is done ! And who hath won ? Keep silence one and all, The first is William Wordsworth hight, the second Ned Fitzball ! " FYTTE THE SECOND Oh, bright and gay hath dawned the day on lordly Spitalfields, How flash the rays with ardent blaze from polished helms and shields ! On either side the chivalry of England throng the green, And in the middle balcony appears our gracious Queen. With iron fists, to keep the lists, two valiant knights appear, The Marquis Hal of Waterford, and stout Sir Aubrey Vere. " What ho ! there, herald, blow the trump ! Let 's see who comes to claim The butt of golden Xeres, and the Laureate's hon- ored name ! " That instant dashed into the lists, all armed from head to heel, On courser brown, with vizor down, a warrior sheathed in steel ; [ 109 ] . A Parody Anthology Then said our Queen "Was ever seen so stout a knight and tall ? His name his race?" "An't please your grace, it is the brave Fitzball. "Oft in the Melodrama line his prowess hath been shown, And well throughout the Surrey side his thirst for blood is known. But see, the other champion comes!" Then rang the startled air With shouts of " Wordsworth, Wordsworth, ho ! the bard of Rydal 's there." And lo! upon a little steed, unmeet for such a course, Appeared the honored veteran ; but weak seemed man and horse. Then shook their ears the sapient peers, "That joust will soon be done : My Lord of Brougham, I '11 back Fitzball, and give you two to one ! " "Done," quoth the Brougham, "And done with you ! " " Now minstrels, are you ready ? " Exclaimed the Lord of Waterford, "You'd better both sit steady. Blow, trumpets, blow the note of charge! and for- ward to the fight ! " "Amen!" said good Sir Aubrey Vere; "Saint Schism defend the right ! " . A Parody Anthology As sweeps the blast against the mast when blows the furious squall, So started at the trumpet's sound the terrible Fitz- ball; His lance he bore his breast before, Saint George protect the just ! Or Wordsworth's hoary head must roll along the shameful dust ! " Who threw that calthrop ? Seize the knave ! " Alas ! the deed is done; Down went the steed, and o'er his head flew bright Apollo's son. " Undo his helmet ! cut the lace ! pour water on his head ! " u It ain't no use at all, my lord j 'cos vy ? the covey 's dead ! " Above him stood the Rydal bard his face was full of woe. u Now there thou liest, stiff and stark, who never feared a foe : A braver knight, or more renowned in tourney and in hall, Ne'er brought the upper gallery down than *errible Fitzball!" They led our Wordsworth to the Queen she crowned him with the bays And wished him many happy years, and many quarter-days ; [ i" 3 A Parody Anthology . And if you 'd have the story told by abler lips than mine, You 've but to call at Rydal Mount, and taste the Laureate's wine ! William Aytoun. [ 112 j A Parody Anthology AFTER EMERSON MUTTON IF the fat butcher thinks he slays, Or he the mutton thinks he's slain, Why, "troth is truth," the eater says " I '11 come, and cut and come again." To hungry wolves that on him leer Mutton is cheap, and sheep the same, No famished god would at him sneer .To famine, chops are more than fame. Who hiss at him, him but assures That they are geese, but wanting wings Your coat is his whose life is yours, And baa ! the hymn the mutton sings. Ye curs, and gods of grander blood, And you, ye Paddies fresh from Cork, Come taste, ye lovers of the good Eat ! Stuff! and turn your back on pork. Anonymous, A Parody Anthology AFTER MARY HOWITT THE LOBSTER QUADRILLE "TT7ILL you walk a little faster?" said a \/ \l whiting to a snail, " There 's a porpoise close behind us, and he 's treading on my tail. See how eagerly the lobsters and the turtles all advance ! They are waiting on the shingle will you come and join the dance ? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance ? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance ? u You can really have no notion how delightful it will be When they take us up and throw us, with the lob- ^ters, out to sea ! " But the snail replied u Too far, too far ! " and gave a look askance Said he thanked the whiting kindly, but he would not join the dance. Would not, could not, would not, could not r would not join the dance. Would not, could not, would not, could not, could not join the dance. A Parody Anthology " What matters it how far we go ? " his scaly friend replied. "There is another shore, you know, upon the other side. The further off from England the nearer is to France Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance. Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance ? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance ? " Lewis Carroll I 'S J A Parody Anthology AFTER MRS. BROWNING IN THE GLOAMING IN the gloaming to be roaming, where the crested waves are foaming, And the shy mermaidens combing locks that ripple to their feet ; When the gloaming is, I never made the ghost of an endeavor To discover but whatever were the hour, it would be sweet. u To their feet," I say, for Leech's sketch indis- putably teaches That the mermaids of our beaches do not end in ugly tails, Nor have homes among the corals ; but are shod with neat balmorals, An arrangement no one quarrels with, as many might with scales. Sweet to roam beneath a shady cliff, of course with some young lady, Lalage, Naerea, Haidee, or Elaine, or Mary Ann : Love, you dear delusive dream, you ! Very sweet your victims deem you, When, heard only by the seamew, they talk all the stuff one can. r f ] A Parody Anthology Sweet to haste, a licensed lover, to Miss Pinkerton, the glover; Having managed to discover what is dear Naerea's " size " : P'raps to touch that wrist so slender, as your tiny gift you tender, And to read you 're no offender, in those laughing hazel eyes. Then to hear her call you u Harry," when she makes you fetch and carry O young men about to marry, what a blessed thing it is ! To be photograph'd together cased in pretty Russia leather Hear her gravely doubting whether they have spoilt your honest phiz ! Then to bring your plighted fair one first a ring a rich and rare one Next a bracelet, if she '11 wear one, and a heap of things beside ; And serenely bending o'er her, to inquire if it would bore her To say when her own adorer may aspire to call her bride ! Then, the days of courtship over, with your WIFE to start for Dover Or Dieppe and live in clover evermore, what e'er befalls; [ "7] A Parody Anthology' For I 've read in many a novel that, unless they Ve souls that grovel Folks prefer in fact a hovel to your dreary marble halls. To sit, happy married lovers ; Phillis trifling with a plover's Egg, while Corydon uncovers with a grace the Sally Lunn, Or dissects the lucky pheasant that, I think, were passing pleasant, As I sit alone at present, dreaming darkly of a Dun. C. S. Calverley. GWENDOLINE *r I A WAS not the brown of chestnut boughs That shadowed her so finely ; It was the hair that swept her brows, And framed her face divinely ; Her tawny hair, her purple eyes, The spirit was ensphered in, That took you with such swift surprise, Provided you had peered in. Her velvet foot amid the moss And on the daisies patted, As, querulous with sense of loss, It tore the herbage matted. [ "M A Parody Anthology "And come he early, come he late," She saith, " it will undo me; The sharp fore-speeded shaft of fate Already quivers through me. " When I beheld his red-roan steed, I knew what aim impelled it. And that dim scarf of silver brede, I guessed for whom he held it. I recked not, while he flaunted by, Of Love's relentless vi'lence, Yet o'er me crashed the summer sky, In thunders of blue silence. u His hoof-prints crumbled down the dale, But left behind their lava ; What should have been my woman's mail Grew jellied as guava. I looked him proud, but 'neath my pride I felt a boneless tremor ; He was the Beer, I descried, And I was but the Seemer ! u Ah, how to be what then I seemed, And bid him seem that is so ! We always tangle threads we dreamed, And contravene our bliss so, I see the red-roan steed again ! He looks as something sought he; Why, hoity-toity ! he is fain, So 7'11 be cold and haughty ! " Bayard Taylor ["9] A Parody Anthology AFTER LONGFELLOW THE MODERN HIAWATHA HE killed the noble Mudjokivis. Of the skin he made him mittens, Made them with the fur side inside, Made them with the skin side outside. He, to get the warm side inside, Put the inside skin side outside ; He, to get the cold side outside, Put the warm side fur side inside. That 's why he put the fur side inside, Why he put the skin side outside, Why he turned them inside outside. ^ j^ v Anonymous. HIGHER THE shadows of night were a-comin' dou swift, And the dazzlin' snow lay drift on drift, As thro' a village a youth did go, A-carryin' a flag with this motto, Higher! [ 120 ] . A Parody Anthology O'er a forehead high curled copious hair, His nose a Roman, complexion fair, O'er an eagle eye an auburn lash, And he never stopped shoutin' thro' his moustache ! Higher ! " He saw thro' the windows as he kept gettin' upper A number of families sittin' at supper, But he eyes the slippery rocks very keen And fled as he cried, and cried while a fleein' Higher ! " ' " Take care you there J " said an old woman ; " stop ! It 's blowing gales up there on top You '11 tumble off on t' other side ! " But the hurryin' stranger loud replied, " Higher ! " u Oh ! don't you go up such a shocking night, Come sleep on my lap," said a maiden bright. On his Roman nose a tear-drop come, But still he remarked, as he upward clomb, " Higher ! " u Look out for the branch of that sycamore-tree ' Dodge rolling stones, if any you see ! " Sayin' which the farmer went home to bed And the singular voice replied overhead, "Higher!" A Parody Anthology About quarter past six the next afternoon, A man accidentally goin' up soon, Heard spoken above him as often as twice The very same word in a very weak voice, Higher ! " And not far, I believe, from quarter of seven He was slow gettin' up, the road bein' uneven Found the stranger dead in the drifted snow, Still clutchin' the flag with the motto Higher ! Yes ! lifeless, defunct, without any doubt, The lamp of life being decidedly out, On the dreary hillside the youth was a layin' ! And there was no more use for him to be sayin' Higher ! " Anonymous* TOPSIDE GALAH! r I ^HAT nightee teem he come chop, chop, One young man walkee, no can stop, Colo makee ; icee makee ; He got flag ; chop b'long welly culio, see Topside Galah ! He too muchee folly ; one piecee eye Lookee sharp so fashion alia same mi ; He talkee largee, talkee stlong, To muchee culio; alia same gong Topside Galah ! A Parody Anthology Inside any house he can see light ; Any piecee loom got fire all light ; He lookee see plenty ice more high, Inside he mouf he plenty cly Topside Galah ! " No can walkee ! " olo man speakee he 5 u Bimeby lain come, no can see ; Hab got water welly wide ! " Maskee, mi must go topside Topside Galah ! ] A Parody Anthology What, and wherefore, and whence ? for under is over and under; If thunder could be without lightning, lightning could be without thunder. Doubt is faith in the main : but faith, on the whole, is doubt ; We cannot believe by proof: but could we believe without ? Why, and whither, and how ? for barley and rye are not clover; Neither are straight lines curves : yet over is under and over. Two and two may be four : but four and four are not eight; Fate and God may be twain : but God is the same thing as fate. Ask a man what he thinks, and get from a man what he feels ; God, once caught in the fact, shews you a fair pair of heels. Body and spirit are twins : God only knows which is which ; The soul squats down in the flesh, like a tinker drunk in a ditch. A Parody Anthology One and two are not one: but one and nothing is two ; Truth can hardly be false, if falsehood cannot be true. Once the mastodon was : pterodactyls were com- mon as cocks ; Then the mammoth was God : now is He a prize ox. Parallels all things are: yet many of these are askew. You are certainly I : but certainly I am not you. Springs the rock from the plain, shoots the stream from the rock ; Cocks exist for the hen : but hens exist for the cock. God, whom we see not, is : and God, who is not, we see ; Fiddle, we know, is diddle : and diddle, we take it, is dee. Algernon Charles Swinburne. .82] A Parody Anthology TIMBUCTOO. PART I. The situation. IN Africa (a quarter of the world), 1 Men's skins are black, their hair is crisp and curl'd, And somewhere there, unknown to public view, A mighty city lies, called Timbuctoo. The natural history. There stalks the tiger, there the lion roars, 5 Who sometimes eats the luckless blackamoors; All that he leaves of them the monster throws To jackals, vultures, dogs, cats, kites, and crows ; His hunger thus the forest monster gluts, And then lies down 'neath trees called cocoa-nuts. 10 The lion hunt. Quick issue out, with musket, torch, and brand, The sturdy blackamoors, a dusky band ! The beast is found pop goes the musketoons The lion falls covered with horrid wounds. Their lives at home. At home their lives in pleasure always flow, 15 But many have a different lot to know ! Abroad. They 're often caught and sold as slaves, alas ! A Parody Anthology Reflections on the foregoing. Thus men from highest joy to sorrow pass ; Yet though thy monarch and thy nobles boil Rack and molasses in Jamaica's isle, 20 Desolate Africa ! .thou art lovely yet ! One heart yet beats which ne'er thee shall forget. What though thy maidens are a blackish brown, Does virtue dwell in whiter breasts alone ? Oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no ! 25 . It shall not, must not, cannot, e'er be so. The day shall come when Albion's self shall feel Stern Afric's wrath, and writhe 'neath Afric's steel. I see her tribes the hill of glory mount, And sell their sugars on their own account ; 30 While round her throne the prostrate nations come, Sue for her rice, and barter for her rum ! Notes. Lines i and 2. See Outline's Geography. The site of Timbuctoo is doubtful ; the author has neatly expressed this in the poem, at the same time giving us some slight hints relative to its situation. Line 5. So Horace : leonum arida nutrix. Line 13. "Pop goes the musketoons." A learned friend suggested "Bang" as a stronger expression, but as African gunpowder is notoriously bad, the author thought "Pop" the better word. Lines 15-18. A concise but affecting description is here given of the domestic habits of the people. The infamous manner in which they are entrapped and sold as slaves is described, and the whole ends with an appropriate moral sentiment. The enthusiasm the author feels is beau- tifully expressed in lines 25 and 26. W. M. Thackeray. A Parody Anthology AFTER TUPPER OF FRIENDSHIP judiciously thy friends; for to dis- I card them is undesirable, ^^ Yet it is better to drop thy friends, O my daughter, than to drop thy H's. Dost thou know a wise woman ? yea, wiser than the children of light ? Hath she a position ? and a title ? and are her parties in the Morning Post ? If thou dost, cleave unto her, and give up unto her thy body and mind ; Think with her ideas, and distribute thy smiles at her bidding : So shalt thou become like unto her ; and thy man- ners shall be u formed," And thy name shall be a Sesame, at which the doors of the great shall fly open : Thou shalt know every Peer, his arms, and the date of his creation, His pedigree and their intermarriages, and cousins to the sixth remove : Thou shalt kiss the hand of Royalty, and lo ! in next morning's papers, Side by side with rumors of wars, and stories of shipwrecks and sieges, [ '8s 3 A Parody Anthology Shall appear thy name, and the minutiae of thy head-dress and petticoat, For an enraptured public to muse upon over their matutinal muffin. Charles S. Calverley. OF READING READ not Milton, for he is dry; nor Shake- speare, for he wrote of common life ; Nor Scott, for his romances, though fasci- nating, are yet intelligible ; Nor Thackeray, for he is a Hogarth, a photogra- pher who flattereth not ; Nor Kingsley, for he shall teach thee that thou shouldest not dream, but do. Read incessantly thy Burke; that Burke who, nobler than he of old, Treateth of the Peer and Peeress, the truly Sublime and Beautiful; Likewise study the " creations " of " the Prince of modern Romance ; " Sigh over Leonard the Martyr, and smile on Pel- ham the puppy; Learn how "love is the dram-drinking of existence; " And how we " invoke, in t?he Gadara of our still closets, The beautiful ghost of the Ideal, with the simple wand of the pen." Listen how Maltravers and the orphan " forgot all but love," [ '86] A Parody Anthology And how Devereux's family chaplain " made and unmade kings ; " How Eugene Aram, though a thief, a liar, and a murderer, Yet, being intellectual, was amongst the noblest of mankind ; So shalt thou live in a world peopled with heroes and master spirits And if thou canst not realize the Ideal, thou shalt at least idealize the Real. Charles S. Calverley. A Parody Anthology AFTER THACKERAY THE WILLOW-TREE (Another version) LONG by the willow-trees Vainly they sought her, Wild rang the mother's screams O'er the gray water : " Where is my lovely one ? Where is my daughter ? "Rouse thee, Sir Constable Rouse thee and look ; Fisherman, bring your net, Boatman, your hook. Beat in the lily-beds, Dive in the brook ! " Vainly the constable Shouted and called her; Vainly the fisherman Beat the green alder ; Vainly he flung the net, Never it hauled her ! [ '83 J A Parody Anthology Mother beside the fire Sat, her nightcap in ; Father, in easy chair, Gloomily napping, When at the window-sill Came a light tapping ! And a pale countenance Looked through the casement, Loud beat the mother's heart, Sick with amazement, And at the vision which Came to surprise her, Shrieked in an agony Lor' ! it 's Elizar ! " Yes, 't was Elizabeth Yes, 't was their girl ; Pale was her cheek, and her Hair out of curl. u Mother," the loving one, Blushing exclaimed, " Let not your innocent Lizzy be blamed. " Yesterday, going to Aunt Jones's to tea, Mother, dear mother, I Forgot the door-key ! A Parody Anthology And as the night was cold And the way steep, Mrs. Jones kept me to Breakfast and sleep." Whether her Pa and Ma Fully believed her, That we shall never know, Stern they received her; And for the work of that Cruel, though short, night Sent her to bed without Tea for a fortnight. MORAL Hey diddle diddlety, Cat and the fiddlety, Maidens of England, take caution by she ! Let love and suicide Never tempt you aside, And always remember to take the door-key. W. M. Thackeray ( 1901 A Parody Anthology AFTER CHARLES DICKENS MAN'S PLACE IN NATURE (Dedicated to Darwin and Huxley) THEY told him gently he was made Of nicely tempered mud, That man no lengthened part had played Anterior to the Flood. 'T was all in vain ; he heeded not. Referring plant and worm, Fish, reptile, ape, and Hottentot, To one primordial germ.. They asked him whether he could bear To think his kind allied To all those brutal forms which were In structure Pithecoid ; Whether he thought the apes and us Homologous in form ; He said, u Homo and Pithecus Came from one common germ." They called him " atheistical," " Sceptic," and " infidel" They swore his doctrines without fail Would plunge him into hell. [ '9' 1 A Parody Anthology But he with proofs in no way lame. Made this deduction firm, That all organic beings came From one primordial germ. That as for the Noachian flood, 'T was long ago disproved, That as for man being made of mud, All by whom truth is loved Accept as fact what, malgr'e strife, Research tends to confirm That man, and everything with life, Came from one common germ. Anonymous* 1 19* ] A Parody Anthology AFTER ROBERT BROWNING HOME TRUTHS FROM ABROAD 0' to be in England Now that April 's there. And whoever wakes in England Sees some morning" in despair; There 's a horrible fog i' the heart o' the town, And the greasy pavement is damp and brown, While the rain-drop falls from the laden bough In England now ! II " And after April when May follows," How foolish seem the returning swallows. Hark ! how the east wind sweeps along the street, And how we give one universal sneeze ! The hapless lambs at thought of mint-sauce bleat, And ducks are conscious of the coming peas. Lest you should think the Spring is really present, A biting frost will come to make things pleasant; And though the reckless flowers begin to blow, They 'd better far have nestled down below ; An English Spring sets men and women frowning, Despite the rhapsodies of Robert Browning. Anonymous. [13] [ 193 ] A Parody Anthology AFTER BROWNING NOT that I care for ceremonies no ; But still there are occasions, as you see (Observe the costumes gallantly they show To my poor judgment !) which, twixt you and me, Not to come forth, one's few remaining hairs, Or wig, it matters little, bravely brushed And oiled, dress-coated, sprucely-clad, the tears And tweaks and wrenches, people overflushed With well, not wine oh, no, we '11 rather say Anticipation, the delight of seeing No matter what ! inflict upon you (pray Remove your elbow, friend !) in spite of being Not quite the man one used to be, and not So young as once one was, would argue one Churlish, indifferent, hipped, rheumatic, what You please to say. So, not to spoil the fun Comprenez-vous ? observe that lady there, In native worth ! Aha ! you see the jest ? Not bad, I think. My own, too ! Woman 's fair, Or not the odds so long as she is dressed ? They 're coming ! Soh ! Ha, Bennett's Bar- carole A poor thing, but mine own ! That minor third Is not so bad now ! Mum, sirs ! (Bless my soul, I wonder what her veil cost !) Mum 's the word ! Anonymous, [ '94 ] A Parody Anthology THE COCK AND THE BULL YOU see this pebble-stone ? It 's a thing I bought Of a bit of a chit of a boy i' the mid o' the day. I like to dock the smaller parts o' speech, As we curtail the already cur-tail'd cur (Yoii catch the paronomasia, play 'po' words?) Did, rather, i' the pre-Landseerian days. Well, to my muttons. I purchased the concern, And clapt it i' my poke, having given for same By way o' chop, swop, barter or exchange " Chop " was my snickering dandiprat's own term One shilling and fourpence, current coin o' the realm. O-n-e one, and f-o-u-r four Pence, one and fourpence you are with me, sir ? What hour it skills not : ten or eleven o' the clock, One day (and what a roaring day it was Go shop or sight-see bar a spit o' rain !) In February, eighteen sixty-nine, Alexandria Victoria, Fidei Hm hm how runs the jargon ? being on the throne. Such, sir, are all the facts, succinctly put, The basis or substratum what you will Of the impending eighty thousand lines. " Not much in 'em either," quoth perhaps simple Hodge. ['951 A Parody Anthology But there 's a superstructure. Wait a bit. Mark first the rationale of the thing : Hear logic rivel and levigate the deed. That shilling and for matter o' that, the pence I had o' course upo' me wi' me say (Mecum 's the Latin, make a note o' that) When I popp'd pen i' stand, scratch'd ear, wiped snout, % (Let everybody wipe his own himself) Sniff'd tch ! - at snuff-box ; tumbled up, ne- heed, Haw-haw'd (not hee-haw'd, that 's another guess thing), Then fumbled at, and stumbled out of, door. I shoved the timber ope wi' my omoplat; And in vestibulo, i' the lobby to wit (lacobi Facciolati's rendering, sir), Donn'd galligaskins, antigropeloes, And so forth ; and, complete with hat and gloves, One on and one a-dangle i' my hand, And ombrifuge (Lord love you !), case o' rain, I flopp'd forth, 'sbuddikins ! on my own ten toes (I do assure you there be ten of them), And went clump-clumping up hill and down dale To find myself o' the sudden i' front o' the boy. But case I had n't 'em on me, could I ha' bought This sort-o'-kind-o'-what-you-might-call toy, This pebble thing, o' the boy-thing ? Q. E. D. That 's proven without aid from mumping Pope, Sleek porporate or bloated Cardinal. (Is n't it, old Fatchaps ? You 're in Euclid now.) So, having the shilling having i' fact a lot [ '96] A Parody Anthology And pence and halfpence, ever so many o' them, I purchased, as I think I said before, The pebble (lapis, lapidis,-di^dem^-de What nouns 'crease short i' the genitive, Fatchaps, eh?) O' the boy, a bare-legg'd beggarly son of a gun, For one and fourpence. Here we are again. Now Law steps in, bigwigg'd, voluminous-jaw'd ; Investigates and re-investigates. Was the transaction illegal ? Law shakes head Perpend, sir, all the bearings of the case. . . At first the coin was mine, the chattel his. But now (by virtue of the said exchange And barter) vice versa all the coin, Per juris operationem, vests F the boy and his assigns till ding o' doom ; ( In stecula sa:culo-o-o-rum ; I think I hear the Abate mouth out that.) To have and hold the same to him and them. Confer some idiot on Conveyancing. Whereas the pebble and every part thereof, And all that appertaineth thereunto, ^uodcunque pert met ad earn rent (I fancy, sir, my Latin 's rather pat), Or shall, will, may, might, can, could, would or should ( Subaudi cetera clap we to the close For what 's the good of Law in a case o' the kind), Is mine to all intents and purposes. This settled, I resume the thread o' the tale. [ '97] A Parody Anthology Now for a touch o' the vendor's quality. He says a gen'lman bought a pebble of him (This pebble i' sooth, sir, which I hold i' my hand), And paid for't, like a gen'lman, on the nail. " Did I overcharge him a ha'penny ? Devil a bit. Fiddlepin's end ! Get out, you blazing ass ! Gabble o' the goose. Don't bugaboo-baby me ! Go double or quits ? Yah ! tittup ! what 's the odds ? " There 's the transaction view'd i' the vendor's light Next ask that dumpled hag, stood snuffling by, With her three frowsy blowsy brats o' babes, The scum o' the kennel, cream o' the filth-heap Faugh ! Aie, aie, aie, aie ! OTOTOTOTOTOL ('Stead which we blurt out Hoighty toJghty now), And the baker and candlestickmaker, and Jack and Ji", Blear'd Goody this and queasy Gaffer that. Ask the schoolmaster. Take schoolmaster first. He saw a gentleman purchase of a lad A stone, and pay for it rite, on the square, And carry it off per saltum, jauntily, Propria quae maribus^ gentleman's property now (Agreeably to the law explain'd above), In proprium usum^ for his private ends, The boy he chuck'd a brown i' the air, and bit F the face the shilling ; heaved a thumping stone At a lean hen that ran cluck clucking by [ '98] A Parody Anthology (And hit her, dead as nail i' post o' door), Then abiit what 's the Ciceronian phrase? Excessit, evasit, erupit off slogs boy ; Off like bird, avi similis you observed The dative? Pretty i' the Mantuan ! ) Anglice OfF in three flea skips. Hactenus, so far, So good, tarn bene. Bene, satis , male, Where was I with my trope 'bout one in a quag ? I did once hitch the syntax into verse : Verbum personale, a verb personal, Concordat ay, "agrees," old Fatchaps cum Nominativo, with its nominative, Genere, i' point o' gender, numero, O' number, et persona, and person. Ut, Instance : Sol ruit, down flops sun, et, and, Monies umbrantur, out flounce mountains. Pah! Excuse me, sir, I think I 'm going mad. You see the trick on 't though, and can yourself Continue the discourse ad libitum. It takes up about eighty thousand lines, A thing imagination boggles at ; And might, odds-bobs, sir! in judicious hands, Extend from here to Mesopotamy. Charles S. Calverley. A Parody Anthology A STACCATO TO O LE LUPE OLE LUPE, Gelett Burgess, this is very sad to find ; In the Bookman for September, in a manner most unkind, There appears a half-page picture, makes me think I 've lost my mind. They have reproduced a window, Doxey's window (I dare say In your rambles you have seen it, passed it twenty times a day), As " A Novel Exhibition of Examples of Decay." There is Nordau we all sneer at, and Verlaine we all adore, And a little book of verses with its betters by the score, With three faces on the cover I believe I 've seen before. Well, here 's matter for reflection, makes me won- der where I am. Here is Ibsen the gray lion, linked to Beardsley the black lamb. I was never out of Boston ; all that I can say is, "Damn!" [ 200 ] A Parody Anthology Who could think, in two short summers we should cause so much remark, With no purpose but our pastime, and to make the public hark, When I soloed on THE CHAP-BOOK, and you answered with THE LARK! Do young people take much pleasure when they read that sort of thing ? u Well, they buy it," answered Doxey, u and I take what it will bring. Publishers may dread extinction not with such fads on the string. "There is always sale for something, and demand for what is new. These young people who are restless, and have nothing else to do, Like to think there is c a movement/ just to keep themselves in view. " There is nothing in Decadence but the magic of a name. People talk and papers drivel, scent a vice, and hint a shame ; And all that is good for business, helps to boom my little game." But when I sit down to reason, think : stand upon my nerve, Meditate on portly leisure with a balance in reserve, In he comes with his u Decadence ! " like a fly ir my preserve. 201 A Parody Anthology 1 can see myself, O Burgess, half a century from now, Laid to rest among the ghostly, like a broken toy somehow ; All my lovely songs and ballads vanished with your u Purple Cow." But I will return some morning, though I know it will be hard, To Cornhill among the bookstalls, and surprise some minor bard ; Turning over their old rubbish for the treasures we discard. I shall warn him like a critic, creeping when his back is turned : "Ink and paper, dead and done with; Doxey spent what Doxey earned ; Poems doubtless are immortal where a poem can be. discerned ! " How his face will go to ashes, when he feels his empty purse! How he'll wish his vogue were greater, plume himself it is no worse ; Then go bother the dear public with his puny little verse ! Don't I know how he will pose it, patronize our larger time : "Poor old Browning ; little Kipling; what attempts they made to rhyme!" Just let me have half an hour with that nin- compoop sublime ! A Parody Anthology I will haunt him like a purpose, I will ghost him like a fear; When he least expects my presence, I '11 be mum- bling in his ear: u O Le Lupe lived in Frisco, and I lived in Boston here. "Never heard of us? Good heavens, can you never have been told Of the Larks we used to publish, and the Chap- Books that we sold ? Where are all our first editions ? " I feel damp and full of mould. Bliss Carman. BY THE SEA Mutatis Mutandis IS it life or is it death ? A whiff of the cool salt scum, As the whole sea puffed its breath Against you, blind and dumb : This way it answereth. Nearer the sands it shows Spotted and leprous tints; But stay ! yon fisher knows Rock-tokens, which evince How high the tide arose. [ 203 } A Parody Anthology How high ? In you and me 'T was falling then, I think ; Open your heart's eyes, see From just so slight a chink The chasm that now must be. You sighed and shivered then. Blue ecstasies of June Around you, shouts of fishermen, Sharp wings of sea gulls, soon To dip the clock struck ten ! Was it the cup too full, To carry it you grew Too faint, the wine's hue dull (Dulness, misjudged untrue !), Love's flower unfit to cull ? You should have held me fast One moment, stopped my pace 3 Crushed down the feeble, vast Suggestions of embrace, And so be crowned at last. But now ! Bare-legged and brown Bait-diggers delve the sand, Tramp i' the sunshine down Burnt-ochre vestured land, And yonder stares the town. [ 204-] A Parody Anthology A heron screams ! I shut This book of scurf and scum, Its final pages uncut ; The sea-beast, blind and dumb, Done with his bellowing ? All but ! Bayard Taylor. ANGELO ORDERS HIS DINNER I, ANGELO, obese, black-garmented, Respectable, much in demand, well fed With mine own larder's dainties, where, in- deed, Such cakes of myrrh or fine alyssum seed, Thin as a mallow-leaf, embrowned o' the top. Which, cracking, lets the ropy, trickling drop Of sweetness touch your tongue, or potted nests Which my recondite recipe invests With cold conglomerate tidbits ah, the bill ! (You say), but given it were mine to fill My chests, the case so put were yours, we '11 say (This counter, here, your post, as mine to-day), And you 've an eye to luxuries, what harm In smoothing down your palate with the charm Yourself concocted ? There we issue take ; And see ! as thus across the rim I break This puffy paunch of glazed embroidered cake, So breaks, through use, the lust of watering chaps And craveth plainness: do I so? Perhaps; But that 's my secret. Find me such a man As Lippo yonder, built upon the plan [ *5 J A Parody Anthology Of heavy storage, double-navelled, fat From his own giblet's oils, an Ararat Uplift o'er water, sucking rosy draughts From Noah's vineyard, crisp, enticing wafts Yon kitchen now emits, which to your sense Somewhat abate the fear of old events, Qualms to the stomach, I, you see, am slow Unnecessary duties to forego, You understand ? A venison haunch, baut gout, Ducks that in Cimbrian olives mildly stew. And sprigs of anise, might one's teeth provoke To taste, and so we wear the complex yoke Just as it suits, my liking, I confess, More to receive, and to partake no less, Still more obese, while through thick adipose Sensation shoots, from testing tongue to toes Far off, dim-conscious, at the body's verge, Where the froth-whispers of its waves emerge On the untasting sand. Stay, now ! a seat Is bare : I, Angelo, will sit and eat. Bayard Taylor. THE FLIGHT OF THE BUCKET P RE-ADMONISHETH the writer: H 'm, for a subject it is well enough! Who wrote " Sordello " finds no subject tough. Well, Jack and Jill God knows the life they led (The poet never told us, more 's the pity) A Parody Anthology Pent up in some damp kennel of their own, Beneath the hillside ; but it once befell That Jack and Jill, niece, cousin, uncle, aunt (Some one of all the brood), would wash and scour, Rinse out a cess-pit, swab the kennel floor, And water (liquor vitae, Lawson calls, But I I hold by whisky. Never mind ; I did n't mean to hurt your feelings, sir, And missed the scrap o' blue at buttonhole), Spring water was the needful at the time, So they must climb the hill for 't. Well and good. We all climb hills, I take it, on some quest, Maybe for less than stinking (I forgot ! I mean than wholesome) water. . . . Ferret out The rotten bucket from the lumber shed, Weave ropes and splice the handle off they go To where the cold spring bubbles up i' the cleft, And sink the bucket brimful in the spate. Then downwards hanging back? (You bet your life The girl s share fell upon Jack's shoulders.) Down, Down to the bottom all but trip, slip, squelch ! And guggle-guggle goes the bucketful Back to the earth, and Jack 's a broken head, And swears amid the heather does our Jack. (A man would swear who watched both blood and bucket, One dripping down his forehead, t' other fled Clink ety -tinkle, to the stones below, A good half-hour's trudge to get it back.) A Farody Anthology Jack, therefore, as I said, exploded straight In brimstone-flavored language. You, of course, Maintain he bore it calmly not a bit. A good bucolic curse that rent the cliffs And frightened for a moment quaking Jill Out of the limp, unmeaning girl's tee-hee That womankind delight in. ... Here we end The first verse there's a deal to study in't. So much for Jack but here 's a fate above, A cosmic force that blunders into right, Just when the strained sense hints at revolution Because the world's great fly-wheel runs aslant And up go Jill's red kibes. (You think I 'm wrong ; And Fate was napping at the time ; perhaps You 're right.) We '11 call it Devil's agency That sent the shrieking sister on her head, And knocked the tangled locks against the stones. Well, down went Jill, but was n't hurt. Oh, no I The Devil pads the world to suit his own, And packs the cards according. Down went Jill Unhurt. And Jack trots off to bed, poor brute, Fist welted into eyeball, mouth agape For yelling, your bucolic always yells, And out of his domestic pharmacy Rips forth the cruet-stand, upsets the cat, And ravages the store-room for his balm. Eureka ! but he did n't use that word A pound of candles, corpse-like, side by side, Wrapped up in his medicament. Out, knife! A Parody Anthology Cut string, and strip the shrouding from the lot! Steep swift and jam it on the gaping cut ; Then bedward cursing man and friends alike. Now back to Jill. She was n't hurt, I said, And all the woman's spite was up in arms. So Jack's abed. She slips, peeks through the door, And sees the split head like a luggage-label, Halved, quartered, on the pillow. " Ee-ki-ree, Tee-hee-hee-hee," she giggles through the crack, Much as the Roman ladies grinned don't smile To see the dabbled bodies in the sand, Appealing to their benches for a sign. Down thumbs, and giggle louder so did Jill. But mark now ! Comes the mother round the door, Red-hot from climbing up the hill herself, And caught the graceless giggler. Whack ! flack ! whack ! Here 's Nemesis whichever way you like ! She did n't stop to argue. Given a head Broken, a woman chuckling at the door, And here 's your circumstantial evidence complete. Whack ! while Jack sniffs and sniggers from the bed. I like that horny-handed mother o' Jill. The world's best women died, sir, long ago. Well, Jack 's avenged; as for the other, gr-r-r-r ! Rudyard Kipling. ( 14 ] [ 209 ] A Parody Anthology THE JAM-POT Jam-pot tender thought ! I grabbed it so did you. "What wonder while we fought Together that it flew In shivers ? " you retort. You should have loosed your hold One moment checked your fist. But, as it was, too bold You grappled and you missed. More plainly you were sold. " Well, neither of us shared The dainty." That your plea? " Well, neither of us cared," I answer. ..." Let me see. How have your trousers fared ? " Rudyard Kipling. IMITATION OF ROBERT BROWNING T)IRTHDAYS? yes, in a general way ; j| For the most if not for the best of men. You were born (I suppose) on a certain day, So was I ; or perhaps in the night, what then ? ' A Parody Anthology Only this : or at least, if more You must know, not think it, and learn, not speak ; There is truth to be found on the unknown shore, . And many will find where few will seek. Fqr many are called and few are chosen, And the few grow many as ages lapse. But when will the many grow few ; what dozen Is fused into one by Time's hammer-taps ? A bare brown stone in a babbling brook, It was wanton to hurl it there, you say, And the moss, which clung in the sheltered nook (Yet the stream runs cooler) is washed away. That begs the question ; many a prater Thinks such a suggestion a sound u stop thief! " Which, may I ask, do you think the greater, Sergeant-at-arms or a Robber Chief ? And if it were not so ? Still you doubt ? Ah ! yours is a birthday indeed, if so. That were something to write a poem about, If one thought a little. I only know. P. S. There's a Me Society down at Cambridge, Where my works, cum notis variorum, Are talked about ; well, I require the same bridge That Euclid took toll at as Asinorum. A Parody Anthology And, as they have got through several ditties I thought were as stiff as a brick-built wall, I Ve composed the above, and a stiff one it is, A bridge to stop asses at, once for all. 7. K. Stephen. THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER (From her Point of View} WHEN I had firmly answered "No," And he allowed that that was so, I really thought I should be free For good and all from Mr. B., And that he would soberly acquiesce. I said that it would be discreet That for awhile we should not meet ; I promised that I would always feel A kindly interest in his weal ; I thanked him for his amorous zeal ; In short, I said all I could but u yes." I said what I 'm accustomed to ; I acted as I always do. I promised he should find in me A friend, a sister, if that might be; But he was still dissatisfied. He certainly was most polite ; He said exactly what was right, A Parody Anthology He acted very properly, Except indeed for this, that he Insisted on inviting me To come with him for u one more last ride." A little while in doubt I stood : A ride, no doubt, would do me good ; I had a habit and a hat Extremely well worth looking at ; The weather was distinctly fine. My horse, too, wanted exercise, And time, when one is riding, flies ; Besides, it really seemed, you see, The only way of ridding me Of pertinacious Mr. B. ; So my head I graciously incline. I won't say much of what happened next ; I own I was extremely vexed. Indeed I should have been aghast If any one had seen what passed ; But nobody need ever know That, as I leaned forward to stir the fire, He advanced before I could well retire ; And I suddenly felt, to my great alarm, The grasp of a warm, unlicensed arm, An embrace in which I found no charm ; I was awfully glad when he let me go. [2,3 j A Parody Anthology Then we began to ride ; my steed Was rather fresh, too fresh indeed, And at first I thought of little, save The way to escape an early grave, As the dust rose up on either side. My stern companion jogged along On a brown old cob both broad and strong. He looked as he does when he 's writing verse, Or endeavoring not to swear and curse, Or wondering where he has left his purse 5 Indeed it was a sombre ride. I spoke of the weather to Mr. B., But he neither listened nor spoke to me. I praised his horse, and I smiled the smile Which was wont to move him once in a while. I said I was wearing his favorite flowers, But I wasted my words on the desert air, For he rode with a fixed and gloomy stare. I wonder what he was thinking about. As I don't read verse, I shan't find out. It was something subtle and deep, no doubt, A theme to detain a man for hours. Ah ! there was the corner where Mr. S. So nearly induced me to whisper " yes ; " And here it was that the next but one Proposed on horseback, or would have done, Had his horse not most opportunely shied ; Which perhaps was due to the unseen flick He received from my whip ; 't was a scurvy trick A Parody Anthology But I never could do with that young man, I hope his present young woman can. Well, I must say, never, since time began, Did I go for a duller or longer ride. He never smiles and he never speaks ; He might go on like this for weeks ; He rolls a slightly frenzied eye Towards the blue and burning sky, And the cob bounds on with tireless stride. If we are n't home for lunch at two I don't know what papa will do ; But I know full well he will say to me, " I never approved of Mr. B. ; It 's the very devil that you and he Ride, ride together, forever ride." J. K. Stephen. UP THE SPOUT i. HI ! Just you drop that ! Stop, I say ! Shirk work, think slink off, twist friend's wrist ? Where that spined sand's lined band 's the bay - Lined blind with true sea's blue, as due Promising not to pay ? [ "5 ] A Parody Anthology n. For the sea's debt leaves wet the sand ; Burst worst fate's weight's in one burst gun ? A man's own yacht, blown What ? off land ? Tack back, or veer round here, then queer! Reef points, though understand ? in. I 'm blest if I do. Sigh ? be blowed ! Love's doves make break life's ropes, eh ? Tropes ! Faith's brig, baulked, sides caulked, rides at road ; Hope's gropes befogged, storm-dogged and bogged - Clogged, water-logged, her load ! IV. Stowed, by Jove, right and tight, away. No show now how best plough sea's brow, Wrinkling breeze quick, tease thick, ere day, Clear sheer wave's sheen of green, I mean, With twinkling wrinkles eh ? v. Sea sprinkles wrinkles, tinkles light Shells' bells boy's joys that hap to snap ! It 's just sea's fun, breeze done, to spite God's rods that scourge her surge, I 'd urge Not proper, is it quite ? A Parody Anthology VI. See, fore and aft, life's craft undone ! Crank plank, split spritsail mark, sea's lark ! That gray cold sea's old sprees, begun When men lay dark i' the ark, no spark, All water just God's fun ! VII. Not bright, at best, his jest to these Seemed screamed, shrieked, wreaked on kin for sin ! When for mirth's yell earth's knell seemed please Some dumb new grim great whim in him Made Jews take chalk for cheese. VIII. Could God's rods bruise God's Jews ? Their jowls Bobbed, sobbed, gaped, aped, the plaice in face! None heard, 't is odds, his God's folk's howls. Now, how must I apply, to try This hookiest-beaked of owls ? IX. Well, I suppose God knows I don't. Time's crimes mark dark men's types, in stripes Broad as fen's lands men's hands were wont Leave grieve unploughed, though proud and loud With birds' words No! he won't! A Parody Anthology x. One never should think good impossible. Eh ? say I 'd hide this Jew's oil's cruse His shop might hold bright gold, engrossible By spy spring's air takes there no care To wave the heath-flower's glossy bell ! XI. But gold bells chime in time there, coined Gold ! Old Sphinx winks there c Read my screed ! ' Doctrine Jews learn, use, burn for, joined (Through new craft's stealth) with health and wealth At once all three purloined ! XII. I rose with dawn, to pawn, no doubt, (Miss this chance, glance untried aside ?) John's shirt, my no ! Ay, so the lout ! Let yet the door gape, store on floor And not a soul about ? XIII. Such men lay traps, perhaps and I 'm Weak meek mild child of woe, you know ! But theft, I doubt, my lout calls crime. Shrink? Think! Love's dawn in pawn you spawn Of Jewry ! Just in time ! Algernon Charles Swinburne \ 2,8 ] A Parody Anthology AFTER WHITMAN AN AMERICAN, ONE OF THE ROUGHS, A KOSMOS NATURE, continuous Me ! Saltness, and vigorous, never torpi-yeast of Me! Florid, unceasing, forever expansive; Not Schooled, not dizened, not washed and powd- ered ; Strait-laced not at all ; far otherwise than polite ; Not modest, nor immodest ; Divinely tanned and freckled; gloriously unkempt; Ultimate yet unceasing ; capricious though deter- mined ; Speak as thou listeth, and tell the askers that which they seek to know. Thy speech to them will be not quite intelligible. Never mind ! utter thy wild commonplaces ; Yawp them loudly, shrilly ; Silence with shrill noise the lisps of the foo-foos. Answer in precise terms of barbaric vagueness The question that the Fun editor hath sparked through Atlantic cable To W . . T W. . TM . . N, the speaker of the pass-word primeval ; A Parody Anthology The signaller of the signal of democracy ; The seer and hearer of things in general ; The poet translucent ; fleshy, disorderly, sensually inclined ; Each tag and part of whom is a miracle. (Thirteen pages of MS. relating to Mr. W. . t W. . tm . n are here omitted.) Rhapsodically state the fact that is and is not ; That is not, being past ; that is, being eternal ; If indeed it ever was, which is exactly the point in question. Anonymous. CAMERADOS EVERYWHERE, everywhere, following me ; Taking me by the buttonhole, pulling off my boots, hustling me with the elbows ; Sitting down with me to clams and the chowder- kettle ; Plunging naked at my side into the sleek, irascible surges ; Soothing me with the strain that I neither permit nor prohibit ; Flocking this way and that, reverent, eager, orotund, irrepressible ; Denser than sycamore leaves when the north-winds are scouring Paumanok ; What can I do to restrain them ? Nothing, vci ily nothing. Everywhere, everywhere, crying aloud for me ; [ 220] A Parody Anthology Crying, I hear; and I satisfy them out of my nature; And he that comes at the end of the feast shall find something over. Whatever they want I give ; though it be some- thing else, they shall have it. Drunkard, leper, Tammanyite, small-pox and cholera patient, shoddy and codfish million- natre, And the beautiful young men, and the beautiful young women, all the same, Crowding, hundreds of thousands, cosmical multi- tudes, Buss me and hang on my hips and lean up to my shoulders, Everywhere listening to my yawp and glad when- ever they hear it ; Everywhere saying, say it, Walt, we believe it : Everywhere, everywhere. Bayard Taylor. IMITATION OF WALT WHITMAN WHO am I ? I have been reading Walt Whitman, and know. not whether he be me, or me he ; Or otherwise! Oh, blue skies ! oh, rugged mountains ! oh, mighty, rolling Niagara ! Oh, chaos and everlasting bosh.! I am a poet; I swear it ! If you do not believe it you are a dolt, a fool, an idiot ! A Parody Anthology Milton, Shakespere, Dante, Tommy Moore, Pope, never, but Byron, too, perhaps, and last, not least, Me, and the Poet Close. We send our resonance echoing down the adaman- tine canons of the future ! We live forever ! The worms who criticise us (asses !) laugh, scoff, jeer, and babble die! Serve them right. What is the difference between Judy, the pride of Fleet Street, the glory of Shoe Lane, and Walt Whitman ? Start not ! 'T is no end of a minstrel show who perpends this query ; 'T is no brain-racking puzzle from an inner page of the Family Herald, No charade, acrostic (double or single), conun- drum, riddle, rebus, anagram, or other guess- work. . I answer thus : We both write truths great, stern, solemn, unquenchable truths couched in more or less ridiculous language. I, as a rule use rhyme, he does not ; therefore, I am his Superior (which is also a lake in his great and glorious country). I scorn, with the unutterable scorn of the despiser of pettiness, to take a mean advantage of him. He writes, he sells, he is read (more or less); why then should I rack my brains and my rhym- ing dictionary ? I will see the public hanged first! [222] A Parody Anthology I sing of America, of the United States, of the stars and stripes of Oskhosh, of Kalamazoo, and of Salt Lake City. I sing of the railroad cars, of the hotels, of the breakfasts, the lunches, the dinners, and the suppers ; Of the soup, the fish, the entrees, the joints, the game, the puddings and the ice-cream. I sing all I eat all I sing in turn of Dr. Bluffem's Antibilious Pills. No subject is too small, too insignificant, for Nature's poet. I sing of the cocktail, a new song for every cock- tail, hundreds of songs, hundreds of cock- tails. It is a great and a glorious land ! The Mississippi, the Missouri, and a million other torrents roll their waters to the ocean. It is a great and glorious land ! The Alleghanies, the Catskills, the Rockies (see atlas for other mountain ranges too numerous to mention) pierce the clouds ! And the greatest and most glorious product of this great and glorious land is Walt Whitman; This must be so, for he says it himself. There is but one greater than he between the ris- ing and the setting sun. There is but one before whom he meekly bows hi humbled head. Oh, great and glorious land, teeming producer of all things, creator of Niagara, and inventor of Walt Whitman, r s] A Parody Anthology Erase your national advertisements of liver pads and cures for rheumatism from your public monuments, and inscribe thereon in letters of gold the name Judy. IMITATION OF WALT WHITMAN r I ^HE clear cool note of the cuckoo which has ousted the legitimate nest-holder, The whistle of the railway guard despatching the train to the inevitable collision, The maiden's monosyllabic reply to a polysyllabic proposal, The fundamental note of the last trump, which is presumably D natural ; All of these are sounds to rejoice in, yea to let your ribs re-echo with. But better than all of them is the absolutely last chord of the apparently inexhaustible piano- forte player. J. K. Stephen. THE POET AND THE WOODLOUSE S AID a poet to a woodlouse, " Thou art cer- tainly my brother; I discern in thee the markings of the fingers of the Whole , [ 22 4 J A Parody Anthology And I recognize, in spite of all the terrene- smut and smother, In the colors shaded off thee, the suggestions of a soul. " Yea," the poet said, u I smell thee by some. pas- sive divination, I am satisfied with insight of the measure of thine house ; What had happened I conjecture, in a blank and rhythmic passion, Had the aeons thought of making thee a man and me a louse. u The broad lives of upper planets, their absorp- tion and digestion, Food and famine, health and sickness, I can scrutinize and test, Through a shiver of the senses comes a reso- nance of question, And by proof of balanced answer I decide that I am best. " Man the fleshly marvel always feels a certain kind of awe stick To the skirts of contemplation, cramped with nympholeptic weight ; Feels his faint sense charred and branded by the touch of solar caustic, On the forehead of his spirit feels the footprint of a Fate." [15] r 22 5 ] A Parody Anthology " Notwithstanding which, O poet," spake the woodlouse, very blandly, " I am likewise the created, I the equipoise of thee; I the particle, the atom, I behold on either hand lie The inane of measured ages that were embryos of me, "I am fed with intimations, I am clothed with consequences, And the air I breathe is colored with apoca- lyptic blush ; Ripest-budded odors blossom out of dim chaotic stenches, And the Soul plants spirit-lilies in sick leagues of human slush. U I am thrilled half cosmically through by crypto- phantic surgings, Till the rhythmic hills roar silent through a spongious kind of blee ; And earth's soul yawns disembowelled of her pan- creatic organs, Like a madrepore if mesmerized, in rapt cata- lepsy. "And I sacrifice, a Levite; and I palpitate, a poet; Can I close dead ears against the rush and reso- nance of things ? 1 226] A Parody Anthology Symbols in me breathe and flicker up the heights of her heroic ; Earth's worst spawn, you said, and cursed me ? Look ! approve me ! I have wings. " Ah, men's poets ! men's conventions crust you round and swathe you mist-like, And the world's wheels grind your spirits down the dust ye overtrod ; We stand sinlessly stark-naked in effulgence of the Christlight, And our polecat chokes not cherubs ; and our skunk smells sweet to God. " For he grasps the pale Created by some thousand vital handles, Till a Godshine, bluely winnowed through the sieve of thunder-storms, Shimmers up the non-existence round the churning feet of angels ; And the atoms of that glory may be seraphs, being worms. u Friends, your nature underlies us and your pulses overplay us ; Ye, with social sores unbandaged, can ye sing right and steer wrong ? For the transient cosmic, rooted in imperishable chaos, Must be kneaded into drastics as material for a song. [ "7 1 A Parody Anthology " Eyes once purged from homebred vapors through humanitarian passion See that monochrome a despot through a demo- cratic prism ; Hands that rip the soul up, reeking from divine evisceration, Not with priestlike oil anoint him, but a stronger-smelling chrism. " Pass, O poet, retransfigured ! God, the psycho- metric rhapsode, Fills with fiery rhythms the silence, stings the dark with stars that blink ; A.11 eternities hang round him like an old man's clothes collapsed, While he makes his mundane music AND HE WILL NOT STOP, I THINK." Algernon Charles Swinburne | 226 J A Parody Anthology AFTER CHARLES KINGSLEY THREE LITTLE FISHERS r I ^HREE little fishers trudged over the hill, Over the hill in the sun's broad glare, With rods and crooked pins, to the brook by the mill, While three fond mothers sought them every- where. For boys will go fishing, though mothers deny. Watching their chance they sneak ofF on the sly To come safely back in the gloaming. Three mothers waited outside the gate. Three little fishers, tired, sunburnt, and worn, Came into sight as the evening grew late, Their chubby feet bleeding, their clothing all torn, For u boys will be boys" have a keen eye for fun, While mothers fret, fume, scold, and succumb, And welcome them home in the gloaming. Three little fishers were called to explain Each stood condemned, with his thumb in his eye, They promised never to do so again, And were hung up in the pantry to dry. Three mothers heaved great sighs of relief, An end had been put to their magnified grief, When the boys came home in the gloaming. Frank H. Staufer. [ 229 ] A Parody Anthology THE THREE POETS r I "NHREE poets went sailing down Boston Bay, All into the East as the sun went down. Each felt that the editors loved him best, And would welcome spring poetry in Boston town. For poets must dream, though the editors frown ; Their revel in visions will not be turned down, Though the general reader is moaning ! Three editors climbed to the loftiest tower That they could find in all Boston town. And they planned to conceal themselves, hour after hour, Till the Sun and the poets had both gone down. For spring poets must write, though the editors rage. The artistic nature must thus be engaged, Though the publishers all are groaning ! Three corpses lay out on the Back Bay sand Just after the first Spring Sun went down, And the Press sat down to a banquet grand In honor of poets no more in the town. For poets will write while the editors sleep, Though they 've little to earn and nothing to keep, And the populace all are moaning! Lilian Whiting. A Parody Anthology AFTER MRS. R. H. STODDARD THE NETTLE IF days were nights, I could their weight endure, This darkness cannot hide from me the plant I seek ; I know it by the rasping touch. The moon is wrapped in bombazine of cloud ; The capes project like crooked lobster-shears Into the bobbery of the waves ; the marsh, At ebb, has now a miserable smell. I will not be delayed nor hustled back, Though every wind should muss my outspread hair. I snatch the plant that seems my coming fate; I pass the crinkled satin of the rose, The violets, frightened out of all their wits, And other flowers, to me so commonplace, And cursed with showy mediocrity, To cull the foliage which repels and stings. Weak hands may bleed ; but mine are tough with pride, And I but smile where others sob and screech. The draggled flounces of the willow lash My neck ; I tread upon the bouncing rake, Which bangs me sorely, but I hasten on, With teeth firm-set as biting on a wire, And feet and fingers clinched in bitter pain, t *' 1 A Parody Anthology This, few would comprehend ; but, if they did, I should despise myself and merit scorn. We all are riddles which we cannot guess ; Each has his gimcracks and his thingumbobs, And mine are night and nettles, mud and mist, Since others hate them, cowardly avoid. Things are mysterious when you make them so, And the slow-pacing days are mighty queer; But Fate is at the bottom of it all, And something somehow turns up in the end. Bayard Taylor. A Parody Anthology AFTER BAYARD TAYLOR HADRAMAUT ^ I ^HE grand conglomerate hills of Araby, That stand empanoplied in utmost thought, With dazzling ramparts front the Indian sea, Down there in Hadramaut. The sunshine smashes in the doors of morn And leaves them open ; there the vibrant calm Of life magniloquent pervades forlorn The giant fronds of palm. The cockatoo upon the upas screams; The armadillo fluctuates o'er the hill ; And like a flag, incarnadined in dreams, All crimsonly I thrill ! There have iconoclasts no power to harm, So, folded grandly in translucent mist, [ let the lights stream down my jasper arm, And o'er my opal fist. An Adamite of old, primeval Earth, I see the Sphinx upon the porphyry shore, Deprived of utterance ages ere her birth, As I am, only more! A Parody Anthology Who shall ensnare me with invested gold, Or prayer symbols, backed like malachite ? Let gaunt reformers objurgate and scold, I gorge me with delight. I do not yearn for what I covet most ; I give the winds the passionate gifts I sought ; And slumber fiercely on the torrid coast, Down there in Hadramaut ! Bayard Taylor* [ 234 A Parody Anthology AFTER WILLIAM MORRIS ESTUNT THE GRIFF (Argument : Showing bow a man of England^ hearing from certain Easterlings of the glories of their land, set sail to rule it) AND so unto the End of Graves came he, Where nigh the staging, ready for the sea, Oarless and sailless lay the galley's bulk, Albeit smoke did issue from the hulk And fell away, across the marshes dun, Into the visage of the wan-white sun. And seaward ran the river, cold and gray, Bearing the brown-sailed Eastland boats away 'Twixt the low shore and shallow sandy spit. Yet he, being sad, took little heed of it, But straightly fled toward the misty beach, And hailed in choked and swiftly spoken speech A shallop, that for men's conveyance lay Hard by the margin of that watery way. Then many that were in like evil plight Sad folk, with drawn, dumb lips and faces white, . That writhed themselves into a hopeless smile Crowded the shallop, making feint the while Of merriment and pleasure at that tide, Though oft upon the laughers' lips there died A Parody Anthology The jest, and in its place there came a sigh, So that men gat but little good thereby, And, shivering, clad themselves about with furs. Strange faces of the swarthy outlanders Looked down upon the shallop as she threw The sullen waters backward from her screw And, running forward for some little space, Stayed featly at the galley's mounting-place, Where slowly these sad-faced landsmen went Crabwise and evil-mouthed with discontent, Holding to sodden rope and rusty chain And bulwark that was wetted with the rain : For 'neath their feet the black bows rose and fell, Nor might a man walk steadfastly or well Who had not hand upon a rail or rope ; And Estunt turned him landward, and wan hope Grew on his spirit as an evil mist, Thinking of loving lips his lips had kissed An hour since, and how those lips were sweet An hour since, far off in Fenchurch Street. Then, with a deep-drawn breath most like a sigh, He watched the empty shallop shoreward hie; Then turned him round the driving rain to face, And saw men heave the anchor from its place ; Whereat, when by the river-mouth, the ship Began, amid the waters' strife to dip, His soul was heaved between his jaws that day, And to the East the good ship took her way. Rudyard Kipling. A Parody Anthology AFTER ALFRED AUSTIN I AN ODE SING a song of sixpence, and of rye . A pocketful recalling, sad to state, The niggardly emoluments which I Receive as Laureate ! Also I sing of blackbirds in the mart At four-a-penny. Thus, in other words, The sixpence which I mentioned at the start Purchased two dozen birds. So four-and-twenty birds were deftly hid Or shall we say, were skilfully concealed ? Within the pie-dish. When they raised the lid, What melody forth pealed ! Now I like four-and-twenty blackbirds sing, With all their sweetness, all their rapture keen ; And is n't this a pretty little thing To set before the Queen? The money-counting monarch sordid man! His wife, who robbed the little busy bees, I disregard. In fact a poet can But pity folks like these. [ '37.] A Parody Anthology The maid was in the garden. Happy maid ! Her choice entitles her to rank above Master and Mistress. Gladly she surveyed The Garden That I Love ! Where grow my daffodils, anemones, Tulips, auriculas, chrysanthemums, Cabbages, asparagus, sweet peas, With apples, pears, and plums (That 's a parenthesis. The very name Of garden really carries one astray !) But suddenly a feathered ruffian came, And stole her nose away. Eight stanzas finished ! So my Court costume I lay aside: the Laureate, I suppose, Has done his part ; the man may now resume His journalistic prose. Anthony C. Deane. [ '3.8 ] A Parody Anthology AFTER W. S. GILBERT ODE TO A LONDON FOG ROLL on, thick haze, roll on! Through each familiar way Roll on ! What though I must go out to-day ? What though my lungs are rather queer ? What though asthmatic ills I fear ? What though my wheeziness is clear? Never you mind ! Roll on ! Roll on, thick haze, roll on ! Through street and square and lane Roll on ! It's true I cough and cough again; It's true I gasp and puff and blow; It 's true my trip may lay me low But that's not your affair, youjcnow. Never you mind ! Roll on ! Anonymous A Parody Anthology PRESIDENT GARFIELD WHEN he was a lad he served a term On a big canal with a boatman's firm ; With a heart so free and a will so strong, On the towpath drove two mules along. And he drove those mules so carefullee He 's a candidate now for the Presidencee. As a driver boy he made such a mark He came to the deck of the inland barque ' And all of the perils to boat and crew. He stood at the helm and guided thro'. He stood at the helm so manfullee He 's a candidate now for the Presidencee. He did so well with the helm and mules, They made him a teacher of district schools; And when from college in a bran new suit, A Greek Professor at the Institute, Where Greek and Latin he taught so free He 's a candidate now for the Presidencee. Now boys who cherish ambitious schemes, Though now you may be but drivers of teams, Look well to the work you may chance to do, And do it with a hand that is kind and true. Whatever you do, do it faithfullee, And you may aspire to the Presidencee. Anonymou** \. 2 4 ] A Parody Anthology PROPINQUITY NEEDED /^ELESTINE Silvousplait Justine de Mouton I Rosalie, ^^^ A coryphee who lived and danced in naughty, gay Paree, Was every bit as pretty as a French girl e'er can be (Which is n't saying much). Maurice Boulanger (there 's a name that would adorn a king), But Morris Baker was the name they called the man I sing. He lived in New York City in the Street that 's labeled Spring (Chosen because it rhymed). Now Baker was a lonesome youth and wanted to be wed, And for a wife, all over town he hunted, it is said ; And up and down Fifth Avenue he ofttimes wandered (He was a peripatetic Baker, he was). And had he met Celestine, not a doubt but-Cupid's darts Would in a trice have wounded both of their fond, loving hearts ; But he has never left New York to stray in foreign parts (Because he has n't the price). [16] [ 241 1 A Parody Anthology And she has r\ver left Paree and so, of course, you see There 's not the slightest chance at all she '11 marry Morris B. For love to get well started, really needs propinquity (Hence my title). Charles Eattell Loomi:. 242 A Parody Anthology AFTER R. H. STODDARD THE CANTELOPE SIDE by side in the crowded streets, Amid its ebb and flow, We walked together one autumn morn ; ('T was many years ago !) The markets blushed with fruits and flowers \ (Both Memory and Hope ! ) You stopped and. bought me at the stall, A spicy cantelope. We drained together its honeyed wine, We cast the seeds away ; I slipped and fell on the moony rinds, And you took me home on a dray ! The honeyed wine of your love is drained ; I limp from the fall I had ; The snow-flakes muffle the empty stall, And everything is sad. The sky is an inkstand, upside down, It splashes the world with gloom ; The earth is full of skeleton bones, And the sea is a wobbling tomb ! Bayard Taylor. t'43] A Parody Anthology AFTER A. A. PROCTOR THE LOST VOICE SEATED at Church in the winter I was frozen in every limb ; And the village choir shrieked wildly Over a noisy hymn. I do not know what they were singing, For while I was watching them Our Curate began his sermon With the sound of a slight " Ahem ! " It frightened the female portion, Like the storm which succeeds a calm, Both maidens and matrons heard it With a touch of inane alarm. It told them of pain and sorrow, Cold, cough, and neuralgic strife, Bronchitis, and influenza All aimed at our Curate's life. It linked all perplex'd diseases Into one precious frame; They trembled with rage if a sceptic Attempted to ask its name. [ 2 44 ] A Parody Anthology They have wrapped him in mustard plasters, Stuffed him with food and wine, They have fondled, caressed, and nursed him, With sympathy divine. It may be that other Curates Will preach in that Church to them, Will there be every time, Good Heavens ! Such a fuss for a slight Ahem ! A. H. ] A Parody Anthology VI Walt Whitman might have written all around it) You over there, young man with the guide-book, red-bound, covered flexibly with red linen, Come here, I want to talk with you ; I, Walt, the Manhattanese, citizen of these States, call you. Yes, and the courier, too, smirking, smug-mouthed, with oil'd hair; a garlicky look about him generally ; him, too, I take in, just as I would a coyote or a king, or a toad-stool, or a ham-sandwich, or anything, or anybody else in the world. Where are you going ? You want to see Paris, to eat truffles, to have a good time; in Vienna, London, Florence, Monaco, to have a good time ; you want to see Venice. Come with me. I will give you a good time ; I will give you all the Venice you want, and most of the Paris. I, Walt, I call to. you. I am all on deck ! Come and loafe with me ! Let me tote you around by your elbow and show you things. You listen to my ophicleide ! Home ! [34- ] A Parody Anthology Home, I celebrate. I elevate my fog-whistle, in- spir'd by the thought of home. Come in! take a front seat; the jostle of the crowd not minding ; there is room enough for all of you. This is my exhibition it is the greatest show on earth there is no charge for admission. All you have to pay me is to take in my romanza. II 1. The brown-stone house; the father coming home worried from a bad day's business; the wife meets him in the marble pav'd vesti- bule ; she throws her arms about him ; she presses him close to her ; she looks him full in the face with affectionate eyes ; the frown from his brow disappearing. Darling, she says, Johnny has fallen down and cut his head; the cook is going away, and the boiler leaks. 2. The mechanic's dark little third-story room, seen in a flash from the Elevated Railway train; the sewing-machine in a corner; the small cook-stove; the whole family eating cabbage around a kerosene lamp ; of the clatter and roar and groaning wail of the Elevated train unconscious ; of the smell of the cabbage unconscious. Me, passant, in the train, of the cabbage not quite so unconscious. 3. The French Flat; the small rooms, all right- [34*] A Parody Anthology angles, unindividual ; the narrow halls ; the gaudy, cheap decorations everywhere. The janitor and the cook exchanging compliments up and down the elevator-shaft ; the refusal to send up more coal, the solid splash of the water upon his head, the language he sends up the shaft, the triumphant laughter of the cook, to her kitchen retiring. 4. The widow's small house in the suburbs of the city ; the widow's boy coming home from his first day down town ; he is flushed with happiness and pride ; he is no longer a school-boy, he is earning money ; he takes on the airs of a man and talks learnedly of business. 5. The room in the third-class boarding-house ; the mean little hard-coal fire, the slovenly Irish servant-girl making it, the ashes on 'the hearth, the faded furniture, the private pro- vender hid away in the closet, the dreary back- yard out the window ; the young girl at the glass, with her mouth full of hairpins, doing up her hair to go downstairs and flirt with the young fellows in the parlor. 6. The kitchen of the old farm-house ; the young convict just returned from prison it was his first offense, and the judges were lenient on him. He is taking his first meal out of prison ; he has been received back, kiss'd, encourag'd to start again ; his lungs, hisston Nursery Rhymes . . Rev. Joseph Cook . 32 Burial of the Bachelor, The 88 By the Sea . . . . . . Bayard Taylor . . 203 [ 375 ] A Parody Anthology CAMERADOS Bayard Taylor . . 220 Cannibal Flea, The . . . Tom Hood, Jr. . . 145 Cantelope, The Bayard Taylor . . 243 Christmas Wail, A . . . 252 Cimabuella Bayard Taylor . . 255 Cock and the Bull, The . . Charles S. Calets at a House-Party . . Carolyn Wells . . 363 Poets at Tea, The .... Barry Pain . . . 359 "*oker 1 8 'ortrait, A John Keats ... 15 'ooter Girl, The .... Carolyn Wells . . 257 'resident Garfield 21; \pinquity Needed . . . Charles B. Loomis . 241 ilm of Life, A .... Pbcebe Cary . . . 127 QUAERITUR Rudyard Kipling . . 277 Quite the Cheese . . . , H. C. Waring . . 302 [ 379 ] A Parody Anthology RECOGNITION, THE . . . William Sawyer . . 180 Rejected " National Hymns," The Robert H. Newell . 352 'Remember . ,, >-.. . . Judy 263 Rigid Body Sings .... J.C.Maxwell . . 48 Rout of Belgravia, The . . Jon Duan .... 84 SAMUEL BROWN .... Phabe Gary . . . 142 Sarah's Halls Judy 80 Self-Evident . . . . . . J. R. Planch'e . . 104 Shrimp-Gatherers, The . . Bayard Taylor . . 261 Sir Eggnogg Bayard Taylor . . 175 Some Day F. P. Doveton . . 329 Song Oliver Herford . . 27 Song James Whitcomb Riley 22 Song of a Heart, A . . . Oliver Herford . . 33 Song of Renunciation, A . . Owen Seaman . . 279 Song of the Sheet 98 " Songs Without Words" . Robert J. Bur dette . 327 Staccato to O Le Lupe, A . Bliss Carman . . 200 Striking Charles S. Calmer ley 64 TALE OF LORD LOVELL, THE 326 Tea, The Tom Hood, Jr. . . 82 " The Day is Done " . . . Phoebe Gary . . . 126 Theme with Variations, A . Barry Pain . . . 356 " There's a Bower of Bean- Vines" Phxbe Gary ... 78 Three Blessings 41 Three Little Fishers , . . . Frank H. Stauffer . 229 Three Mice, The .... Anthony C. Deane . 304 Three Poets, The . . . . Lilian Whiting . . 230 Thyroid Gland, The . . . R. M. 93 Timbuctoo. Part I. . . . W. M. Thackeray . 183 To an Importunate Host 158 To Julia Under Lock and Key Owen Seaman . . 27 Toothache 19 Topside Galah! 122 [ 380] Index of Titles To the Stall-Holders at a Fancy Fair W. S. Gilbert . . 21 Turtle Soup Lewis Carroll . . 329 * T was Ever Thus .... Henry S. Leigh . . 8 1 'Twas Ever Thus 77 UP THE SPOUT A. C. Swinburne. . 215 VILLAGE CHOIR, THE . 159 Voice of the Lobster, The . Lewis Carroll . . 42 Vulture and the Husbandman, The . . . . . . . A. C Hilton ... 265 WAGGAWOCKY Shirley Brooks . . 264 What Troubled Poe's Raven . John Bennett . . . 139 When Lovely Woman . . . Phoebe Gary ... 44 Whist-Player's Soliloquy, The Carolyn Wells . . 23 Willow-Tree, The . . . . W. M. Thackeray . 188 YE CLERKE OF YE WETHERE 14 Young Lochinvar 58 Yule-Tide Parody, A 103 [38' ] INDEX OF AUTHORS INDEX OF AUTHORS ALLEN, PHILIP F. The Horse and His Master 136 AYTOUN, WILLIAM The Laureate's Tourney 105 The Biter Bit 161 The Laureate ... 163 The Lay of the Lovelorn 165 BACON, JOSEPHINE DASKAM An Omar for Ladies 5 BARHAM, R. HARRIS Not a Sou Had He Got 89 BEDE, CUTHBERT In Immemoriam 174 BENNETT, JOHN What Troubled Poe's Raven 9 139 BOYNTON, H. W. The Golfer's Rubaiyat 3 BROOKS, SHIRLEY A Dreary Song 20 Waggawocky . . . . * 264 BUNNER, HENRY CUYLER Imitation 96 Behold the Deeds ! . . . . '-,*.. : .- . i 3 1 9 Home Sweet Home with Variations . . . . 334 BURDETTE, ROBERT J. " Songs Without Words " 327 CABLE, GEORGE WASHINGTON The New Arrival ^72 CALVERLEY, CHARLES S. Striking 64 1 25 j [ 385 i A Parody Anthology CALVERLEY, CHARLES S. Continued Disaster 79 In the Gloaming 116 Of Friendship 185 Of Reading . . 186 The Cock and the Bull 195 Ballad 253 Lovers, and a Reflection 259 CANNING, GEORGE The Elderly Gentleman 328 CARMAN, BLISS A Staccato to O Le Lupe ....... 200 CARROLL, LEWIS The Voice of the Lobster 42 The Crocodile .' A , x . * 43 Father William 67 The Bat . .' 82 The Lobster Quadrille 114 Atalanta in Camden-Town 270 The Manlet 272 Turtle Soup 329 CARRYL, GUY WETMORE A Ballad :-* . > . . . 307 GARY, PHCEBE When Lovely Woman 44 Jacob 51 John Thompson's Daughter 73 " There "s a Bower of Bean-Vines " .... 78 The Marriage of Sir John Smith . 91 I Remember, I Remember . -. . . . . . 101 " The Day is Done " 126 A Psalm of Life . . . 127 Samuel Brown 142 CAVAZZA, ELIZABETH Modern Versification on Ancient Themes . . 346 COLERIDGE, SAMUEL TAYLOR The House That Jack Built . . . . * 31 [ 386] Index of Authors MASTERSON, KATE The Modern Rubaiyat .... j ... 7 MAXWELL, J. C. Rigid Body Sings 48 MAYHEW, HORACE Cockney Enigma on the Letter H 49 MINOR, TENNYSON The Bather's Dirge . 155 MOORE, AUGUSTUS M. A Ballade of Ballade-Mongers 322 NEWELL, ROBERT HENRY The Rejected " National Hymns" . . . . 352 PAIN, BARRY A Theme with Variations 356 The Poets at Tea 359 PARKE, WALTER Foam and Fangs 278 PLANCH^, J. R. Self-Evident . 104 POPE, A. The Domicile of John 34 PUNCH The Aesthete to the Rose 40 The Birds and the Pheasant 131 The Goblin Goose 150 A Laureate's Log ......... 178 A Maudle-in Ballad 300 QUILLER-COUCH, A. T. Lady Jane 69 De Tea Fabula 28; RILEY, JAMES WHITCOMB Song 22 SAWYER, WILLIAM The Recognition . . 180 [ 389] A Parody Anthology SEAMAN, OWEN Lines Written ( By Request") for a Dinner of the Omar Khayyam Club 10 To Julia Under Lock and Key 27 At the Sign of the Cock 248 A Song of Renunciation 279 SHERMAN, FRANK DEMPSTER Mary and the Lamb 37 STAUFFER, FRANK H. Three Little Fishers 229 STEPHEN, J. K. A Grievance 85 Imitation of Robert Browning 210 The Last Ride Together 212 Imitation of Walt Whitman 224 SWIFT, DEAN A Love Song 331 SWINBURNE, ALGERNON CHARLES The Higher Pantheism in a Nutshell . . . . 180 Up the Spout 215 The Poet and the Woodlouse 224 Nephelidia 282 TAYLOR, BAYARD Ode on a Jar of Pickles 94 Gwendoline 118 Hiram Hover 133 The Promissory Note 143 Sir Eggnogg i 75 By the Sea 201 Angelo Orders His Dinner 205 Camerados 22c The Nettle 231 Hadramaut 233 The Cantelope 243 Cimabuella 255 The Shrimp-Gatherers . . 261 The Lay of Macaroni 284 [ 39 j Index of Authors THACKERAY, W. M. Timbuctoo. Part 1 183 The Willow-Tree . . . . 188 Old Fashioned Fun 333 VAIL, CLARA WARREN Bed During Exams 29 WARING, H. C. Quite the Cheese . 3~ WEBB, C. H. The Lost Word *4* WELLS, CAROLYN The Baby's Omar 12 The Whist-Player's Soliloquy 23 Oyster-Crabs 41 The Poster Girl 257 The Poets at a House-Party 363 WHITING, LILIAN The Three Poets . 23 WlLDGOOSE, OSCURA . More Impressions 299 WILKIE, A. C. An Old Song by New Singers . , , . . .368 1 391 1 INDEX OF AUTHORS PARODIED INDEX OF AUTHORS PARODIED ALDRICH, THOMAS BAILEY 355 Austin, Alfred 237 BROWNING, MRS 116 Browning, Robert . 193, 360, 368 Bryant, William Cullen 354 Bunn, Alfred .103 Burns, Robert . . . , 45, 363 Byron 84 CAMPBELL, THOMAS 72 Carroll, Lewis 264 Chaucer 14, 365 Coleridge 61 Cornwall, Barry 83 Cowper 360 Crane, Stephen . . . ... . ' V . . . > . 366 DICKENS, CHARLES 191 Dobson, Austin *9^> 339> 34^> 3^8 Dooley, Mr 367 Dryden , . . > - ;: 41 EMERSON 113, 354 FANSHAWE, CATHERINE 49 Field, Eugene 366 [395] A Parody Anthology GILBERT, W. S 239 Goldsmith, Oliver , 44, 340 HARTE, BRET . . ;, . . . . . . . 286, 337 Heine 96 Hemans, Mrs * . . Y ,~ ... 93 Henley, W. E. . 296 Herrick . ..... 27 Holmes, Dr. Oliver Wendell 353 Hood, Thomas . . .'-.-... . . . . . . 98 Horace 339 Houghton, Lord 153 Howitt, Mary 114 INGELOW, JEAN . 259 JAMES, HENRY ..-.. . 365 KEATS 94 Khayyam, Omar 3, 364 Kingsley, Charles 229 Kipling, Rudyard 305, 364 LANG, ANDREW .V 294, 369 Longfellow, Henry W 120, 352, 369 M/.CAULAY, LORD 105, 359 MacLeod, Fiona 317 Meredith, George 248 Moore, Thomas ' ;"* . 76 Morris, William 235 NORTON, MRS. ..*.*_...... 136 Nursery Rhymes . . * . 29 OMAR KHAYYAM 3, 364 PHILLIPS, STEPHEN 315 Po- , Edgar Allan 139, 362 [ 396 ] Index of Authors Parodied Pope, Alexander 340 Popular Songs 324 Procter, A. A 244 ROSSETTI, CHRISTINA 263 Rossetti, D. G * 252, 362 SCOTT, SIR WALTER 58, 358 Shakespeare 17 Southey, Robert 66 Spenser, Edmund * 5 3 5 6 Stevenson, R. L. . . 298 Stoddard, Mrs. R. H 231 Stoddard, R. H 243 Swift, Dr. Jonathan . 357 Swinburne, Algernon C. . 268, 335, 349, 360, 366, 370 TAYLOR, BAYARD 233 Taylor, Jane 82 Tennyson ,* I55> 359 Thackeray 188 Tupper * #*"SR l8 5 VERS DE SOCIE'TE' . . 319 WALLER 4 Watson, William . , 304 Watts, Doctor 4 2 Whitman 219, 341, 349, 363, 364 Whittier 133, 353 Wilde, Oscar 299 Willis, N. P 355 Wither 25 Wolfe, Charles 88 Wordsworth . . 51, 361 YEATS, W. B 3'7 [ 397 ] FOURTEEN DAY USE RETURN TO DESK FROM WHICH BORROWED This book is due on the last date stamped below, or on the date to which renewed. Renewed books are subject to immediate recall. cn ALL Ren Boo and Recha be Rene 10 a - 8 ?? f 1 P O" i o. o -5 r Q. * 0> s? IT1 rn ^ m o Cn NJ Q r- U.C. BERKELEY LIBRARIES 918