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 ! 
 
 <c Man-man," one galo talkee he, 
 " What for you go topside look see ? " 
 " Nother teem," he makee plenty cly, 
 Maskee, alia teem walkee plenty high 
 Topside Galah ! 
 
 u Take care that spilum tlee, young man ; 
 Take care that icee ! " he no man-man 
 That coolie chin-chin he good-night ; 
 He talkee " mi can go all light " 
 Topside Galah ! 
 
 Joss pidgin man chop-chop begin, 
 Morning teem that Joss chin-chin, 
 No see any man, he plenty fear, 
 Cause some man talkee, he can hear 
 Topside Galah ! 
 
 [ "3 ] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 oung man makee die ; one largee dog see 
 Too muchee bobbery, findee he. 
 Hand too muchee colo, inside can stop 
 Alia same piecee flag, got culio chop 
 Topside Galah ! 
 
 Anonymous 
 
 EXCELSIOR 
 
 r I "VHE swampy State of Illinois 
 
 Contained a greenish sort of boy, 
 Who read with idiotic joy 
 
 "Excelsior!" 
 
 He tarried not to eat or drink, 
 But put a flag of lightish pink, 
 And traced on it in violet ink 
 Excelsior ! 
 
 Though what he meant by that absurd, 
 Uncouth, and stupid, senseless word, 
 Has not been placed upon record 
 Excelsior ! 
 
 The characters were very plain, 
 In German text, yet he was fain 
 With greater clearness to explain 
 Excelsior ! 
 
 And so he ran, this stupid wight, 
 And hollered out with all his might, 
 (As to a person out of sight) 
 
 " Excelsior ! JI 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 And everybody thought the lad 
 Within an ace of being mad, 
 Who cried in accents stern and sad 
 " Excelsior ! " 
 
 u Come to my arms," the maiden cried ; 
 The youth grinned sheepishly, and sighed, 
 And then appropriately replied 
 
 " Excelsior ! " 
 
 The evening sun is in the sky, 
 
 But still the creature mounts on high 
 
 And shouts (nor gives a reason why) 
 
 " Excelsior ! " 
 
 And ere he gains the topmost crag 
 His feeble legs begin to lag; 
 Unsteadily he holds the flag 
 
 Excelsior ! 
 
 Now P. C. Nab is on his track ! 
 He puts him in an empty sack, 
 And brings him home upon his back 
 Excelsior ! 
 
 Nab takes him to a lumber store, 
 They toss him in and lock the door, 
 Which only makes him bawl the more 
 " Excelsior ! " 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 "THE DAY IS DONE" 
 
 THE day is done, and darkness 
 From the wirig of night is loosed, 
 As a feather is wafted downward, 
 From a chicken going to roost. 
 
 I see the lights of the baker, 
 
 Gleam through the rain and mist, 
 
 And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me, 
 That I cannot well resist. 
 
 A feeling of sadness and longing 
 
 That is not like being sick, 
 And resembles sorrow only 
 
 As a brickbat resembles a brick. 
 
 Come, get for me some supper, * 
 
 A good and regular meal 
 That shall soothe this restless feeling, 
 
 And banish the pain I feel. 
 
 Not from the pastry bakers, 
 Not from the shops for cake ; 
 
 I would n't give a farthing 
 For all that they can make. 
 
 For, like the soup at dinner, 
 Such things would but suggest 
 
 Some dishes more substantial, 
 And to-night I want the best. 
 
A Parody Antholjgy 
 
 Go to some honest butcher, 
 
 Whose beef is fresh and nice, 
 As any they have in the city, 
 
 And get a liberal slice. 
 
 Such things through days of labor, 
 
 And nights devoid of ease, 
 For sad and desperate feelings, 
 
 Are wonderful remedies. 
 
 They have an astonishing power 
 
 To aid and reinforce, 
 And come like the " finally, brethren," 
 
 That follows a long discourse. 
 
 Then get me a tender sirloin 
 
 From off the bench or hook. 
 And lend to its sterling goodness 
 
 The science of the cook. 
 
 And the night shall be filled with comfort, 
 And the cares with which it begun 
 
 Shall fold up their blankets like Indians, 
 And silently cut and run. 
 
 Phoebe Gary. 
 
 A PSALM OF LIFE 
 
 TELL me not, in idle jingle, 
 Marriage is an empty dream, 
 For the girl is dead that 's single, 
 And things are not what they seem. 
 [ "7 ] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 Married life is real, earnest, 
 
 Single blessedness a fib, 
 Taken from man, to man returnest, 
 
 Has been spoken of the rib. 
 
 Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 
 Is our destined end or way ; 
 
 But to act, that each to-morrow 
 Nearer brings the wedding-day. 
 
 Life is long, and youth is fleeting, 
 And our hearts, if there we search, 
 
 Still like steady drums are beating 
 Anxious marches to the Church. 
 
 In the world's broad field of battle, 
 
 In the bivouac of life, 
 Be not like dumb, driven cattle; 
 
 Be a woman, be a wife ! 
 
 Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant ! 
 
 Let the dead Past bury its dead ! 
 Act act in the living Present. 
 
 Heart within, and Man ahead ! 
 
 Lives of married folks remind us 
 We can live our lives as well, 
 
 And, departing, leave behind us ; 
 Such examples as will tell ; 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 Such examples, that another, 
 
 Sailing far from Hymen's port, ^ 
 
 A forlorn, unmarried brother, 
 
 Seeing, shall take heart, and -court. 
 
 Let us then be up and doing, 
 With the heart and head begin ; 
 
 Still achieving, still pursuing, 
 Learn to labor, and to win ! 
 
 Pbcebe Gary. 
 
 HOW OFTEN 
 
 THEY stood on the bridge at midnight, 
 In a park not far from the town ; 
 They stood on the bridge at midnight, 
 Because they did n't sit down. 
 
 The moon rose o'er the city, 
 
 Behind the dark church spire ; 
 The moon rose o'er the city 
 
 And kept on rising highen 
 
 How often, oh, How often ! 
 
 They whispered words so soft ; 
 How often, oh, how often ; 
 
 How often, oh, how oft ! 
 
 Ben King 
 
 129 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 DESOLATION 
 
 OOMEWHAT back from the village street 
 ^S Stands the old fashioned country seat. 
 ^-^ Across its antique portico 
 Tall poplar trees their shadows throw. 
 And there throughout the livelong day, 
 Jemima plays the pi-a-na. 
 
 Do, re, mi, 
 
 Mi, re, do. 
 
 In the front parlor there it stands, 
 And there Jemima plies her hands, 
 While her papa, beneath his cloak, 
 Mutters and groans : " This is no joke ! " 
 And swears to himself and sighs, alas ! 
 With sorrowful voice to all who pass. 
 
 Do, re, mi, 
 
 Mi, re, do. 
 
 Through days of death and days of birth 
 She plays as if she owncH the earth. 
 Through every swift vicissitude 
 She drums as if it did her good, 
 And still she sits from morn till night 
 And plunks away with main and might 
 
 Do, re, mi, 
 
 Mi, re, do. 
 
 t'30] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 In that mansion used to be 
 Free-hearted hospitality ; 
 But that was many years before 
 Jemima dallied with the score. 
 When she began her daily plunk, 
 Into their graves the neighbors sunk. 
 
 Do, re, mi, 
 
 Mi, re, do. 
 
 To other worlds they 've long since fled, 
 All thankful that they 're safely dead. 
 They stood the racket while alive 
 Until Jemima rose at five. 
 And then they laid their burdens down, 
 And one and all they skipped the town. 
 
 Do, re, mi, 
 
 Mi, re, do. 
 
 Tom Masson. 
 
 I 
 
 THE BIRDS AND THE PHEASANT 
 
 SHOT a partridge in the air, 
 
 It fell in turnips, " Don " knew where; 
 For just as it dropped, with my right 
 I stopped another in its flight. 
 
 I killed a pheasant in the copse, 
 It fell amongst the fir-tree tops ; 
 
 For though a pheasant's flight is strong, 
 A cock, hard hit, cannot fly long. 
 
A Parody Anthoiogy 
 
 Soon, soon afterwards, in a pie, 
 I found the birds in jelly lie ; 
 And the pheasant at a fortnight's end, 
 . I found again in the carte of a friend. 
 
 Punch 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 AFTER WHITTIER 
 
 HIRAM HOVER 
 
 (A Ballad of New England life) 
 
 WHERE the Moosatockmaguntic 
 Pours its waters in the Skuntic, 
 Met, along the forest side 
 Hiram Hover, Huldah Hyde. 
 
 She, a maiden fair and dapper, 
 He, a red-haired, stalwart trapper, 
 Hunting beaver, mink, and skunk 
 In the woodlands of Squeedunk. 
 
 She, Pentucket's pensive daughter, 
 Walked beside the Skuntic water 
 Gathering, in her apron wet, 
 Snake-root, mint, and bouncing-bet 
 
 w Why," he murmured, loth to leave her, 
 u Gather yarbs for chills and fever, 
 When a lovyer bold and true, 
 Only waits to gather you ? " 
 
 c Go," she answered, " I 'm not hasty, 
 
 I prefer a man more tasty ; % 
 
 Leastways, one to please me well 
 Should not have a beasty smell." 
 
 [ '33 ] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 " Haughty Huldah ! " Hiram answered, 
 " Mind and heart alike are cancered ; 
 Jest look here ! these peltries give 
 Cash, wherefrom a pair may live. 
 
 " I, you think, am but a vagrant, 
 Trapping beasts by no means fragrant ; 
 Yet, I 'm sure it 's worth a thank 
 I 've a handsome sum in bank." 
 
 Turned and vanished Hiram Hover, 
 
 And, before the year was over, 
 Huldah, with the yarbs she sold, 
 Bought a cape, against the cold. 
 
 Black and thick the furry cape was, 
 Of a stylish cut the shape was ; 
 And the girls, in all the town, 
 Envied Huldah up and down. 
 
 Then at last, one winter morning, 
 Hiram came without a warning. 
 " Either," said he, " you are blind, 
 Huldah, or you 've changed your mindc 
 
 " Me you snub for trapping varmints, 
 Yet you take the skins for garments ; 
 Since you wear the skunk and mink, 
 There 's no harm in me, I think." 
 [ '34] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 " Well," said she, " we will not quarrel, 
 Hiram ; I accept the moral, 
 Now the fashion 's so I guess 
 I can't hardly do no less." 
 
 Thus the trouble all was over 
 Of the love of Hiram Hover. 
 
 Thus he made sweet Huldah Hyde 
 
 Huldah Hover as his bride. 
 
 Love employs, with equal favor, 
 
 Things of good and evil savor ; 
 That which first appeared to part, 
 Warmed, at last, the maiden's heart. 
 
 Under one impartial banner, 
 Life, the hunter, Love the tanner, 
 
 Draw, from every beast they snare, 
 
 Comfort for a wedded pair ! 
 
 Bayard Taylor 
 
 ( '35 .] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 AFTER MRS. NORTON 
 
 THE HORSE AND HIS MASTER 
 {A panegyric) 
 
 MY anything but beautiful, that standest 
 "knock-knee'd"by, 
 "Inverted arch" describes thy back, as 
 
 " dismal " doth thine eye. 
 Fret not go roam the commons now, limp there 
 
 for want of speed ; 
 I dare not mount on thee ( 't were pain), thou bag 
 
 of bones, indeed. 
 Fret not with that too patient hoof, puff not with 
 
 wheezy wind ; 
 The harder that thou roarest now the more we lag 
 
 behind ; 
 The stranger " had " thy master, brute, for twice 
 
 ten pounds, all told ; 
 
 I only wish he had thee back ! Too late I 'm 
 sold ! I 'm sold ! 
 
 To-morrow's sun will dawn again, but ah ! no ride 
 
 for me. 
 Can I gallop over Rotten Row astride on such as 
 
 thee ? 
 'Tis evening now, and getting dark, and blowing 
 
 up for rain ; 
 
 [ '36] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 I '11 lead thee then, with slow, slow steps, to some 
 " bait stables " plain. 
 
 (When a horse dealer cheats, with eyes of clap- 
 trap truth and tears, 
 
 A hack's form for an instant like a thoroughbred's 
 appears.) 
 
 And sitting down, I'll ponder well beside this 
 water's brink, 
 
 Here what 's thy name ? Come, Rosinante ! 
 Drink pretty ( ?) creature, drink ! 
 
 Drink on, inflate thy skin. Away ! this wretched 
 
 farce is o'er ; 
 I could not live a day and know that we must 
 
 meet once more. 
 I Ve tempted thee, in vain (though Sanger's power 
 
 be strong, 
 They could not tempt this beast to trot), oh, thou 
 
 hast lived too long ! 
 Who says that I '11 give in ? Come up ! who says 
 
 thou art not old ? 
 Thy faults were faults, poor useless steed, I fear, 
 
 when thou wert foal'd. 
 Thus, thus I whack upon thy back ; go, scour with 
 
 might and main 
 The asphalt ! Ha ! who stops thee now may have 
 
 thee for his gain. 
 
 Philip F. Allen. 
 
 [ "37 ] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 THE NEW VERSION 
 
 A SOLDIER of the Russians 
 /-\ Lay japanned at Tschrtzvkjskivitch, 
 There was lack of woman's nursing 
 
 And other comforts which 
 Might add to his last moments 
 
 And smooth the final way ; 
 But a comrade stood beside him 
 
 To hear what he might say. 
 The japanned Russian faltered 
 
 As he took that comrade's hand, 
 And he said : a I never more shall see 
 
 My own, my native land ; 
 Take a message and a token 
 
 To some distant friends of mine, 
 For I was born at Smnlxzrskgqrxzski, 
 
 Fair Smnlxzrskgqrxzski on the Irkztrvzkimnov." 
 
 W. J. Lampton. 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 AFTER POE 
 
 WHAT TROUBLED POE'S RAVEN 
 
 Poe walk again to-morrow, heavy 
 I with dyspeptic sorrow, 
 
 ^*~^ While the darkness seemed to borrow dark- 
 
 ness from the night before, 
 From the hollow gloom abysmal, floating downward, 
 
 grimly dismal, 
 Like a pagan curse baptismal from the bust above 
 
 the door, 
 He would hear the Raven croaking from the dusk 
 
 above the door, 
 
 44 Never, never, nevermore ! " 
 
 And, too angry to be civil, u Raven," Poe would 
 
 cry u or devil, 
 Tell me why you will persist in haunting Death's 
 
 Plutonian shore ? " 
 Then would croak the Raven gladly, " I will tell 
 
 you why so sadly, 
 I so mournfully and madly, haunt you, taunt you, 
 
 o'er and o'er, 
 Why eternally I haunt you, daunt you, taunt you, 
 
 o'er and o'er 
 
 Only this, and nothing more. 
 
 44 Forty-eight long years I Ve pondered, forty-eight 
 
 long years I 've wondered, 
 
 How a poet ever blundered into a mistake so sore. 
 [ '39] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 How could lamp-light from your table ever in the 
 
 world be able, 
 From below, to throw my sable shadow c streaming 
 
 on the floor/ 
 When I perched up here on Pallas, high above 
 
 your chamber-door ? 
 
 Tell me that if nothing more ! " 
 
 Then, like some wan, weeping willow, Poe would 
 bend above his pillow, 
 
 Seeking surcease in the billow where mad recollec- 
 tions drown, 
 
 And in tearful tones replying, he would groan 
 " There 's no denying 
 
 Either I was blindly lying, or the world was upside 
 down 
 
 Say, by Joe ! it was just midnight so the 
 world was upside down 
 
 Aye, the world was upside down ! " 
 
 John Bennett. 
 
 THE AMATEUR FLUTE 
 
 H 1 
 
 "EAR the fluter with his flute, 
 
 Silver flute ! 
 
 Oh, what a world of wailing is awakened by its toot ! 
 How it demi-semi quavers 
 
 On the maddened air of night ! 
 And defieth all endeavors 
 
 To escape the sound or sigh 
 Of the flute, flute, flute, 
 With its tootle, tootle, toot ; 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 With reiterated tooteling of exasperating toots, 
 The long protracted tootelings of agonizing toots 
 Of the flute, flute, flute, flute, 
 
 Flute, flute, flute, 
 
 And the wheezings and the spittings of its toots. 
 Should he get that other flute, 
 
 Golden flute, 
 
 Oh, what a deeper anguish will his presence institoot ! 
 How his eyes to heaven he'll raise, 
 As he plays, 
 All the days ! 
 
 How he '11 stop us on our ways 
 With its praise ! 
 
 And the people oh, the people, 
 That don't live up in the steeple, 
 But inhabit Christian parlors 
 Where he visiteth and plays, 
 
 Where he plays, plays, plays 
 In the cruellest of ways, 
 And thinks we ought to listen, 
 And expects us to be mute, 
 Who would rather have the earache 
 Than the music of his flute, 
 Of his flute, flute, flute, 
 And the tootings of his toot, 
 
 Of the toots wherewith he tooteleth its agonizing 
 toot, 
 
 Of the flute, flewt, fluit, floot, 
 Phlute, phlewt, phlewght, 
 And the tootle, tootle, tooting of its toot. 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 SAMUEL BROWN 
 
 IT was many and many a year ago, 
 In a dwelling down in town, 
 That a fellow there lived whom you may know, 
 By the name of Samuel Brown ; 
 And this fellow he lived with no other thought 
 Than to our house to come down. 
 
 I was a child, and he was a child, 
 
 In that dwelling down in town, 
 But we loved with a love that was more than love, 
 
 I and my Samuel Brown, 
 With a love that the ladies coveted, 
 
 Me and Samuel Brown. 
 
 And this was the reason that, long ago, 
 
 To that dwelling down in town, 
 A girl came out of her carriage, courting 
 
 My beautiful Samuel Brown ; 
 So that her high-bred kinsmen came, 
 
 And bore away Samuel Brown, 
 And shut him up in a dwelling house, 
 
 In a street quite up in the town. 
 
 The ladies not half so happy up there, 
 
 Went envying me and Brown ; 
 Yes ! that was the reason (as all men know, 
 
 In this dwelling down in town), 
 That the girl came out of the carriage by night, 
 
 Coquetting and getting my Samuel Brown. 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 But our love is more artful by far than the love 
 
 Of those who are older than we, 
 
 Of many far wiser than we, 
 And neither the girls that are living above, 
 
 Nor the girls that are down in town, 
 Can ever dissever my soul from the soul 
 
 Of the beautiful Samuel Brown. 
 
 For the morn never shines, without bringing me 
 lines, 
 
 From my beautiful Samuel Brown ; 
 And the night 's never dark, but I sit in the park 
 
 With my beautiful Samuel Brown. 
 And often by day, I walk down in Broadway, 
 With my darling, my darling, my life and my stay, 
 
 To our dwelling down in town, 
 
 To our house in the street down town. 
 
 Pbcebe Gary. 
 
 THE PROMISSORY NOTE 
 
 IN the lonesome latter years 
 (Fatal years !) 
 To the dropping of my tears 
 Danced the mad and mystic spheres 
 In a rounded, reeling rune, 
 
 'Neath the moon, 
 
 To the dripping and the dropping of my tears. 
 [ '43 ] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 Ah, my soul is swathed in gloom, 
 
 (Ulalume !) 
 
 In a dim Titanic tomb, 
 For my gaunt and gloomy soul 
 Ponders o'er the penal scroll, 
 O'er the parchment (not a rhyme), 
 Out of place, out of time, 
 I am shredded, shorn, unshifty, 
 
 (Oh, the fifty !) 
 And the days have passed, the three, 
 
 Over me ! 
 
 And the debit and the credit are as one to him 
 and me ! 
 
 'T was the random runes I wrote 
 At the bottom of the note, 
 
 (Wrote and freely 
 
 Gave to Greeley) 
 In the middle of the night, 
 In the mellow, moonless night, 
 When the stars were out of sight, 
 When my pulses, like a knell, 
 
 (Israfel!) 
 
 Danced with dim and dying fays 
 O'er the ruins of my days, 
 O'er the dimeless, timeless days, 
 When the fifty, drawn at thirty, 
 Seeming thrifty, yet the dirty 
 
 Lucre of the market, was the most that I could 
 raise ! 
 
 [ H4- ] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 Fiends controlled it, 
 (Let him hold it !) 
 
 Devils held for me the inkstand and the pen ; 
 Now the days of grace are o'er, 
 
 (Ah, Lenore !) 
 I am but as other men ; 
 What is time, time, time, 
 To my rare and runic rhyme, 
 To my random, reeling rhyme, 
 By the sands along the shore, 
 
 Where the tempest whispers, " Pay him ! " and I 
 answer, u Nevermore ! " 
 
 Bayard Taylor. 
 
 THE CANNIBAL FLEA 
 
 IT was many and many a year ago 
 In a District called E. C., 
 That a Monster dwelt whom I came to know 
 By the name of Cannibal Flea, 
 And the brute was possessed with no other thought 
 Than to live and to live on me ! 
 
 I was in bed, and he was in bed 
 
 In the District named E. C., 
 
 When first in his thirst so accurst he burst 
 
 Upon me, the Cannibal Flea, 
 
 With a bite that felt as if some one had driven 
 
 A bayonet into me. 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 And this was the reason why long ago 
 
 In that District named E. C. 
 
 I tumbled out of my bed, willing 
 
 To capture the Cannibal Flea, 
 
 Who all the night until morning came 
 
 Kept boring into me ! 
 
 It wore me down to a skeleton 
 
 In the District hight E. C. 
 
 From that hour I sought my bed eleven 
 
 Till daylight he tortured me. 
 
 Yes ! that was the reason (as all men know 
 
 In that District named E. C.) 
 
 I so often jumped out of my bed by night 
 
 Willing the killing of Cannibal Flea. 
 
 But his hops they were longer by far than the hops 
 
 Of creatures much larger than he 
 
 Of parties more long-legged than he ; 
 
 And neither the powder nor turpentine drops, 
 
 Nor the persons engaged by me, 
 
 Were so clever as ever to stop me the hop 
 
 Of the terrible Cannibal Flea. 
 
 For at night with a scream, I am waked from my 
 
 dream 
 
 By the terrible Cannibal Flea ; 
 And at morn I ne'er rise without bites of such 
 
 size ! 
 From the terrible Cannibal Flea. 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 So I 'm forced to decide I '11 no longer reside 
 
 In the District the District where he doth 
 
 abide, 
 
 The locality known as E. C. 
 That is postally known as E. C. 
 
 Tom Hood, Jr 
 
 ANNABEL LEE 
 
 *r I A WAS more than a million years ago, 
 
 Or so it seems to me, 
 That I used to prance around and beau 
 The beautiful Annabel Lee. 
 There were other girls in the neighborhood 
 But none was a patch to she. 
 
 And this was the reason that long ago, 
 
 My love fell out of a tree, 
 And busted herself on a cruel rock; 
 
 A solemn sight to see, 
 For it spoiled the hat and gown and looks 
 
 Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. 
 
 We loved with a love that was lovely love, 
 
 I and my Annabel Lee, 
 And we went one day to gather the nuts 
 
 That men call hickoree. 
 And I stayed below in the rosy glow 
 
 While she shinned up the tree, 
 But no sooner up than down kerslup 
 
 Came the beautiful Annabel Lee. 
 [ 147] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 And the pallid moon and the hectic noon 
 
 Bring gleams of dreams for me, 
 Of the desolate and desperate fate 
 
 Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. 
 And I often think as I sink on the brink 
 Of slumber's sea, of the warm pink link 
 
 That bound my soul to Annabel Lee; 
 And it was n't just best for her interest 
 
 To climb that hickory tree, 
 For had she stayed below with me, 
 
 We'd had no hickory nuts maybe, 
 But I should have had my Annabel Lee. 
 
 Stanley Hunt/ey. 
 
 THE BELLS 
 
 HEAR a voice announcing IRVING in The 
 Bells sledge's bells! 
 What a scene of wild excitement the adver- 
 tisement foretells ! 
 See the rush upon the pay-hole 
 People stand a night and day whole 
 To secure a little corner for The Bells ! 
 To look ghastly pale and shudder, every man and 
 
 " every brudder " 
 Feels that nothing can be equal to The 
 
 Bells ! 
 
 Bells! Bells! Bells! Bells! 
 Too horrified to cheer, 
 Folk will testify by fear 
 
 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 How appalled they are by IRVING in The 
 
 Bells ; 
 While great beads of perspiration will 
 
 appear, 
 For in conscience-stricken terrors he excels ! 
 
 Gloomy Bells ! 
 Pit and gallery will glory in the weird and frightful 
 
 story, 
 
 Which may even thrill the bosom of the swells, 
 For every Yankee " dude " 
 Unquestionably should 
 
 Have nightmare after witnessing The Bells ! 
 Will our cousins all go frantic from Pacific to 
 
 Atlantic, or condemn as childish antic 
 IRVING'S dancing, and his gasping, and his 
 
 yells ! 
 
 There 's a certain admiration which the strange 
 impersonation 
 
 Still compels, 
 E'en from those who can't see beauty in The 
 
 Bells 
 
 In the play that MR. LEWIS calls The Bells ! 
 
 Wondrous Bells ! 
 You first made Henry famous, so the stage 
 
 historian tells. 
 Will the scene be now repeated which in London 
 
 always greeted 
 
 His performance of Mathias in The Bells ? 
 Or will every sneering Yankee, 
 In his nasal tones, say " Thankee, 
 I guess this is just another of your mighty 
 British < sells ' " ? 
 [ H9 ] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 Let the thought for ever perish, that the actor whom 
 
 we cherish 
 
 Could fail to lick creation in The Bells ! 
 But if there are detractors 
 Of this foremost of our actors, 
 Of the gentlemanly IRVING friend of Toole's 
 "They are neither man nor woman, they are 
 neither brute nor human," 
 
 They are fools ! 
 
 Judy. 
 
 THE GOBLIN GOOSE 
 
 ONCE it happened I 'd been dining, on my 
 couch. I slept reclining, 
 And awoke with moonlight shining brightly 
 on my bedroom floor, 
 It was in the bleak December, Christmas night as 
 
 I remember, 
 But I had no dying ember, as Poe had, when near 
 
 the door, 
 
 Like a gastronomic goblin just beside my chamber 
 door 
 
 Stood a bird, and nothing more. 
 
 And I said, for I 'm no craven, " Are you Edgar's 
 
 famous raven, 
 Seeking as with him a haven were you mixed up 
 
 with Lenore ? " 
 Then the bird uprose and fluttered, and this sentence 
 
 strange he uttered, 
 
 [ 'So] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 " Hang Lenore," he mildly muttered ; " you have 
 
 seen me once before, 
 Seen me on this festive Christmas, seen me surely 
 
 once before, 
 
 I 'm the Goose - and nothing more." 
 
 Tnen he murmured, " Are you ready ? " and with 
 motion slow and steady, 
 
 Straight he leapt upon my bed ; he simply gave a 
 stifled roar ; 
 
 And I cried, " As I 'm a sinner, at a Goose-Club I 
 was winner, 
 
 'T is a memory of my dinner, which I ate at half- 
 past four, 
 
 Goose well-stuffed with sage and onions, which I 
 ate at half-past four." 
 
 Quoth he hoarsely, "Eat no more ! " 
 
 Said I, " I 've enjoyed your juices, breast and back ; 
 
 but tell me, Goose, is 
 This revenge, and what the use is of your being 
 
 such a bore ? 
 For Goose-flesh I will no more ax, if you '11 not 
 
 sit on my thorax, 
 Go try honey mixed with borax, for I hear your 
 
 throat is sore, 
 You speak gruffly, though too plainly, and I 'm 
 
 sure your throat is sore." 
 
 Quoth the nightmare, " Eat no more ! " 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 " Goose ! " I shrieked out, " leave, oh, leave me, 
 surely you don't mean to grieve me, 
 
 You are heavy, pray reprieve me, now my penance 
 must be o'er; 
 
 Though to-night you 've brought me sorrow, com- 
 fort surely comes to-morrow, 
 
 Some relief from those I 'd borrow at my doctor's 
 ample store." 
 
 Quoth the goblin, " Eat no more ! " 
 
 And that fat Goose, never flitting, like a night- 
 mare still is sitting 
 
 With me all the night emitting words that thrill my 
 bosom's core, 
 
 Now throughout the Christmas season, while I lie 
 and gasp and wheeze, on 
 
 Me he sits until my reason nothing surely can 
 restore, 
 
 While that Goose says, " Eat no more ! " 
 
 Punch. 
 
 ( '5*1 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 \ 
 AFTER LORD HOUGHTON 
 
 LOVE AND SCIENCE 
 
 (The Sphygmophon is an apparatus connected with 
 the telephone, by the help of which the movements of the 
 pulse and heart may be rendered audible) 
 
 I WANDERED by the brookside, 
 I wandered by the mill ; 
 The Sphygmophon was fixed there, 
 
 Its wires ran past the hill. 
 I heeded not the grasshopper, 
 
 Nor chirp of any bird, 
 For the beating of my own heart 
 Was all the sound I heard. 
 
 To test his apparatus, 
 
 One end I closely press'd, 
 The other at a distance, 
 
 I hoped was next his chest. 
 I listened for his footfall, 
 
 I listened for his word, 
 Still the bumping of my own heart 
 
 Was all the sound I heard. 
 
 He came not, no he came not, 
 
 The night came on alone ; 
 And thinking he had tricked me, 
 
 I loosed the Sphygmophon. 
 L '53 ] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 The evening air passed by my cheek, 
 
 The leaves above were stirred, 
 When the thumping of his own heart 
 
 Was all the sound I heard. 
 
 With joy I grasped the magnet, 
 
 When some one stood behind, 
 His hand was on my shoulder 
 
 (But that I did not mind). 
 Each spoke then nearer nearer, 
 
 We shouted every word ; 
 But the booming of our own hearts 
 
 Was all the sound we heard. 
 
 Anonymous 
 
 f '54] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 AFTER TENNYSON 
 
 THE BATHER'S DIRGE 
 
 \ 
 
 BREAK, break, break, 
 On thy cold, hard stones, O sea ! 
 And I hope that my tongue won't utter 
 The curses that rise in me. 
 
 Oh, well for the fisherman's boy, 
 
 If he likes to be soused with the spray ! 
 
 Oh, well for the sailor lad, 
 
 As he paddles about in the bay ! 
 
 And the ships swim happily on, 
 
 To their haven under the hill ; 
 But O for a clutch of that vanished hand, 
 
 And a kick for I 'm catching a chill ! 
 
 Break, break, break, 
 
 At my poor bare feet, O sea ! 
 But the artful scamp who has collar'd my clothes 
 
 Will never come back to me. 
 
 Tennyson Minor. 
 
 C'55] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 LITTLE MISS MUFFET 
 (Reset as an 'Arthurian Idyl) 
 
 UPON a tuffet of most soft and verdant moss, 
 Beneath the spreading branches of an ancient 
 oak, 
 
 Miss Muffet sat, and upward gazed, 
 To where a linnet perched and sung, 
 And rocked him gently, to and fro. 
 Soft blew the breeze 
 And mildly swayed the bough, 
 Loud sung the bird, 
 And sweetly dreamed the maid ; 
 Dreamed brightly of the days to come 
 The golden days, with her fair future blent. 
 When one some wondrous stately knight 
 Of our great Arthur's " Table Round ; " 
 One, brave as Launcelot, and 
 Spotless as the pure Sir Galahad, 
 Should come, and coming, choose her 
 For his love, and in her name, 
 And for the sake of her fair eyes, 
 Should do most knightly deeds. 
 And as she dreamed and softly sighed, 
 She pensively began to stir, 
 With a tiny golden spoon 
 Within an antique dish upon her lap, 
 Some snow-white milky curds ; 
 Soft were they, full of cream and rich, 
 And floated in translucent whey ; 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 And as she stirred, she smiled, 
 
 Then gently tasted them. 
 
 And smiling, ate, nor sighed no more. 
 
 Lo f as she ate nor harbored thought of ill 
 
 Near and nearer yet, there to her crept, 
 
 A monster great and terrible, 
 
 With huge, misshapen body leaden eyes 
 
 Full many a long and hairy leg, 
 
 And soft and stealthy footstep. 
 
 Nearer still he came Miss Muffet yet, 
 
 All unwitting his dread neighborhood, 
 
 Did eat her curds and dream. 
 
 Blithe, on the bough, the linnet sung 
 
 All terrestrial natures, sleeping, wrapt 
 
 In a most sweet tranquillity. 
 
 Closer still the spider drew, and 
 
 Paused beside her lifted up his head 
 
 And gazed into her face. 
 
 Miss Muffet then, her consciousness alive 
 
 To his dread eyes upon her fixed, 
 
 Turned and beheld him. 
 
 Loud screamed she, frightened and amazed, 
 
 And straightway sprung upon her feet, 
 
 And, letting fall her dish and spoon, 
 
 She shrieking turned and fled. 
 
 Anonymous, 
 
 [ '57) 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 THE MUSICAL PITCH 
 
 BREAK, break, break, 
 O voice ! let me urge thy plea ! 
 Oh, lower the Pitch, lest utter 
 Despair be the end of me ! 
 
 'T is well for the fiddles to squeak, 
 The bassoon to grunt in its play ; 
 
 J T were well had I lungs of brass, 
 
 Or that nothing but strings give way ! 
 
 Break, break, break, 
 
 O voice ! I must urge thy plea, 
 For the tender skin of my larynx is torn, 
 
 And I fail in my upper G ! 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 TO AN IMPORTUNATE HOST 
 
 {During dinner and after Tennyson*) 
 
 ASK me no more : I J ve had enough Chablis ; 
 The wine may come again and take the 
 shape 
 From glass to glass of u Mountain " or of 
 
 Cape," 
 
 But my dear boy, when I have answered thee, 
 Ask me no more. 
 
 [ '58] 
 
A P arody Antholog-y 
 
 Ask me no more : what answer should I give, 
 I love not pickled pork, nor partridge pie ; 
 I feel if I took whiskey I should die ! 
 
 Ask me no more for I prefer to live : 
 Ask me no more. 
 
 Ask me no more : unless my fate is sealed, 
 And I have striven against you all in vain. 
 Let your good butler bring me u Hock " again \ 
 Then rest, dear boy. If for this once I yield, 
 Ask me no more. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 THE VILLAGE CHOIR 
 
 HALF a bar, half a bar, 
 Half a bar onward ! 
 Into an awful ditch 
 Choir and precentor hitch, 
 Into a mess of pitch, 
 
 They led the Old Hundred. 
 Trebles to right of them, 
 Tenors to left of them, 
 Basses in front of them, 
 
 Bellowed and thundered. 
 Oh, that precentor's look, 
 When the sopranos took 
 Their own time and hook 
 
 From the Old Hundred ! 
 
 Screeched all the trebles here, 
 Boggled the tenors there, 
 [ '59] 
 
 \ 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 Raising the parson's hair, 
 
 While his mind wandered ; 
 
 Theirs not to reason why 
 
 This psalm was pitched too high: 
 
 Theirs but to gasp and cry 
 Out the Old Hundred. 
 
 Trebles to right of them, 
 
 Tenors to left of them, 
 
 Basses in front of them, 
 
 Bellowed and thundered. 
 
 Stormed they with shout and yell, 
 
 Not wise they sang nor well, 
 
 Drowning the sexton's bell, 
 
 While all the church wondered. 
 
 Dire the precentor's glare, 
 Flashed his pitchfork in air 
 Sounding fresh keys to bear 
 
 Out the Old Hundred. 
 Swiftly he turned his back, 
 Reached he his hat from rack, 
 Then from the screaming pack, 
 
 Himself he sundered. 
 Tenors to right of him, 
 Tenors to left of him, 
 Discords behind him, 
 
 Bellowed and thundered. 
 Oh, the wild howls they wrought : 
 Right to the end they fought ! 
 Some tune they sang, but not, 
 
 Not the Old Hundred. 
 
 Anonymous 
 
 ( .60 j 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 THE BITER BIT 
 
 THE sun is in the sky, mother, the flowers 
 are springing fair; 
 And the melody of woodland birds is stirring 
 in the air; 
 The river, smiling to the sky, glides onward to the 
 
 sea, 
 
 And happiness is everywhere, oh, mother, but 
 with me ! 
 
 They are going to the church, mother I hear 
 
 the marriage bell 
 It booms along the upland Oh ! it haunts me 
 
 like a knell ; 
 He leads her on his arm, mother, he cheers her 
 
 faltering step, 
 And closely to his side she clings she does, the 
 
 demirep ! 
 
 They are crossing by the stile, mother, where we 
 
 so oft have stood, 
 The stile beside the shady thorn, at the corner of 
 
 the wood ; 
 And the boughs, that wont to murmur back the 
 
 words that won my ear, 
 Wave their silver branches o'er him, as he leads 
 
 his bridal fere. 
 
 [ii] [ 161 1 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 He will pass beside the stream, mother, where first 
 my hand he pressed, 
 
 By the meadow where, with quivering lip, his 
 passion he confessed ; 
 
 And down the hedgerows where we've strayed 
 again and yet again ; 
 
 But he will not think of me, mother, his broken- 
 hearted Jane ! 
 
 He said that I was proud, mother, that I looked 
 
 for rank and gold, 
 He said I did .not love him he said my words 
 
 were cold ; 
 He said I kept him off and on, in hopes of higher 
 
 game 
 And it may be that I did, mother; who hasn't 
 
 done the same ? 
 
 I did not know my heart, mother I know it now 
 
 too late ; 
 I thought that I without a pang could wed some 
 
 nobler mate ; 
 But no nobler suitor sought me and he has 
 
 taken wing, 
 And my heart is gone, and I am left a lone and 
 
 blighted thing. 
 
 You may lay me in my bed, mother my head is 
 
 throbbing sore; 
 And, mother, prithee, let the sheets be duly aired 
 
 before ; 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 And, if you 'd please, my mother dear, your poor 
 
 desponding child, 
 Draw me a pot of beer, mother, and mother, draw 
 
 it mild ! 
 
 William Ajtoun. 
 
 THE LAUREATE 
 
 WHO would not be 
 The Laureate bold, 
 With his butt of sherry 
 To keep him merry, 
 And nothing to do but to pocket his gold T 
 
 *T is I would be the Laureate bold ! 
 
 When the days are hot, and the sun is strong, 
 
 I 'd lounge in the gateway all the day long 
 
 With her Majesty's footmen in crimson and gold. 
 
 I 'd care not a pin for the waiting-lord, 
 
 But I 'd lie on my back on the smooth greensward 
 
 With a straw in my mouth, and an open vest, 
 
 And the cool wind blowing upon my breast, 
 
 And I 'd vacantly stare at the clear blue sky, 
 
 And watch the clouds that are listless as I, 
 
 Lazily, lazily ! 
 
 ,'xnd I 'd pick the moss and the daisies white, 
 And chew their stalks with a nibbling bite; 
 And I 'd let my fancies roam abroad 
 In search of a hint for a birthday ode, 
 
 Crazily, crazily ! 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 Oh, that would be the life for me, 
 
 With plenty to get and nothing to do, 
 
 But to deck a pet poodle with ribbons of blue, 
 
 And whistle all day to the Queen's cockatoo, 
 
 Trance-somely, trance-somely ! 
 Then the chambermaids, that clean the rooms, 
 Would come to the windows and rest on theii 
 brooms, 
 
 With their saucy caps and their crisped hair, 
 And they 'd toss their heads in the fragrant air. 
 And say to each other " Just look down there, 
 At the nice young man, so tidy and small, 
 Who is paid for writing on nothing at all, 
 Handsomely, handsomely ! 
 
 They would pelt me with matches and sweet 
 
 pastilles, 
 
 And crumpled-up balls of the royal bills, 
 Giggling and laughing, and screaming with fun, 
 As they M see me start, with a leap and a run, 
 From the broad of my back to the points of my 
 
 toes, 
 
 When a pellet of paper hit my nose, 
 Teasingly, sneezingly ! 
 
 Then I 'd fling them bunches of garden flowers, 
 And hyacinths plucked from the Castle bowers ; 
 And I 'd challenge them all to come down to me, 
 And I 'd kiss them all till they kissed me, 
 Laughingly, laughingly. 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 Oh, would not that be a merry life, 
 Apart from care and apart from strife, 
 With the Laureate's wine, and the Laureate's pay, 
 And no deductions at quarter-day? 
 Oh, that would be the post for me ! 
 With plenty to get and nothing to do, 
 But to deck a pet poodle with ribbons of blue, 
 And whistle a tune to the Queen's cockatoo, 
 And scribble of verses remarkably few, 
 And empty at evening a bottle or two, 
 Quaffingly, quaffingly ! 
 
 'T is I would be 
 The Laureate bold, 
 With my butt of sherry 
 To keep me merry, 
 And nothing to do but to pocket my gold ! 
 
 William Aytoun* 
 
 THE LAY OF THE LOVELORN 
 
 COMRADES, you may pass the rosy. With 
 permission of the chair, 
 I shall leave you for a little, for I 'd like to 
 take the air. 
 
 Whether 't was the sauce at dinner, or that glass 
 
 of ginger-beer, 
 Or these strong cheroots, I know not, but I feel a 
 
 little queer. 
 
 r i6 S ] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 Let me go. Nay, Chuckster, blow me, 'pon my 
 
 soul, this is too bad ! 
 When you want me, ask the waiter; he knows 
 
 where I 'm to be had. 
 
 Whew ! This is a great relief now ! Let me but 
 
 undo my stock ; 
 Resting here beneath the porch, my nerves will 
 
 steady like a rock. 
 
 In my ears I hear the singing of a lot of favorite 
 
 tunes 
 Bless my heart, how very odd ! Why surely 
 
 there 's a brace of moons ! 
 
 See ! the stars ! how bright they twinkle, winking 
 
 with a frosty glare, 
 Like my faithless cousin Amy when she drove me 
 
 to despair. 
 
 Oh, my cousin, spider-hearted ! Oh, my Amy ' 
 
 No, confound it, 
 I must wear the mournful willow, all around my 
 
 heart I 've bound it ! 
 
 Falser than the bank of fancy, frailer than a shin- 
 ing glove, 
 
 Puppet to a father's anger, minion to a nabob's 
 love ! 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 Is it well to wish thee happy ? Having known 
 
 me, could you ever 
 Stoop to marry half a heart, and a little more than 
 
 half a liver ? 
 
 Happy ! Damme ! Thou shalt lower to his level 
 
 day by day, 
 Changing from the best of china to the commonest 
 
 of clay. 
 
 As the husband is, the wife is, he is stomach- 
 plagued and old ; 
 
 And his curry soups will make thy cheek the color 
 of his gold. 
 
 When his feeble love is sated, he will hold thee 
 
 surely then 
 Something lower than his hookah, something 
 
 less than his cayenne. 
 
 What is this ? His eyes are pinky. Was 't the 
 
 claret ? Oh, no, no, 
 Bless your soul ! it was the salmon, salmon 
 
 always makes him so. 
 
 Take him to thy dainty chamber soothe him 
 
 with thy lightest fancies ; 
 He will understand thee, won't he ? pay thee 
 
 with a lover's glances ? 
 
 t ,6 7 ] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 Louder than the loudest trumpet, harsh as harshest 
 
 ophicleide, 
 Nasal respirations answer the endearments of his 
 
 bride. 
 
 Sweet repose, delightful music ! Gaze upon thy 
 
 noble charge, 
 Till the spirit fill thy bosom that inspired the 
 
 meek Laffarge. 
 
 Better thou wert dead before me, better, better 
 
 that I stood, 
 Looking on thy murdered body, like the injured 
 
 Daniel Good ! 
 
 Better thou and I were lying, cold and timber- 
 stiff and dead, 
 
 With a pan of burning charcoal underneath oizr 
 nuptial bed ! 
 
 Cursed be the Bank of England's notes, that tempt 
 
 the soul to sin ! 
 Cursed be the wants of acres, doubly cursed the 
 
 want of tin ! 
 
 Cursed be the marriage-contract, that enslaved thy 
 
 soul to greed ! 
 Cursed be the sallow lawyer that prepared and 
 
 drew the deed ! 
 
 [ -68] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 Cursed be his foul apprentice, who the loathsome 
 
 fees did earn ! k 
 
 Cursed be the clerk and parson, cursed be the 
 
 whole concern ! 
 
 Oh, 't is well that I should bluster, much I 'm 
 
 like to make of that ; 
 Better comfort have I found in singing " All 
 
 Around my Hat." 
 
 But that song, so wildly plaintive, palls upon my 
 
 British ears. 
 'T will not do to pine for ever, I am getting up 
 
 in years. 
 
 Can't I turn the honest penny, scribbling for the 
 
 weekly press, 
 And in writing Sunday libels drown my private 
 
 wretchedness ? 
 
 Oh, to feel the wild pulsation that in manhood's 
 
 dawn I knew, 
 When my days were all before me, and my years 
 
 were twenty-two ! 
 
 When I smoked my independent pipe along the 
 
 Quadrant wide, 
 With the many larks of London flaring up on every 
 
 sidej 
 
 [ 169] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 When I went the pace so wildly, caring little what 
 
 might come; 
 Coffee-milling care and sorrow with a nose-adapted 
 
 thumb ; 
 
 Felt the exquisite enjoyment, tossing nightly off, 
 
 oh, heavens ! 
 Brandies at the Cider Cellars, kidneys smoking hot 
 
 at Evans' ! 
 
 Or in the Adelphi sitting, half in rapture, half in 
 
 tears, 
 Saw the glorious melodrama conjure up the shades 
 
 of years ! 
 
 Saw Jack Sheppard, noble stripling, act his won- 
 drous feats again, 
 
 Snapping Newgate's bars of iron, like an infant's 
 daisy chain. 
 
 Might was right, and all the terrors, which had 
 
 held the world in awe, 
 Were despised, and priggings prospered, spite of 
 
 Laurie, spite of law. 
 
 In such scenes as these I triumphed, ere my pas- 
 sion's edge was rusted, 
 
 And my cousin's cold refusal left me very much 
 disgusted ! 
 
 [ 170] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 Since, my heart is sere and withered, and I do not 
 
 care a curse 
 Whether worse shall be the better, or the better be 
 
 the worse. 
 
 Hark ! my merry comrades call me, bawling for 
 
 another jorum ; 
 They would mock me in derision, should I thus 
 
 appear before 'em. 
 
 Womankind shall no more vex me, such at least as 
 
 go arrayed 
 In the most expensive satins and the newest silk 
 
 brocade. 
 
 I '11 to Afric, lion-haunted, where the giant forest 
 
 yields 
 Rarer robes and finer tissue than are sold at Spital- 
 
 fields. 
 
 Or to burst all chains of habit, flinging habit's self 
 aside 
 
 I shall walk the tangled jungle in mankind's pri- 
 meval pride j 
 
 Feeding on the luscious berries and the rich 
 cassava root, 
 
 Lots of dates and lots of guavas, clusters of for- 
 bidden fruit. 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 Never comes the trader thither, never o'er the 
 
 purple main 
 Sounds the oath of British commerce, or the accent 
 
 of Cockaigne. 
 
 There, methinks, would be enjoyment, where no 
 
 envious rule prevents ; 
 Sink the Steamboats ! cuss the railways ! rot, oh, 
 
 rot the Three per Cents ! 
 
 There the passions, cramped no longer, shall have 
 
 space to breathe, my cousin ! 
 I will wed some savage woman nay, I '11 wed at 
 
 least a dozen. 
 
 There I '11 rear my young mulattoes, as no Bond 
 
 Street brats are reared ; 
 They shall dive for alligators, catch the wild goats 
 
 by the beard 
 
 Whistle to the cockatoos, and mock the hairy- 
 faced baboon, 
 
 Worship mighty Mumbo Jumbo in the Mountains 
 of the Moon. 
 
 I myself, in far Timbuctoo, leopard's blood will 
 
 daily quaff, 
 Ride a tiger-hunting, mounted on a thorough-bred 
 
 giraffe, 
 
 [ '72] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 Fiercely shall I shout the war-whoop, as some 
 
 sullen stream he crosses, 
 Startling from their noonday slumbers iron-bound 
 
 rhinoceroses. 
 
 Fool ! again the dream, the fancy ! But I know 
 
 my words are mad, 
 For I hold the gray barbarian lower than the 
 
 Christian cad. 
 
 I the swell the city dandy! I to seek such 
 
 horrid places, 
 I to haunt with s.qualid negroes, blubber-lips, and 
 
 monkey-faces. 
 
 I to wed with Coromantees ! I, who managed 
 
 very near 
 To secure the heart and fortune of the widow 
 
 Shillibeer! 
 
 Stuff and nonsense ! let me never fling a single 
 chance away ; 
 
 Maids ere now, I know, have loved me, and an- 
 other maiden may. 
 
 Morning Post (The Times won't trust me) help me, 
 as I know you can ; 
 
 I will pen an advertisement, that Va never fail- 
 ing plan. 
 
 C '73 ] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 " Wanted by a bard, in wedlock, some young 
 
 interesting woman ; 
 Looks are not so much an object, if the shiners be 
 
 forthcoming ! 
 
 " Hymen's chains the advertiser vows shall be but 
 
 silken fetters ; 
 Please address to A. T., Chelsea. N. B. You 
 
 must pay the letters." 
 
 That 's the sort of thing to do it. Now I '11 go 
 
 and taste the balmy, 
 Rest thee with thy yellow nabob, spider-hearted 
 
 Cousin Amy ! 
 
 William Aytoun. 
 
 IN IMMEMORIAM 
 
 WE seek to know, and knowing seek ; 
 We seek, we know, and every sense 
 Is trembling with the great Intense 
 And vibrating to what we speak. 
 
 We ask too much, we seek too oft, 
 We know enough, and should no more; 
 And yet \ve skim through Fancy's lore 
 And look to earth and not aloft. 
 [ '74] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 A something comes from out the gloom ; 
 
 I know it not, nor seek to know ; 
 
 I only see it swell and grow, 
 
 And more than this world would presume. 
 
 Meseems, a circling void I fill, 
 And I, unchanged where all is changed; 
 It seems unreal ; I own it strange, 
 Yet nurse the thoughts I cannot kill. 
 
 I hear the ocean's surging tide, 
 Raise quiring on its carol-tune; 
 I watch the golden-sickled moon, 
 And clearer voices call besides. 
 
 O Sea ! whose ancient ripples lie 
 On red-ribbed sands where seaweeds shone; 
 O Moon ! whose golden sickle 's gone ; 
 O Voices all ! like ye I die ! 
 
 Cuthbert Bede 
 
 SIR EGGNOGG 
 
 FORTH from the purple battlements he fared, 
 Sir Eggnogg of the Rampant Lily, named 
 From that embrasure of his argent shield 
 Given by a thousand leagues of heraldry 
 On snuffy parchments drawn. So forth he fared, 
 By bosky boles and autumn leaves he fared, 
 [ '75 ] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 Where grew the juniper with berries black, 
 
 The sphery mansions of the future gin. 
 
 But naught of this decoyed his mind, so bent 
 
 On fair Miasma, Saxon-blooded girl, 
 
 Who laughed his loving lullabies to scorn, 
 
 And would have snatched his hero-sword to deck 
 
 Her haughty brow, or warm her hands withal, 
 
 So scornful she; and thence Sir Eggnogg cursed 
 
 Between his teeth, and chewed his iron boots 
 
 In spleen of love. But ere the morn was high 
 
 In the robustious heaven, the postern-tower 
 
 Clang to the harsh, discordant, slivering scream 
 
 Of the tire-woman, at the window bent 
 
 To dress her crisped hair. She saw, ah, woe ! 
 
 The fair Miasma, overbalanced, hurled 
 
 O'er the flamboyant parapet which ridged 
 
 The muffled coping of the castle's peak, 
 
 Prone on the ivory pavement of the court, 
 
 Which caught and cleft her fairest skull, and sent 
 
 Her rosy brains to fleck the Orient floor. 
 
 This saw Sir Eggnogg, in his stirrups poised. 
 
 Saw he and cursed, with many a deep-mouthed oath, 
 
 And, finding nothing more could reunite 
 
 .The splintered form of fair Miasma, rode 
 
 On his careering palfrey to the wars, 
 
 And there found death, another death than hers. 
 
 Bayard Taylor. 
 
 [ 176 ] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 GODIVA 
 
 " T WAITED for the Train at Coventry," 
 
 The Train was several hundred years too late 
 (It had not been invented yet, you see) ; 
 Such is the Cold Cast Irony of Fate. 
 At last the Train arrived, and with it too 
 Your Book a Precious Package marked "collect." 
 Raptured I read it through and through, and through, 
 And then I paused in sadness to reflect 
 How that same Book had been a priceless boon, 
 But for a little accident of Date ; 
 If only I had not been born so soon, 
 Or if you had not gone to press so late. 
 O Book, if only you had come to me 
 Ere I rode forth upon that morning sad ! 
 In naught but Faith and Hope and Charity, / 
 And other Vague Abstractions thinly clad ; ^/ 
 In whole Editions I would have invested 
 (I hope you get good Royalties therefrom), 
 To keep the naughty townfolk interested 
 And most Particularly, Peeping Tom. 
 
 Oliver Herford, 
 
 [177] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 A LAUREATE'S LOG 
 
 (Rough-weather notes from the New Birthday-Book) 
 
 MONDAY 
 
 IF you 're waking, please don't call me, please 
 don't call me, Currie dear, 
 For they tell me that to-morrow toward the 
 open we 're to steer ! 
 No doubt, for you and those aloft, the maddest 
 
 merriest way, 
 
 But I always feel best in a bay, Currie, 
 I always feel best in a bay. 
 
 TUESDAY 
 
 Take, take, take ? 
 What will I take for tea ? 
 The thinnest slice no butter, 
 And that 's quite enough for me. 
 
 WEDNESDAY 
 
 It is the little roll within the berth 
 
 That, by and by, will put an end to mirth, 
 
 And, never ceasing, slowly prostrate all. 
 
 THURSDAY 
 
 Let me alone ! What pleasure can you have 
 In chaffing evil ? Tell me what 's the fun 
 Of ever climbing up the climbing wave ? 
 [ '78 ] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 : 
 
 All you, the rest, you know how to behave 
 In roughish weather ! I, for one 
 Ask for the shore or death, dark death, 
 I am so done. 
 
 FRIDAY 
 
 Twelve knots an hour ! But what am I ? 
 A poet with no land in sight, * 
 Insisting that he feels " all right," 
 
 With half a smile and half a sigh. 
 
 SATURDAY 
 
 Comfort ? Comfort scorned of lubbers ! Hear 
 
 this truth the Poet roar, 
 That a sorrow's crown of sorrows is remembering 
 
 days on shore. 
 Drug his soda lest he learn it when the foreland 
 
 gleams a speck 
 In the dead unhappy night, when he can't sit up 
 
 on deck ! 
 
 SUNDAY 
 
 Ah ! you 've called me nice and early, nice and 
 
 early, Currie dear ! 
 What ? Really in ? Well, come, the news I 'm 
 
 precious glad to hear; 
 For though in such good company I willingly 
 
 would stay 
 
 I 'm glad to be back in the bay, Currie, 
 I 'm glad to be back in the bay. 
 
 Puncb. 
 [ '79 j 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 THE RECOGNITION 
 
 HOME they brought her sailor son, 
 Grown a man across the sea, 
 Tall and broad and black of beard, 
 And hoarse of voice as man may be. 
 
 Hand to shake and mouth to kiss, 
 
 Both he offered ere he spoke ; 
 But she said " What man is this 
 
 Comes to play a sorry joke ? " 
 
 Then they praised him calPd him " smart,'* 
 
 " Tightest lad that ever stept ; " 
 But her son she did not know, 
 
 And she neither smiled nor wept. 
 
 Rose, a nurse of ninety years, 
 
 Set a pigeon-pie in sight ; 
 She saw him eat " 'T is he ! 't is he ! " 
 
 She knew him by his appetite ! 
 
 William Sawyer. 
 
 THE HIGHER PANTHEISM IN A 
 NUTSHELL 
 
 
 
 NE, who is not, we see : but one, whom we 
 
 see not, is i 
 
 Surely this is not that : but that is assuredly 
 this. 
 
 [ '*>] 
 
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. <! 
 
 THE LOST APE 
 
 one day on an organ, 
 A monkey was ill at ease, 
 When his fingers wandered idly, 
 In search of the busy fleas. 
 I knew not what he was slaying, 
 
 Or what he was dreaming then, 
 But a sound burst forth from that organ, 
 Not at all like a grand Amen. 
 
 It came through the evening twilight 
 
 Like the close of the feline psalm, 
 But the melody raised by their voices 
 
 Compared to this noise was balm ! 
 It was worse than Salvation's Sorrow, 
 
 With their band of drum and fife, 
 And cut, like an evening " Echo," 
 
 The Tit-Bits out of " Life." 
 
 [ MS ] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 I upset my table and tea things, 
 
 And left not one perfect piece; 
 I gazed at the wreck in silence, 
 
 Not loth, but unable to speak ! 
 Then I sought him, alas ! all vainly, 
 
 The source of that terrible whine, 
 With his cracked and tuneless organ, 
 
 And its melodies undivine. 
 
 Of course there was no policeman 
 
 To move him away, and men 
 Who grind organs smile demurely 
 
 At your curses, and smile again. 
 It may be that I could choke him 
 
 Could kill him but organ men, 
 If you kill a dozen to-day, 
 
 To-morrow will come again ! 
 
 J. W. G. 
 
 THE LOST WORD 
 
 BATED one day at the typewriter, 
 
 I was weary of a's and e's, 
 And my fingers wandered wildly 
 Over the consonant keys. 
 
 I know not what I was writing, 
 With that thing so like a pen; 
 
 But I struck one word astounding 
 Unknown to the speech of men. 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 It flooded the sense of my verses, 
 Like the break of a tinker's dam, 
 
 And I felt as one feels when the printer 
 Of your u infinite calm " makes clam. 
 
 It mixed up s's and x's 
 
 Like an alphabet coming to strife. 
 It seemed the discordant echo 
 
 Of a row between husband and wife. 
 
 It brought a perplexed meaning 
 
 Into my perfect piece, 
 And set the machinery creaking 
 
 As though it were scant of grease. 
 
 I have tried, but I try it vainly, 
 
 The one last word to divine 
 Which came from the keys of my typewriter 
 
 And so would pass as mine. 
 
 It may be some other typewriter 
 
 Will produce that word again, 
 It may be, but only for others 
 
 /shall write henceforth with a pen. 
 
 C. H. Webb. 
 
 I 247 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 AFTER GEORGE MEREDITH 
 
 AT THE SIGN OF THE COCK 
 (FRENCH STYLE, 1898) 
 
 (Being an Ode in further u Contribution to the Song 
 of French History" dedicated, without malice or 
 permission^ to Mr. George Meredith} 
 
 ROOSTER her sign, 
 Rooster her pugnant note, she struts 
 Evocative, amazon spurs aprick at heel ; 
 Nid-nod the authentic stump 
 Of the once ensanguined comb vermeil as wine; 
 With conspuent doodle-doo 
 
 Hails breach o' the hectic dawn of yon New Year, 
 Last issue up to date 
 Of quiverful Fate 
 
 Evolved spontaneous; hails with tenant trump 
 The spiriting prime o' the clashed carillon-peal ; 
 Ruffling her caudal plumes derisive of scuts ; 
 Inconscient how she stalks an immarcessibly absurd 
 Bird. 
 
 ii 
 
 Mark where her Equatorial Pioneer 
 
 Delirant on the tramp goes littoralwise. 
 
 His Flag at furl, portmanteaued ; drains to the dregs 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 The penultimate brandy-bottle, coal-on-the-head- 
 
 piece gift 
 
 Of who avenged the Old Sea-Rover's smirch. 
 Marchant he treads the ail-along of inarable drift 
 On dubiously connivent legs, 
 The facile prey of predatory flies ; 
 Panting for further; sworn to lurch 
 Empirical on to the Menelik-buffered, enhavened 
 
 blue, 
 Rhyming see Cantique I. with doodle-doo. 
 
 in 
 
 Infuriate she kicked against Imperial fact ; 
 
 Vulnant she felt 
 
 What pin-stab should have stained Another's pelt 
 
 Puncture her own Colonial lung-balloon, 
 
 Volant to nigh meridian. Whence rebuffed, 
 
 The perjured Scythian she lacked 
 
 At need's pinch, sick with spleen of the rudely 
 
 cuffed 
 
 Below her breath she cursed ; she cursed the hour 
 When on her spring for him the young Tyrannical 
 
 broke 
 
 Amid the unhallowed wedlock's vodka-shower, 
 She passionate, he dispassionate ; tricked 
 Her wits to eye-blind ; borrowed the ready as for 
 
 dower ; 
 
 Till from the trance of that Hymettus-moon 
 She woke, 
 
 A nuptial-knotted derelict ; 
 Pensioned with Rescripts other aid declined 
 By the plumped leech saturate urging Peace 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 In guise of heavy-armed Gospeller to men, 
 Tyrannical unto fraternal equal liberal, her. Not 
 
 she; 
 
 Not till Alsace her consanguineous find 
 What red deteutonising artillery 
 Shall shatter her beer-reek alien police 
 The just-now pluripollent ; not till then. 
 
 IV 
 
 iMore pungent yet the esoteric pain 
 Squeezing her pliable vitals nourishes feud 
 Insanely grumous, grumously insane. 
 For lo ! 
 
 Past common balmly on the Bordereau, 
 Churns she the skim o' the gutter's crust 
 
 o 
 
 With Anti-Judaic various carmagnole, 
 Whooped praise of the Anti-Just; 
 Her boulevard brood 
 
 Gyratory in convolvements militant-mad ; 
 Theatrical of faith in the Belliform, 
 Her Og, 
 
 Her Monstrous. Fled what force she had 
 To buckle the jaw-gape, wide agog 
 For the Preconcerted One, 
 The Anticipated, ripe to clinch the whole ; 
 Queen-bee to hive the hither and thither v:lan 
 swarm. 
 
 Bides she his coming ; adumbrates the new 
 
 Expurgatorial Divine, 
 
 Her final effulgent Avatar, 
 
 Postured outside a trampling mastodon 
 
 [ S 3 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 Black as her Baker's charger ; towering ; visibly 
 
 gorged 
 
 With blood of traitors. Knee-grip stiff, 
 Spine straightened, on he rides ; 
 Embossed the Patriot's brow with hieroglyph 
 Of martial dossiers, nothing forged 
 About him save his armour. So she bides 
 Voicing his advent indeterminably far, 
 Rooster her sign, 
 Rooster her conspuent doodle-doo. 
 
 Behold her, pranked with spurs for bloody sport, 
 
 How she acclaims, 
 
 A crapulous chanticleer, 
 
 B.each of the hectic dawn of yon New Year. 
 
 Not yet her fill of rumours sucked ; 
 
 Inebriate of honour ; blushfully wroth ; 
 
 Tireless to play her old primeval games ; 
 
 Her plumage preened the yet unplucked 
 
 Like sails of a galleon, rudder hard amort 
 
 With crepitant mast 
 
 Fronting the hazard to dare of a dual blast 
 
 The intern and the extern, blizzards both. 
 
 Owen Seaman 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 AFTER DANTE GABRIEL 
 ROSSETTI 
 
 A CHRISTMAS WAIL 
 
 (Not by Dante Gabriel Rosetti) 
 
 ON Christmas day I dined with Brown. 
 ( Ob the dinner was fine to see /) 
 I drove to his house, right merrily down, 
 To a western square of London town. 
 
 I moan and I cry, Woe 's me /) 
 
 T 77s dined off turkey and Christmas beef: 
 
 ( Oh the dinner was fine to see /) 
 My anguish is sore and my comfort 's brief, 
 And nought but blue pills can ease my grief, 
 (As I moan and I cry, Woe 's me /) 
 
 We gorged plum-pudding and hot mince pies, 
 (Oh the dinner was fine to. see /) 
 
 And other nameless atrocities, 
 
 The weight of which on my bosom lies. 
 (And I moan and I cry, Woe 9 s me ! ) 
 
 We drank dry Clicquot and rare old port, 
 
 ( Ob the dinner was fine to see /) 
 And I pledged my host for a right good sorr 
 In bumpers of both, for I never thought 
 (/ should moan and cry, Woe 's me /) 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 But I woke next day with a fearful head, 
 
 (Ob that dinmr was fine to see /) 
 And on my chest is a weight like Jead, 
 And I frequently wish that I were dead, 
 (And I moan and I cry, Woe 's me /) 
 
 And as for Brown why the truth to tell 
 
 ( Ob that dinner was fine to see /) 
 I hate him now with the hate of hell, 
 Though before I loved him passing well, 
 (And I moan and I cry, Woe 9 s me /) 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 BALLAD 
 
 r I ^HE auld wife sat at her ivied door 
 
 (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese), 
 A thing she had frequently done before, 
 And her spectacles lay on her apron'd knees. 
 
 The piper he piped on the hill-top high 
 (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese), 
 
 Till the cow said " I die," and the goose ask'd 
 
 Why ? " 
 And the dog said nothing, but search'd for fleas. 
 
 The farmer he strode through the square farmyard 
 (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese); 
 
 His last brew of ale was a trifle hard 
 
 The connection of which with the plot one sees. 
 
 The farmer's daughter had frank blue eyes 
 (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) ; 
 
 She hears the rooks caw in the witidy skies, 
 As she sits at her lattice and shells her peas. 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 The farmer's daughter hath ripe red lips 
 (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) ; 
 
 If you try to approach her, away she skips 
 Over tables and chairs with apparent ease. 
 
 The farmer's daughter hath soft brown hair 
 (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese), 
 
 And I met with a ballad, I can't say where, 
 Which wholly consisted of lines like these. 
 
 PART II 
 
 She sat with her hands 'neath her dimpled cheeks 
 (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese), 
 
 And spake not a word. While a lady speaks 
 There is hope, but she did n't even sneeze. 
 
 She sat, with her hands 'neath her crimson cheeks 
 (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese); 
 
 She gave up mending her father's breeks, 
 And let the cat roll in her new chemise. 
 
 She sat, with her hands 'neath her burning cheeks 
 (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese), 
 
 And gazed at the piper for thirteen weeks; 
 Then she follow'd him out o'er the misty leas. 
 
 Her sheep follow'd her, as their tails did them 
 
 (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese), 
 And this song is consider'd a perfect gem, 
 
 And as to the Tneaning, it Y what you please. 
 
 Charles S. Calverley. 
 F 2 H ] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 CIMABUELLA 
 
 FAIR-TINTED cheeks, clear eyelids drawn 
 In crescent curves above the light 
 Of eyes, whose dim, uncertain dawn 
 Becomes not day : a forehead white 
 Beneath long yellow heaps of hair: 
 She is so strange she must be fair. 
 
 Had she sharp, slant-wise wings outspread, 
 She were an angel; but she stands 
 
 With flat dead gold behind her head, 
 And lilies in her long thin hands : 
 
 Her folded mantle, gathered in, 
 
 Falls to her feet as it were tin. 
 
 Her nose is keen as pointed flame ; 
 
 Her crimson lips no thing express; 
 And never dread of saintly blame 
 
 Held down her heavy eyelashes : 
 To guess what she- were thinking of 
 Precludeth any meaner love. 
 
 An azure carpet, fringed with gold, 
 
 Sprinkled with scarlet spots, I laid 
 Before her straight, cool feet unrolled ; 
 
 But she nor sound nor movement made 
 (Albeit I heard a soft, shy smile, 
 Printing her neck a moment's while). 
 [ '55 ] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 And I was shamed through all my mind 
 For that she spake not, neither kissed, 
 
 But stared right past me. Lo ! behind 
 Me stood, in pink and amethyst, 
 
 Sword-girt and velvet-doubleted, 
 
 A tall, gaunt youth, with frowzy head. 
 
 Wide nostrils in the air, dull eyes, 
 
 Thick lips that simpered, but, ah me ! 
 
 I saw, with most forlorn surprise, 
 He was the Thirteenth Century, 
 
 I but the Nineteenth ; then despair 
 
 Curdled beneath my curling hair. 
 
 Love and Fate ! How could she choose 
 My rounded outlines, broader brain, 
 
 And my resuscitated Muse ? 
 
 Some tears she shed, but whether pain 
 Or joy in him unlocked their source, 
 
 1 could not fathom which, of course. 
 
 But I from missals quaintly bound, 
 With cither and with clavichord, 
 
 Will sing her songs of sovran sound : 
 Belike her pity will afford 
 
 Such fain return as suits a saint 
 
 So sweetly done in verse and paint. . 
 
 Bayard Taylor 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 THE POSTER GIRL 
 
 f I ^HE blessed Poster girl leaned out 
 
 From a pinky-purple heaven. 
 One eye was red and one was green; 
 Her bang was cut uneven ; 
 She had three ringers on her hand, 
 
 And the hairs on her head were seven. 
 
 Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem, 
 
 No sunflowers did adorn, 
 But a heavy Turkish portiere 
 
 Was very neatly worn ; 
 And the hat that lay along her back 
 
 Was yellow, like canned corn. 
 
 It was a kind of wobbly wave 
 
 That she was standing on, 
 And high aloft she flung a scarf 
 
 That must have weighed a ton ; 
 And she was rather tall at least 
 
 She reached up to the sun. 
 
 She curved and writhed, and then she said. 
 
 Less green of speech than blue : 
 u Perhaps I am absurd perhaps 
 
 I don't appeal to you; 
 But my artistic worth depends 
 
 Upon the point of view." 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 I saw her smile, although her eyes 
 
 Were only smudgy smears ; 
 And then she swished her swirling arms, 
 
 And wagged her gorgeous ears. 
 She sobbed a blue-and-green-checked sob, 
 
 And wept some purple tears. 
 
 Carolyn Wells. 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 AFTER JEAN INGELOW 
 
 LOVERS, AND A REFLECTION 
 
 I"N moss-prankt dells which the sunbeams flatter 
 (And heaven it knoweth what that may 
 mean ; 
 Meaning, however, is no great matter), 
 
 Where woods are a-tremble, with rifts atween ; 
 
 Thro' God's own heather we wonn'd together, 
 I and my Willie (O love my love) : 
 
 I need hardly remark it was glorious weather, 
 And flitterbats waver'd alow, above : 
 
 Boats were curtseying, rising, bowing, 
 (Boats in that climate are so polite), 
 
 And sands were a ribbon of green endowing, 
 And oh, the sundazzle on bark and bight ! 
 
 Thro' the rare red heather we danced together, 
 (O love my Willie !) and smelt for flowers : 
 
 I must mention again it was gorgeous weather, 
 Rhymes are so scarce in this world of ours : 
 
 By rises that flush'd with their purple favors, 
 Thro' becks that brattled o'er grasses sheen, 
 
 We walked and waded, we two young shavers, 
 Thanking our stars we were both so green. 
 
 ' 
 
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 We journeyed in parallels, I and Willie, 
 
 In fortunate parallels ! Butterflies, 
 Hid in weltering shadows of daffodilly 
 
 Or marjoram, kept making peacock eyes : 
 
 Songbirds darted about, some inky 
 
 As coal, some snowy (I ween) as curds ; 
 
 Or rosy as pinks, or as roses pinky 
 
 They reck of no eerie To-come, those birds ! 
 
 But they skim over bents which the millstream 
 washes, 
 
 Or hang in the lift 'neath a white cloud's hem ; 
 They need no parasols, no goloshes ; 
 
 And good Mrs. Trimmer she feedeth them. 
 
 Then we thrid God's cowslips (as erst His heather) 
 That endowed the wan grass with their golden 
 blooms ; 
 
 And snapt (it was perfectly charming weather) 
 Our fingers at Fate and her goodness-glooms : 
 
 And Willie 'gan sing (oh,~his notes were fluty ; 
 Wafts fluttered them out to the white-winged 
 
 sea) 
 Something made up of rhymes that have done much 
 
 duty, 
 Rhymes (better to put it) of " ancientry : " 
 
 Bowers of flowers encountered showers 
 
 In William's carol (O love my Willie !) 
 
 Then he bade sorrow borrow from blithe to-morrow 
 I quite forget what say a daffodilly : 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 A nest in a hollow, u with buds to follow," 
 I think occurred next in his nimble strain ; 
 
 And clay that was " kneaden " of course in Eden 
 A rhyme most novel, I do maintain : 
 
 Mists, bones, the singer himself, love-stories, 
 And all least furlable things got u furled ; " 
 
 Not with any design to conceal their u glories," 
 But simply and solely to rhyme with " world." 
 
 O if billows and pillows and hours and flowers, 
 And all the brave rhymes of an elder day, 
 
 Could be furled together, this genial weather, 
 And carted or carried on "wafts" away, 
 
 Nor ever again trotted out ah me ! 
 
 How much fewer volumes of verse there 'd be ! 
 
 Charles S. Calverley. 
 
 THE SHRIMP -GATHERERS 
 
 SCARLET spaces of sand and ocean, 
 Gulls that circle and winds that blow ; 
 Baskets and boats and men in motion, 
 Sailing and scattering to and fro. 
 
 Girls are waiting, their wimples adorning 
 
 With crimson sprinkles the broad gray flood 
 
 And down the beach the blush of the morning 
 Shines reflected from moisture and mud. 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 Broad from the yard the sail hangs limpy; 
 
 Lightly the steersman whistles a lay ; 
 Pull with a will, for the nets are shrimpy, 
 
 Pull with a whistle, our hearts are gay ! 
 
 Tuppence a quart ; there are more than fifty ! 
 
 Coffee is certain, and beer galore ; 
 Coats are corduroy, minds are thrifty, 
 
 Won't we go it on sea and shore ! 
 
 See, behind, how the hills are freckled 
 
 With low white huts, where the lasses bide 
 
 See, before, how the sea is speckled 
 
 With sloops and schooners that wait the tide 
 
 Yarmouth fishers may rail and roister, 
 
 Tyne-side boys may shout, u Give way ! " 
 
 Let them dredge for the lobster and oyster, 
 Pink and sweet are our shrimps to-day ! 
 
 Shrimps and the delicate periwinkle, 
 Such are the sea-fruits lasses love ; 
 
 Ho ! to your nets till the blue stars twinkle, 
 And the shutterless cottages gleam above ! 
 
 Bayard Taylor. 
 
 262] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 AFTER CHRISTINA ROSSETTI 
 
 REMEMBER 
 
 REMEMBER it, although you 're far away 
 Too far away more fivers yet to land, 
 When you no more can proffer notes of hand, 
 Nor I half yearn to change my yea to nay. 
 Remember, when no more in airy way, 
 
 You tell me of repayment sagely planned : 
 Only remember it, you understand ! 
 It 's rather late to counsel you to pay ; 
 Yet if you should remember for awhile, 
 
 And then forget it wholly, I should grieve ; 
 For, though your light procrastinations leave 
 Small remnants of the hope that once I had, 
 Than that you should forget your debt and smile, 
 I *d rather you 'd remember and be sad. 
 
 Judy. 
 
 [ 263 ] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 AFTER LEWIS CARROLL 
 
 T 
 
 WAGGAWOCKY 
 
 WAS Maytime, and the lawyer coves 
 
 Did jibe and jabber in the wabe, 
 All menaced were the Tichborne groves, 
 And their true lord, the Babe. 
 
 " Beware the Waggawock, my son, 
 The eyelid twitch, the knees' incline, 
 
 Beware the Baignet network, spun 
 For gallant Ballantine." 
 
 He took his ton-weight brief in hand, 
 Long time the hidden clue he sought, 
 
 Then rested he by the Hawkins tree, 
 And sat awhile in thought. 
 
 And as in toughish thought he rocks, 
 The Waggawock, sans truth or shame, 
 
 Came lumbering to the witness box, 
 And perjured out his Claim. 
 
 " Untrue ! untrue ! " Then, through and through 
 The weary weeks he worked the rack ; 
 
 But March had youth, ere with the Truth 
 He dealt the final whack. 
 [264] 
 
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 " And hast thou slain the Waggawock 
 Come to my arms, my Beamish Boy ! 
 
 O Coleridge, J. ! Hoorah ! hooray ! " 
 Punch chortled in his joy. 
 
 Shirley Brooks, 
 
 THE VULTURE AND THE HUSBAND- 
 MAN 
 
 (By Louisa Caroline) 
 
 ri "\HE rain was raining cheerfully 
 As if it had been May, 
 The Senate House appeared inside 
 Unusually gay ; 
 
 And this was strange, because it was 
 A Viva-Voce day. 
 
 The men were sitting sulkily, 
 
 Their paper work was done, 
 They wanted much to go away 
 
 To ride or row or run ; 
 u It 's very rude," they said, u to keep 
 
 Us here aud spoil our fun." 
 
 The papers they had finished lay 
 
 In piles of blue and white, 
 They answered everything they could. 
 
 And wrote with all their might, 
 But though they wrote it all by rote, 
 
 They did not write it right. 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 The Vulture and the Husbandman 
 
 Besides these piles did stand ; 
 They wept like anything to see 
 
 The work they had in hand : 
 u If this were only finished up," 
 
 Said they, " it would be grand ! " 
 
 u If seven D's or seven C's 
 
 We give to all the crowd, 
 Do you suppose," the Vulture said, 
 
 " That we could get them ploughed ? " 
 " I think so," said the Husbandman, 
 
 u But pray don't talk so loud." 
 
 " O Undergraduates, come up," 
 
 The Vulture did beseech, 
 u And let us see if you can learn 
 
 As well as we can teach ; 
 We cannot do with more than two, 
 
 To have a word with each." 
 
 Two Undergraduates came up, 
 
 And slowly took a seat ; 
 They knit their brows and bit their thumbs, 
 
 As if they found them sweet ; 
 And this is odd, because, you know, 
 
 Thumbs are not good to eat. 
 
 u The time has come," the Vulture said, 
 
 u To talk of many things, 
 Of Accidence and Adjectives, 
 
 And names of Jewish kings ; 
 How many notes a sackbut has, 
 
 And whether shawms have strings." 
 
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 " Please, Sir," the Undergraduates said, 
 
 Turning a little blue, 
 u We did not know that was the sort 
 
 Of thing we had to do." 
 " We thank you much," the Vulture said ; 
 
 "Send up another two." 
 
 Two more came up, and then two more, 
 And more, and more, and more, 
 
 And some looked upwards at the roof, 
 And some down upon the floor, 
 
 But none were any wiser than 
 The pair that went before. 
 
 u I weep for you," the Vulture said ; 
 
 " I deeply sympathize ! " 
 With sobs and tears he gave them all 
 
 D's of the largest size, 
 While at the Husbandman he winked 
 
 One of his streaming eyes. 
 
 " I think," observed the Husbandman, 
 
 " We 're getting on too quick ; 
 Are we not putting down the D's 
 
 A little bit too thick ? " 
 The Vulture said with much disgust, 
 
 u Their answers make me sick." 
 
 " Now, Undergraduates," he cried, 
 
 " Our fun is nearly done ; 
 Will anybody else come up ? " 
 
 But answer came there none ; 
 But this was scarcely odd, because 
 
 They'd ploughed them every one ! 
 
 [ 267 ] A.C. Hilton. 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 AFTER A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 GILLIAN 
 
 J 
 
 ACK and Jille 
 
 I have made me an end of the moods of 
 
 maidens, 
 I have loosed me, and leapt from the links 
 
 of love ; 
 From the kiss that cloys and desire that 
 
 deadens, 
 The woes that madden, the words that 
 
 move. 
 In the dim last days of a spent September, 
 
 When fruits are fallen, and flies are fain ; 
 Before you forget, and while I remember, 
 I cry as I shall cry never again. 
 
 Went up a hylle 
 
 Where the strong fell faints in the lazy levels 
 
 Of misty meadows, and streams that stray ; 
 We raised us at eve from our rosy revels, 
 
 With the faces aflame for the death of the 
 
 day; 
 With pale lips parted, and sighs that shiver, 
 
 Low lids that cling to the last of love : 
 We left the levels, we left the river, 
 
 And turned us and toiled to the air above. 
 2 68 
 
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 To fetch a paile of water, 
 
 By the sad sweet springs that have salved our 
 
 sorrow, 
 The fates that haunt us, the grief that 
 
 grips 
 Where we walk not to-day nor shall walk not 
 
 to-morrow 
 
 The wells of Lethe for wearied lips. 
 With souls nor shaken with tears nor laughter, 
 With limp knees loosed as of priests that 
 
 pray, 
 We bowed us and bent to the white well- 
 
 water, 
 We dipped and we drank it and bore away. 
 
 Jack felle downe 
 
 The low light trembled on languid lashes, 
 The haze of your hair on my mouth was 
 
 blown, 
 
 Our love flashed fierce from its fading ashes, 
 
 As night's dim net on the day was thrown. 
 
 What was it meant for, or made for, that 
 
 minute, 
 But that our lives in delight should be 
 
 dipt ? 
 
 Was it yours, or my fault, or fate's, that in it 
 Our frail feet faltered, our steep steps slipt. 
 
 And brake his crowne, and Jille came tumblynge 
 after. 
 
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 Our linked hands loosened and lapsed in 
 
 sunder, 
 
 Love from our limbs as a shift was shed, 
 But paused a moment, to watch with wonder 
 
 The pale pained body, the bursten head. 
 While our sad souls still with regrets are riven, 
 While the blood burns bright on our bruised 
 
 brows, 
 
 I have set you free, and I stand forgiven 
 And now I had better go call my cows. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 ATALANTA IN CAMDEN-TOWN 
 
 Y, 't was here, on this spot, 
 
 In that summer of yore, 
 L Atalanta did not 
 Vote my presence a bore, 
 
 Nor reply to my tenderest talk, " She had heard all 
 that nonsense before." 
 
 She 'd the brooch I had bought 
 
 And the necklace and sash on, 
 And her heart, as I thought, 
 Was alive to my passion ; 
 
 And she 'd done up her hair in the style that the 
 Empress had brought into fashion. 
 
 I had been to the play 
 
 With my pearl of a Peri 
 But, for all I could say, 
 
 She declared she was weary, 
 
 That " the place was so crowded and hot, and she 
 could n't abide that Dundreary." 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 Then I thought, " 'T is for me 
 
 That she whines and she whimpers ! " 
 And it soothed me to see 
 
 Those sensational simpers, 
 
 And I said, " This is scrumptious," a phrase I 
 had learned from the Devonshire shrimpers. 
 
 And I vowed, " 'T will be said 
 
 I 'm a fortunate fellow, 
 When the breakfast is spread, 
 
 When the topers are mellow, 
 
 When the foam of the bird-cake is white and the 
 fierce orange-blossoms are yellow ! " 
 
 Oh, that languishing yawn ! 
 
 Oh, those eloquent eyes ! 
 
 I was drunk with the dawn 
 
 Of a splendid surmise 
 
 I was stung by a look, I was slain by a tear, by a 
 tempest of sighs. 
 
 And I whispered, " 'T is time ! 
 
 Is not Love at its deepest ? 
 Shall we squander Life's prime, 
 
 While thou waitest and weepest ? 
 Let us settle it, License or Banns? though un- 
 doubtedly Banns are the cheapest." 
 
 " Ah, my Hero ! " said I, 
 " Let me be thy Leander ! " 
 But I lost her reply 
 
 Something ending with u gander " 
 For the omnibus rattled so loud that no mortal 
 could quite understand her. 
 
 [271 ] Lewis Carroll 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 THE MANLET 
 
 IN stature the Manlet was dwarfish 
 No burly big Blunderbore he : 
 And he wearily gazed on the crawfish 
 
 His Wifelet had dressed for his tea. 
 "Now reach me, sweet Atom, my gunlet, 
 
 And hurl the old shoelet for luck ; 
 Let me hie to the bank of the runlet 
 
 And shoot thee a Duck ! " 
 
 She has reached him his minnikin gunlet : 
 She has hurled the old shoelet for luck ; 
 
 She is busily baking a bunlet, 
 
 To welcome him home with his duck. 
 
 On he speeds, never wasting a wordlet, 
 Though thoughtlets cling closely as wax, 
 
 To the spot where the beautiful birdlet 
 So quietly quacks. 
 
 Where the Lobsterlet lurks and the Crablet 
 
 So slowly and creepily crawls : 
 Where the Dolphin 's at home and the Dablet 
 
 Pays long ceremonious calls : 
 Where the Grublet is sought by the Froglet : 
 
 Where the Frog is pursued by the Duck : 
 Where the Ducklet is chased by the Doglet 
 So runs the world's luck. 
 
 He has loaded with bullet and powder : 
 
 His footfall is noiseless as air : 
 But the Voices grow louder and louder 
 
 And bellow and bluster and blare. 
 
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 They bristle before him and after, 
 
 They flutter above and below, 
 Shrill shriekings of lubberly laughter, 
 
 Weird waitings of woe ! 
 
 They echo without him, within him : 
 
 They thrill through his whiskers and beard : 
 
 Like a teetotum seeming to spin him, 
 With sneers never hitherto sneered. 
 
 u Avengement," they cry, " on our Foelet! 
 Let the Manikin weep for our wrongs ! 
 
 Let us drench him from toplet to toelet 
 With nursery songs ! 
 
 " He shall muse upon Hey ! Diddle ! Diddle ! 
 
 On the Cow that surmounted the Moon ! 
 He shall rave of the Cat and the Fiddle, 
 
 And the Dish that eloped with the Spoon : 
 And his soul shall be sad for the Spider, 
 
 When Miss Muffett was sipping her whey, 
 That so tenderly sat down beside her, 
 And scared her away ! 
 
 " The music of Midsummer-madness 
 
 Shall sting him with many a bite, 
 Till, in rapture of rollicking sadness, 
 
 He shall groan with a gloomy delight ; 
 He shall swathe him like mists of the morning, 
 
 In platitudes luscious and limp, 
 Such as deck, with a deathless adorning, 
 The Song of the Shrimp! 
 
 [-8] [273] 
 
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 " When the Ducklet's dark doom is decided, 
 We will trundle him home in a trice : 
 
 And the banquet so plainly provided 
 Shall round into rosebuds and rice: 
 
 In a blaze of pragmatic invention 
 
 He shall wrestle with Fate and shall reign : 
 
 But he has not a friend fit to mention, 
 So hit him again ! " 
 
 He has shot it, the delicate darling ! 
 
 And the Voices have ceased from their strife : 
 Not a whisper of sneering or snarling, 
 
 As he carries it home to his wife : 
 Then, cheerily champing the bunlet 
 His spouse was so skilful to bake, 
 He hies him once more to the runlet, 
 To fetch her the Drake ! 
 
 Lewis Carroll* 
 
 IF! 
 
 IF life were never bitter, 
 And love were always sweet, 
 Then who would care to borrow 
 A moral from to-morrow 
 If Thames would always glitter, 
 
 And joy would ne'er retreat, 
 If life were never bitter, 
 
 And love were always sweet! 
 
 If care were not the waiter 
 Behind a fellow's chair, 
 When easy-going sinners 
 Sit down to Richmond dinners, 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 And life's swift stream flows straighter, 
 
 By Jove, it would be rare, 
 If care were not the waiter 
 
 Behind a fellow's chair. 
 
 If wit were always radiant, 
 
 And wine were always iced, 
 And bores were kicked out straightway 
 Through a convenient gateway ; 
 Then down the year's long gradient 
 
 'Twere sad to be enticed, 
 If wit were always radiant, 
 
 And wine were always iced. 
 
 Mortimer Collins 
 
 THE MAID OF THE MEERSCHAUM 
 
 NUDE nymph, when from Neuberg's I led 
 her 
 In velvet enshrined and encased, 
 When with rarest Virginia I fed her, 
 And pampered each maidenly taste 
 On u Old Judge " and " Lone Jack " and brown 
 
 " Bird's-eye," 
 
 The best that a mortal might get 
 Did she know how, from whiteness of curds, I 
 Should turn her to jet ? 
 
 She was blonde and impassive and stately 
 When first our acquaintance began, 
 
 When she smiled from the pipe-bowl sedately 
 On the u Stunt " who was scarcely a man. 
 [ '75 ] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 But labuntur anni fugaces, 
 
 And changed in due season were we, 
 For she wears the blackest of faces, 
 
 And I 'm a D. C. 
 
 Unfailing the comfort she gave me 
 
 In the days when I owned to a heart, 
 When the charmers that used to enslave me 
 
 For Home or the Hills would depart. 
 She was Polly or Agnes or Kitty 
 
 (Whoever pro tern, was my flame), 
 And I found her most ready to pity, 
 
 And always the same. 
 
 At dawn, when the pig broke from cover, 
 
 At noon, when the pleaders were met, 
 She clung to the lips of her lover 
 
 As never live maiden did yet; 
 At the Bund, when I waited the far light 
 
 That brought me my Mails o'er the main 
 At night, when the tents, in the starlight, 
 
 Showed white on the plain. 
 
 And now, though each finely cut feature 
 
 Is flattened and polished away, 
 I hold her the loveliest creature 
 
 That ever was fashioned from clay. 
 Let an epitaph thus, then, be wrought for 
 
 Her tomb, when the smash shall arrive : 
 " Hie jacet the life's love I bought for 
 
 Rupees twenty-five." 
 
 Rudyard Kipling 
 
 [ 276 ] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 QUAERITUR 
 
 DAWN that disheartens the desolate dunes, 
 Dulness of day as it bursts on the beach, 
 Sea-wind that shrillest the thinnest of tunes. 
 What is the wisdom thy wailings would teach ? 
 Far, far away, down the foam-frescoed reach, 
 Where ravening rocks cleave the crest of the 
 
 seas, 
 
 Sigheth the sound of thy sonorous speech, 
 As gray gull and guillemot gather their fees ; 
 Taking toll of the beasts that are bred in the 
 seas. 
 
 Foam-flakes fly farther than faint eyes can fol- 
 low 
 
 Drop down the desolate dunes and are done ; 
 Fleeter than foam-flowers flitteth the Swallow, 
 
 Sheer for the sweets of the South and the Sun. 
 What is thy tale ? O thou treacherous Swallow ! 
 
 Sing me thy secret, Beloved of the Skies, 
 That I may gather my garments and follow 
 
 Flee on the path of thy pinions and rise 
 
 Where strong storms cease and the weary wind 
 dies. 
 
 Lo ! I am bound with the chains of my sorrow ; 
 
 Swallow, swift Swallow, ah, wait for a while ! 
 Stay but a moment it may be to-morrow 
 
 Chains shall be severed and sad souls shall 
 smile ! 
 
 t *77i 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 Only a moment a mere minute's measure 
 How shall it hurt such a swift one as thou ? 
 Pitiless Swallow, full flushed for thy pleasure, 
 Canst thou not even one instant allow 
 To weak-winged wanderers ? Wait for me 
 now. 
 
 Rudyard Kipling. 
 
 A MELTON MOWBRAY PORK-PIE 
 
 STRANGE pie that is almost a passion, 
 O passion immoral for pie ! 
 Unknown are the ways that they fashion. 
 
 Unknown and unseen of the eye. 
 The pie that is marbled and mottled, 
 
 The pie that digests with a sigh : 
 For all is not Bass that is bottled, 
 And all is not pork that is pie. 
 
 Richard Le Gallienne. 
 
 FOAM AND FANGS 
 
 NYMPH with the nicest of noses; 
 And finest and fairest of forms \ 
 Lips ruddy and ripe as the roses 
 That sway and that surge in the storms \ 
 O buoyant and blooming Bacchante, 
 
 Of fairer than feminine face, 
 Rush, raging as demon of Dante 
 To this, my embrace ! 
 
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 The foam and the fangs and the flowers, 
 
 The raving and ravenous rage 
 Of a poet as pinion'd in powers 
 
 As condor confined in a cage ! 
 My heart in a haystack I 've hidden, 
 
 As loving and longing I lie, 
 Kiss open thine eyelids unbidden 
 
 I gaze and I die ! 
 
 I Ve wander'd the wild waste of slaughter, 
 
 I 've sniffed up the sepulchre's scent, 
 I 've doated on devilry's daughter, 
 
 And murmur'd much more than I meant ; 
 I 've paused at Penelope's portal, 
 
 So strange are the sights that I 've seen, 
 And mighty 's the mind of the mortal 
 
 Who knows what I mean. 
 
 Walter Parke* 
 
 A SONG OF RENUNCIATION 
 
 IN the days of my season of salad, 
 When the down was as dew on my cheek, 
 And for French I was bred on the ballad, 
 For Greek on the writers of Greek, 
 Then I sang of the rose that is ruddy, 
 
 Of u pleasure that winces and stings," 
 Of white women, and wine that is bloody, 
 And similar things. 
 
 Of Delight that is dear as Desi-er, 
 And Desire that is dear as Delight ; 
 
 Of the fangs of the flame that is fi-er, < 
 Of the bruises of kisses that bite ; 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 Of embraces that clasp and that sever, 
 
 Of blushes that flutter and flee 
 Round the limbs of Dolores, whoever 
 
 Dolores may be. 
 
 I sang of false faith that is fleeting 
 
 As froth of the swallowing seas, 
 Time's curse that is fatal as Keating 
 
 Is fatal to amorous fleas ; 
 Of the wanness of woe that is whelp of 
 
 The lust that is blind as a bat 
 By the help of my Muse and the help of 
 
 The relative THAT. 
 
 Panatheist, bruiser and breaker 
 
 Of kings and the creatures of kings, 
 I shouted on Freedom to shake her 
 
 Feet loose of the fetter that clings ; 
 Far rolling my ravenous red eye, 
 
 And lifting a mutinous lid, 
 To all monarchs and matrons I said I 
 
 Would shock them and did. 
 
 Thee I sang, and thy loves, O Thalassian, 
 
 O " noble and nude and antique ! " 
 Unashamed in the " fearless old fashion," 
 
 Ere washing was done by the week ; 
 When the " roses and rapture " that girt you 
 
 Were visions of delicate vice, 
 And the " lilies and languors of virtue " 
 
 Not nearly so nice. 
 
 [ 280] 
 
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 delights of the time of my teething, 
 Felise, Fragoletta, Yolande ! 
 
 Foam-yeast of a youth in its seething 
 On blasted and blithering sand ! 
 
 Snake-crowned on your tresses and belted 
 With blossoms that coil and decay, 
 
 Yc are gone ; ye are lost ; ye are melted 
 Like ices in May. 
 
 Hushed now is the bibulous bubble 
 
 Of " lithe and lascivious " throats ; 
 Long stript and extinct is the stubble 
 Of hoary and harvested oats; , 
 
 From the sweets that are sour as the sorrel's 
 
 The bees have abortively swarmed ; 
 And Algernon's earlier morals 
 Are fairly reformed. 
 
 1 have written a loyal Armada, 
 
 And posed in a Jubilee pose ; 
 I have babbled of babies and played a 
 
 New tune on the turn of their toes ; 
 Washed white from the stain of Astarte, 
 
 My books any virgin may buy ; 
 And I hear I am praised by a party 
 
 Called Something Mackay ! 
 
 When erased are the records, and rotten 
 
 "The meshes of memory's net ; 
 When the grace that forgives has forgotten 
 
 The things that are good to forget ; 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 When the trill of my juvenile trumpet 
 Is tlead and its echoes are dead ; 
 
 Then the laurel shall lie on the crumpet 
 And crown of my head ! 
 
 Owen Seaman. 
 
 NEPHELIDIA 
 
 FROM the depth of the dreamy decline of the 
 dawn through a notable nimbus of 
 nebulous moonshine, 
 
 Pallid and pink as the palm of the flag-flower 
 that flickers with fe&r of the flies as they 
 float, 
 
 Are they looks of our lovers that lustrously lean 
 from a marvel of mystic miraculous moon- 
 shine, 
 
 These that we feel in the blood of our blushes 
 that thicken and threaten with throbs 
 through the throat ? 
 Thicken and thrill as a theatre thronged -a* "appeal 
 
 of an actor's appalled agitation, X~ 
 Fainter with fear of the fires of the future than 
 pale with the promise of pride in the past ; 
 Flushed with the famishing fulness of fever that 
 
 reddens with radiance of rathe recreation, 
 Gaunt as the ghastliest of glimpses that gleam 
 through the gloom of the gloaming when 
 "^^^ ghosts go aghast ? 
 Nay, for the nick of the tick of the time is a trem- 
 ulous touch on the temples of terror, 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 Strained as the sinews yet strenuous with strife 
 of the dead who is dumb as the dust-heaps 
 of death ; 
 Surely no soul is it, sweet as the spasm of erotic 
 
 emotional exquisite error, 
 Bathed in the balms of beatified bliss, beatific 
 
 itself by beatitude's breath. 
 Surely no spirit or sense of a soul that was soft to 
 
 the spirit and soul of our senses 
 Sweetens the stress of surprising suspicion that 
 sobs in the semblance and sound of a 
 sigh ; 
 Only this oracle opens Olympian, in mystical 
 
 moods and triangular tenses, 
 u Life is the lust of a lamp for the light that is 
 dark till the dawn of the day when we die." 
 Mild is the mirk and monotonous music of memory, 
 
 melodiously mute as it may be, 
 While the hope in the heart of a hero is bruised 
 by the breach of men's rapiers, resigned to 
 the rod ; 
 
 Made meek as a mother whose bosom-beats bound 
 with the bliss-bringing bulk of a balm- 
 breathing baby, 
 
 As they grope through the grave-yard of creeds, 
 under skies growing green at a groan for 
 the grimness of God. 
 Blank is the book of his bounty beholden of old, 
 
 and its binding is blacker than bluer : 
 Out of blue into black is the scheme of the 
 skies, and their dews are the wine of the 
 bloodshed of things ; 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 Till the darkling desire of delight shall be free as a 
 fawn that is freed from the fangs that 
 pursue her, 
 
 Till the heart-beats of hell shall be hushed by a 
 hymn from the hunt that has harried the 
 kennel of kings. 
 
 Algernon Charles Swinburne. 
 
 THE LAY OF MACARONI 
 
 AS a wave that steals when the winds are 
 stormy 
 From creek to cove of the curving shore, 
 Buffeted, blown, and broken before me, 
 
 Scattered and spread to its sunlit core : 
 As a dove that dips in the dark of maples 
 
 To sip the sweetness of shelter and shade, 
 I kneel in thy nimbus, O noon of Naples, 
 I bathe in thy beauty, by thee embayed. 
 
 What is it ails me that I should sing of her ? 
 
 The queen of the flashes and flames that were ! 
 Yea, I have felt the shuddering sting of her, 
 
 The flower-sweet throat and the hands of her ! 
 I have swayed and sung to the sound of he- 
 psalters, 
 
 I have danced her dances of dizzy delight, 
 I have hallowed mine hair to the horns of he: 
 altars, 
 
 Between the nightingale's song and the night ! 
 
 [ 284 ] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 What is it, Queen, that now I should do for thee ? 
 
 What is it now I should ask at thine hands ? 
 Blow of the trumpets thine children once blew for 
 thee ? 
 
 Break from thine feet and thine bosom the 
 
 bands ? 
 Nay, as sweet as the songs of Leone Leoni, 
 
 And gay as her garments of gem-sprinkled gold, 
 She gives me mellifluous, mild macaroni, 
 
 The choice of her children when cheeses are old ! 
 
 And over me hover, as if by the wings of it, 
 
 Frayed in the furnace by flame that is fleet, 
 The curious coils and the strenuous strings of it, 
 
 Dropping, diminishing down, as I eat ; 
 Lo! and the beautiful Queen, as she brings of it, 
 
 Lifts me the links of the limitless chain, 
 Bidding mine mouth chant the splendidest things 
 of it, 
 
 Out of the wealth of my wonderful brain ! 
 
 Behold ! I have done it: my stomach is smitten 
 With sweets of the surfeit her hands have 
 
 unrolled. 
 
 Italia, mine cheeks with thine kisses are bitten, 
 I am broken with beauty, stabbed, slaughtered, 
 
 and sold ! 
 No man of thy millions is more macaronied, 
 
 Save mighty Mazzini, than musical Me ; 
 The souls of the Ages shall stand as astonied, 
 And faint in the flame I am fanning for thee J 
 
 Bayard Taylor. 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 AFTER BRET HARTE 
 
 THE HEATHEN PASS-EE 
 By Bred Hard 
 
 WHICH I wish to remark, 
 And my language is plain, 
 That for plots that are dark 
 And not always in vain 
 The heathen Pass-ee is peculiar, 
 And the same I would rise to explain. 
 
 I would also premise 
 
 That the term of Pass-ee 
 Most fitly applies, 
 
 As you probably see, 
 To one whose vocation is passing 
 The ordinary B. A. degree. 
 
 Tom Crib was his name, 
 
 And I shall not deny 
 In regard to the same 
 
 What that name might imply ; 
 But his face it was trustful and childlike, 
 And he had a most innocent eye. 
 
 Upon April the First 
 
 The Little-Go fell, 
 And that was the worst 
 
 Of the gentleman's sell, 
 
 r ** 1 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 For he fooled the Examining Body 
 In a way I 'm reluctant to tell. 
 
 The candidates came, 
 And Tom Crib soon appeared 5 
 It was Euclid. The same 
 
 Was " the subject he feared ; " 
 But he smiled as he sat by the table, 
 With a smile that was wary and weird. 
 
 Yet he did what he could, 
 
 And the papers he showed 
 Were remarkably good, 
 
 And his countenance glowed 
 With prjde when I met him soon after 
 As he walked down the Trumpington Road, 
 
 We did not find him out, 
 
 Which I bitterly grieve, 
 For I 've not the least doubt 
 
 That he 'd placed up his sleeve 
 Mr. Todhunter's excellent Euclid, 
 The same with intent to deceive. 
 
 But I shall not forget 
 
 How the next day at two 
 A stiff paper was set 
 By Examiner U., 
 On Euripides' tragedy, Bacchae, 
 A subject Tom partially knew. 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 But the knowledge displayed 
 
 By that heathen Pass-ee, 
 And the answers he made, 
 
 Were quite frightful to see, 
 For he rapidly floored the whole paper 
 By about twenty minutes to three. 
 
 Then I looked up at U., 
 
 And he gazed upon me ; 
 I observed " This won't do ; " 
 He replied, u Goodness me ; 
 We are fooled by this artless young person," 
 And he sent for that heathen Pass-ee. 
 
 The scene that ensued 
 
 Was disgraceful to view, 
 For the floor it was strewed 
 
 With a tolerable few 
 
 Of the u tips " that Tom Crib had been hiding 
 For the subject he " partially knew." 
 
 On the cufF of his shirt 
 
 He had managed to get 
 What we hoped had been dirt, 
 But which proved, I regret, 
 To be notes on the rise of the Drama, 
 A question invariably set. 
 
 In his various coats 
 
 We proceeded to seek, 
 Where we found sundry notes 
 
 And with sorrow I speak 
 One of Bohn's publications, so useful 
 To the student in Latin or Greek. 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 In the crown of his cap 
 
 Were the Furies and Fates, 
 And a delicate map 
 
 Of the Dorian States ; 
 
 And we found in his palms, which were hollow, 
 What are frequent in palms, that is dates. 
 
 Which I wish to remark, 
 
 And my language is plain, 
 That for plots that are dark 
 
 And not always in vain 
 The heathen Pass-ee is peculiar, 
 Which the same I am free to maintain. 
 
 A. C. Hilton. 
 
 DE TEA FABULA 
 
 Plain Language from Truthful Barnes 
 
 DO I sleep ? Do I dream ? 
 Am I hoaxed by a scout ? 
 Are things what they seem, 
 Or is Sophists about ? 
 
 Is our TO TL r]v elvai a failure, or is Robert Browning 
 played out ? 
 
 Which expressions like these 
 
 May be fairly applied 
 By a party who sees 
 
 A Society skied 
 
 Upon tea that the Warden of Keble had bi'.?rl vilh 
 legitimate pride. 
 
 [19] [ 289 J 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 *T was November the third, 
 
 And I says to Bill Nye, 
 " Which it 's true what I 've heard : 
 
 If you're, so to speak, fly, 
 
 There 's a chance of some tea and cheap culture, 
 the sort recommended as High." 
 
 Which I mentioned its name, 
 
 And he ups and remarks: 
 " If dress-coats is the game 
 
 And pow-wow in the Parks, 
 
 Then I 'm nuts on Sordello and Hohenstiel-Schwan- 
 gau and similar Snarks." 
 
 Now the pride of Bill Nye 
 
 Cannot well be express'd ; 
 For he wore a white tie 
 
 And a cut-away vest : 
 
 Says I, "Solomon's lilies ain't in it, and they was 
 reputed well dress'd." 
 
 But not far did we wend, 
 
 When we saw Pippa pass 
 On the arm of a friend 
 
 Dr. Furnivall 't was, 
 
 And he wore in his hat two half-tickets for London, 
 return, second-class. 
 
 " Well," I thought, this is odd." 
 
 But we came pretty quick 
 To a sort of a quad 
 
 That was all of red brick, 
 
 And I says to the porter, u R. Browning: free 
 passes ; and kindly look slick." 
 [ 290 ] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 But says he, dripping tears 
 
 In his check handkerchief, 
 u That symposium's career 's 
 
 Been regrettably brief, 
 
 For it went all its pile upon crumpets and busted 
 on gunpowder leaf! " 
 
 Then we tucked up the sleeves 
 
 Of our shirts (that were biled), 
 Which the reader perceives 
 
 That our feelings were riled, 
 
 And we went for that man till his mother had 
 doubted the traits of her child. 
 
 Which emotions like these 
 
 Must be freely indulged 
 By a party who sees 
 
 A Society bulged 
 
 On a reef the existence of which its prospectus had 
 never divulged. 
 
 But I ask, Do I dream ? 
 
 Has it gone up the spout ? 
 Are things what they seem, 
 Or is Sophists about ? 
 
 Is our TO n rfv elvai a failure, or is Robert Brown- 
 ing played out ? 
 
 A. T. Quiller -Couch. 
 
 [ 291 ] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 AFTER AUSTIN DOBSON 
 
 THE PRODIGALS 
 
 (Dedicated to Mr. Chaplin, M.P., and Mr. Rich 
 ard Power, M.P., and 223 who followed him) 
 
 MINISTERS ! you, most serious, 
 Critics and statesmen of all degrees, 
 Hearken awhile to the motion of us 
 Senators keen for the Epsom breeze ! 
 Nothing we ask of poets or fees ; 
 Worry us not with objections, pray ! 
 
 Lo, for the speaker's wig we seize 
 Give us, ah ! give us the Derby Day. 
 
 Scots most prudent, penurious ! 
 
 Irishmen busy as bumblebees ! 
 Hearken awhile to the motion of us 
 
 Senators keen for the Epsom breeze ! 
 
 For Sir Joseph's sake, and his owner's, please ! 
 (Solomon raced like fun, they say.) 
 
 Lo, for we beg on our bended knees 
 Give us, ah ! give us the Derby Day. 
 
 Campbell Asheton be generous [ 
 
 (But they voted such things were not the cheese.) 
 Sullivan, hear us, magnanimous ! . 
 
 (But Sullivan thought with their enemies.) 
 
 r *9* i 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 And shortly they got both of help and ease, 
 For a mad majority crowded to say, 
 
 " Debate we Ve drunk to the dregs and lees : 
 Give us, ah ! give us the Derby Day." 
 
 ENVOI : 
 
 Prince, most just was the motion of these, 
 And many were seen by the dusty way, 
 
 Shouting glad to the Epsom breeze 
 Give us, ah ! give us the Derby Day. 
 
 Anonymous, 
 
 I w ] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 AFTER ANDREW LANG 
 
 BO-PEEP 
 
 UNHAPPY is Bo-Peep, 
 Her tears profusely flow, 
 Because her precious sheep 
 Have wandered to and fro, 
 Have chosen far to go, 
 For " pastures new " inclined, 
 
 (See Lycidas) and lo ! 
 Their tails are still behind ! 
 
 How catch them while asleep ? 
 
 (I think Gaboriau 
 For machinations deep 
 
 Beats Conan Doyle and Co.) 
 
 But none a hint bestow 
 Save this, on how to find 
 
 The flocks she misses so 
 " Their tails are still behind ! " 
 
 This simple faith to keep 
 
 Will mitigate her woe, 
 She is not Joan, to leap 
 
 To arms against the foe 
 
 Or conjugate TVTTTCO ; 
 Nay, peacefully resigned 
 
 She waits, till time shall show 
 Their tails are still behind ! 
 [ 2 94 J 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 Bo-Peep, rejoice ! Although 
 Your sheep appear unkind, 
 
 Rejoice at last to know 
 
 Their tails are still behind ! 
 
 Anthony C. Deane. 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 AFTER W. E. HENLEY 
 
 IMITATION 
 
 CALM and implacable, 
 Eying disdainfully the world beneath, 
 Sat Humpty-Dumpty on his mural eminence 
 In solemn state : 
 And I relate his story 
 In versa unfettered by the bothering restrictions of 
 
 rhyme or metre, 
 
 In verse (or " rhythm," as I prefer to call it) 
 Which, consequently, is far from difficult to write. 
 
 He sat. And at his feet 
 
 The world passed on the surging crowd 
 
 Of men and women, passionate, turgid, dense, 
 
 Keenly alert, lethargic, or obese. 
 
 (Those two lines scan !) 
 
 Among the rest 
 
 He noted Jones ; Jones with his Roman nose, 
 
 His eyebrows the left one streaked with a dash 
 
 of gray 
 And yellow boots. 
 Not that Jones 
 Has anything in particular to do with the story ; 
 
 [ 296] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 But a descriptive phrase 
 
 Like the above shows that the writer is 
 
 A Master of Realism. 
 
 Let us proceed. Suddenly from his seat 
 
 Did Humpty-Dumpty slip. Vainly he clutched 
 
 The impalpable air. Down and down, 
 
 Right to the foot of the wall, 
 
 Right on to the horribly hard pavement that ran 
 beneath it, 
 
 Humpty-Dumpty, the unfortunate Humpty- 
 Dumpty, "V 
 
 Fell. 
 
 And him, alas ! no equine agency, 
 
 Him no power of regal battalions 
 
 Resourceful, eager, strenuous - 
 
 Could ever restore to the lofty eminence 
 
 Which once was his. 
 
 Still he lies on the very identical 
 
 Spot where he fell lies, as I said on the ground, 
 
 Shamefully and conspicuously abased ! 
 
 Anthony C. Deane 
 
 I 2 97 ] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 AFTER R. L. STEVENSON 
 
 BED DURING EXAMS 
 
 I USED to go to bed at night, 
 And only worked when day was light. 
 But now 'tis quite the other way, 
 I never get to bed till day. 
 
 I look up from my work and see 
 The morning light shine in on me, 
 And listen to the warning knell 
 The tinkle of the rising bell. 
 
 And does there not seem cause to weep, 
 When I should like so much to sleep, 
 I have to sing this mournful lay, 
 I cannot get to bed till day ? 
 
 Clara Warren 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 AFTER OSCAR WILDE 
 
 MORE IMPRESSIONS 
 (La Fuite des Dies') 
 
 TO outer senses they are geese, 
 Dull drowsing by a weedy pool ; 
 But try the impression trick. Cool ! Cool ! 
 Snow-slumbering sentinels of Peace! 
 
 Deep silence on the shadowy flood, 
 
 Save rare sharp stridence (that means " quack "), 
 
 Low amber light in Ariel track 
 Athwart the dun (that means the mud). 
 
 And suddenly subsides the sun, 
 
 Bulks mystic, ghostly, thrid the gloom 
 
 (That means the white geese waddling home ), 
 
 And darkness reigns ! (See how it 's done ?) 
 
 Oscuro Wildgoose. 
 
 NURSERY RHYMES A LA MODE 
 
 (Our nurseries will soon be too cultured to admit the 
 old rhymes In their Philistine and un^sthetic garb. 
 They may be redressed somewhat on this model) 
 
 OH, but she was dark and shrill, 
 (Hey-de-diddle and hey-de-dee ! ) 
 The cat that (on the first April) 
 Played the fiddle on the lea. 
 [ 290 1 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 Oh, and the moon was wan and bright, 
 (Hey-de-diddle and hey-de-dee !) 
 The Cow she looked nor left nor right, 
 But took it straight at a jump, pardie ! 
 
 The hound did laugh to see this thing, 
 (Hey-de-diddle and hey-de-dee ! ) 
 
 As it was parlous wantoning, 
 
 (Ah, good my gentles, laugh not ye,) 
 
 And underneath a dreesome moon 
 Two lovers fled right piteouslie ; 
 
 A spooney plate with a plated spoon, 
 (Hey-de-diddle and hey-de-dee !) 
 
 POSTSCRIPT 
 
 Then blame me not, altho' my verse 
 
 Sounds like an echo of C. S. C. 
 Since still they make ballads that worse and worse 
 
 Savor of diddle and hey-de-dee. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 A MAUDLE-IN BALLAD 
 
 (To his Lily) 
 
 MY lank limp lily, my long lithe lily, 
 My languid lily-love fragile and thin, 
 With dank leaves dangling and flower-flap 
 
 chilly, 
 
 That shines like the shin of a Highland gilly ! 
 Mottled and moist as a cold toad's skin ! 
 Lustrous and leper-white, splendid and splay ! 
 Art thou not Utter and wholly akin 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 To my own wan soul and my own wan chin, 
 And my own wan nose-tip, tilted to sway 
 The peacock's feather, sweeter than sin, 
 That I bought for a halfpenny yesterday ? 
 
 My long lithe lily, my languid lily, 
 
 My lank limp lily-love, how shall I win 
 
 Woo thee to wink at me ? Silver lily, 
 
 How shall I sing to thee, softly or shrilly ? 
 
 What shall I weave for thee what shall I spin 
 
 Rondel, or rondeau, or virelai ? 
 
 Shall I buzz like a bee with my face thrust in 
 
 Thy choice, chaste chalice, or choose me a tin 
 
 Trumpet, or touchingly, tenderly play 
 
 On the weird bird-whistle, sweeter than sin, 
 
 That I bought for a halfpenny yesterday. 
 
 My languid lily, my lank limp lily, 
 My long lithe lily-love, men may grin 
 Say that I 'm soft and supremely silly 
 What care I while you whisper stilly ; 
 What care I while you smile ? , Not a pin ! 
 While you smile, you whisper 'T is sweet 
 to decay ? 
 
 I have watered with chlorodine, tears of chagrin, 
 The churchyard mould I have planted thee in, 
 Upside down in an intense way, 
 In a rough red flower-pot, sweeter than sin, 
 That I bought for a halfpenny yesterday. 
 
 Punch. 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 QUITE THE CHEESE 
 (By a Wilde ^Esthete} 
 
 THERE was once a maiden who loved a 
 cheese ; 
 Sing) hey! potatoes and paint! 
 She could eat a pound and a half with ease 
 Oh) the odorous air was faint ! 
 
 What was the cheese that she loved the best r 
 
 Sing) hey, red pepper and rags ! 
 You will find it out if you read the rest ; 
 
 Oh, the horrors of frowning crags ! ' 
 
 Came lovers to woo her from ev'ry land 
 Sing, hey ! fried bacon and files ! 
 
 They asked for her heart, but they meant her 
 
 hand, 
 Oh) the joy of the Happy Isles. 
 
 A haughty old Don from Oporto came; 
 ^ Sing) hey / new carrots and nails ! 
 The Duke of GORGONZOLA, his famous name, 
 Oh) the lusciously-scented gales ! 
 
 Lord STILTON ^belonged to a mighty line ! 
 'Sing) hey! salt herrings and stones ! 
 He was " Blue " as chine his taste divine ! 
 Oh) the sweetness of dulcet tones. 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 Came stout DOUBLE GLO'STER a man and wife, 
 
 Sing) bey ! post pillars and pies ! 
 And the son was SINGLE, and fair as fate 5 
 
 Oh) the purple of sunset skies ! 
 
 DE CAMEMBERT came from his sunny France, 
 Sing) hey ! pork cutlets and pearls ! 
 
 He would talk sweet nothings, and sing and dance, 
 Oh) the sighs of the soft sweet girls. 
 
 Came GRUYERE so pale ! a most hole-y man ! 
 
 Sing) hey ! red sandstone and rice ! 
 But the world saw through him as worldings can, 
 
 Oh) the breezes from Isles of Spice. 
 
 But the maiden fair loved no cheese but one! 
 
 Sing) hey ! acrostics and ale ! 
 Save for SINGLE GLO'STER she love had none ! 
 
 Oh) the roses on fair cheeks pale ! 
 
 He was fair and single and so was she ! 
 
 Sing) hey ! tomatoes and tar ! 
 And so now you know which it is to be ! 
 
 Oh) the aid of a lucky star ! 
 
 They toasted the couple the livelong night, 
 
 Sing) hey! cast iron and carp ! 
 And engaged a poet this song to write. 
 
 Oh) the breathing JEolian harp! 
 
 So he wrote this ballad at vast expense ! 
 
 Sing) hey ! pump-handles and peas ! 
 And, though you may think it devoid of sense, 
 
 Oh, he fancies it QU.TTE THE CHEESE ! 
 
 [30- ; H. C. Waring 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 AFTER WILLIAM WATSON 
 
 THE THREE MICE 
 
 r I ^HREE mice three sightless mice averse 
 
 from strife, 
 
 Peaceful descendants of the Armenian race, 
 Intent on finding some secluded place 
 Wherein to pass their inoffensive life ; 
 How little dreamt they of that farmer's wife 
 The Forte's malicious minion giving chase, 
 And in a moment ah, the foul disgrace ! 
 Shearing their tails off with a carving-knife ! 
 
 And oh, my unemotional countrymen, 
 Who choose to dally and to temporize, 
 
 When once before with vitriolic pen 
 I told the tale of Turkish infamies, 
 
 Once more I call to vengeance, now as then, 
 Shouting the magic word " Atrocities ! " 
 
 Anthony C. Deane 
 
 [ 304 J 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 AFTER KIPLING 
 
 FUZZY WUZZY LEAVES US 
 
 WE 'VE been visited by men across the seas, 
 And some of them could write, and some 
 could not \ 
 The English, French, and German whom you 
 
 please, 
 
 But Kipling was the finest of the lot. 
 In sooth, we 're loath to lose him from our list ; 
 Though he 's not been wholly kind in all his 
 
 dealings ; 
 
 Indeed from first to last I must insist, 
 He has played the cat and banjo with our feelings. 
 
 But here 's to you, Mr. Kipling, with your 
 
 comments and your slurs ; 
 You 're a poor, benighted Briton, but the 
 
 Prince of Raconteurs ! 
 We '11 give you your certificate, and if you 
 
 want it signed, 
 Come back and have a fling at us whenever 
 
 you 're inclined ! 
 
 You harrowed us with murder and with blood; 
 You dipped us deep in Simla's petty guile ; 
 Yet we have found ourselves misunderstood 
 When we served you a sensation in our style ; 
 
 [20] [ 305 1 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 And though you saw some grewsome pictures 
 
 through 
 
 The Windy City's magnifying lens, 
 Yet we took it just a little hard of you, 
 A-objecting to the slaughter of our pens ! 
 
 But here's to you, Mr. Kipling, and the boys 
 
 of Lung-tung-pen, 
 And all we have to ask you is, make 'em kill 
 
 again ! 
 For though we 're crude in some things here, 
 
 which fact I much deplore, 
 We know genius when we see it, and we 're not 
 
 afraid of gore. 
 
 And yet we love you best on Greenough Hill, 
 
 By Bisesa and her sisters dark perplext ; 
 
 In your sermons, which have power to lift and 
 
 thrill 
 
 Just because they have the heart of man as text ; 
 And when you bend, the little ones to please, 
 With Bagheera and Baloo at hide and seek, 
 Oh ! a happy hour with Mowgli in the trees 
 Sets a little chap a-dreaming for a week. 
 
 So, here 's to you, Mr. Kipling, and to Mowgli and 
 
 Old Kaa, 
 And to her who loved and waited where the 
 
 Gates of Sorrow are ; 
 For where is brush more potent to paint since 
 
 Art began 
 The white love of a Woman and the red 
 
 blood of a Man. 
 
 [ 306] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 So, since to us you 've given such delight, 
 We hope that you won't think us quite so bad. 
 You 're all hot sand and ginger, when you write, 
 Hut we 're sure you 're only shamming when 
 
 you 're mad. 
 
 Yet so you leave us Gunga Din's salaam, 
 So you incarnate Mulvaney on a spree ; 
 Mr. Kipling, sir, we do not " care a damn " 
 For the comments you may make on such as we ! 
 
 Then here 's to you, Mr. Kipling, and 
 
 Columbia avers 
 You 're a poor, benighted Briton, but the 
 
 Prince of Raconteurs. 
 You may scathe us, and may leave us ; still 
 
 in our hearts will stay 
 The man who made Mulvaney and the road 
 
 to Mandalay. 
 
 E. P. C. 
 
 A BALLAD 
 
 (In the manner of R-dy-rd K-pl-ng) 
 
 \S I w 
 tig 
 I see 
 
 S I was walkin' the jungle round, a-killin' of 
 tigers an' time; 
 
 seed a kind of an author man a writin' a 
 rousin' rhyme ; 
 ? E was writin' a mile a minute an' more, an' I sez 
 
 to 'im, " 'Oo are you ? " 
 
 Sez 'e, "I'm a poet 'er majesty's poet soldier 
 an' sailor, too ! " 
 
 1 307 ] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 An 'is poem began in Ispahan an' ended in Kala- 
 
 mazoo, 
 It 'ad army in it, an' navy in it, an' jungle sprinkled 
 
 through, 
 For 'e was a poet 'er majesty's poet soldier an' 
 
 sailor, too ! 
 
 An' after, I met 'im all over the world, a doin' of 
 
 things a host; 
 'E 'ad one foot planted in Burmah, an' one on the 
 
 Gloucester coast ; 
 'E 's 'alf a sailor an' 'alf a whaler, 'e 's captain, 
 
 cook, and crew, 
 But most a poet 'er majesty's poet soldier an' 
 
 sailor too ! 
 'E 's often Scot an' 'e 's often not, but 'is work is 
 
 never through, 
 For 'e laughs at blame, an' 'e writes for fame, an' 
 
 a bit for revenoo, 
 Bein' a poet 'er majesty's poet soldier an' sailor 
 
 too! 
 
 'E '11 take you up to the Ar'tic zone, 'e '11 take you 
 
 down to the Nile., 
 'E '11 give you a barrack ballad in the Tommy 
 
 Atkins style, 
 Or 'e'll sing you a Dipsy Chantey, as the bloomin' 
 
 bo'suns do, 
 For 'e is a poet 'er majesty's poet soldier an' 
 
 sailor too. 
 An' there is n't no room for others, an' there 's 
 
 nothin' left to do; 
 
 [ 308 ] 
 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 E 'as sailed the main from the 'Orn to Spain, 'e 
 
 'as tramped the jungle through, 
 ^\n' written up all there is to write soldier an' 
 
 sailor, too ! 
 
 Fhere are manners an' manners of writin', but 'is 
 
 is the proper way, 
 ^n' it ain't so hard to be a bard if you '11 imitate 
 
 Rudyard K. ; 
 
 But sea an' shore an' peace an' war, an' every- 
 thing else in view 
 E 'as gobbled the lot! 'er majesty's poet 
 
 soldier a'n sailor, too. 
 E 's not content with 'is Indian 'ome, 'e 's looking 
 
 for regions new, 
 In another year 'e '11 'ave swept 'em clear, an' 
 
 what '11 the rest of us do ? 
 E's crowdin' us out ! 'er majesty's poet soldier 
 
 an' sailor too ! 
 
 Guy Wetmore Carry!. 
 
 JACK AND JILL 
 
 1TJERE is the tale and you must make the most 
 Li of it! 
 
 Here is the rhyme ah, listen and attend ! 
 Backwards forwards read it all and boast of it 
 If you are anything the wiser at the end ! 
 
 Mow Jack looked up it was time to sup, and the 
 bucket was yet to fill ; 
 [ 309 ] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 And Jack looked round for a space and frowned, 
 
 then beckoned his sister Jill, 
 And twice he pulled his sister's hair, and thrice he 
 
 smote her side ; 
 u Ha' done, ha' done with your impudent fun ha' 
 
 done, with your games ! " she cried ; 
 u You have made mud-pies of a marvellous size 
 
 finger and face are black, 
 You have trodden the Way of the Mire and Clay 
 
 now up and wash you, Jack ! 
 Or else, or ever we reach our home, there waiteth 
 
 an angry dame 
 Well you know the weight of her blow the 
 
 supperless open shame ! 
 Wash, if you will, on yonder hill wash if you 
 
 will, at the spring, 
 Or keep your dirt, to your certain hurt, and an 
 
 imminent walloping ! " 
 
 
 
 u You must wash you must scrub you must 
 
 scrape ! " growled Jack, u you must traffic 
 
 with can and pails, 
 Nor keep the spoil of the good brown soil in the 
 
 rim of your fingernails ! 
 The morning path you must tread to your bath 
 
 you must wash ere the night descends, 
 And all for the cause of conventional laws and the 
 
 soapmaker's dividends ! 
 But if 't is sooth that our meal in truth depends on 
 
 our washing, Jill, 
 By the sacred right of our appetite haste haste 
 
 to the top of the hill ! " 
 L 3'o] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 They have trodden the Way of the Mire and Clay, 
 
 they have toiled and travelled far, 
 They have climbed to the brow of the hill-top now, 
 
 where the bubbling fountains are, 
 They have taken the bucket and filled it up yea, 
 
 filled it up to the brim ; 
 But Jack he sneered at his sister Jill, and Jill she 
 
 jeered at him : 
 " What, blown already ! " Jack cried out (and his 
 
 was a biting mirth ! ) 
 u You boast indeed of your wonderful speed but 
 
 what is the boasting worth ? 
 Now, if you can run as the antelope runs, and it 
 
 you can turn like a hare, 
 
 Come, race me, Jill, to the foot of the hill and 
 
 prove your boasting fair ! " 
 Race ? What is a race ? " (and a mocking face 
 
 had Jill as she spake the word) 
 Unless for a prize the runner tries ? The truth 
 
 indeed ye heard, 
 For I can run as the antelope runs, and I can turn 
 
 like a hare : 
 The first one down wins half a crown and I will 
 
 race you there ! " 
 "Yea, if for the lesson that you will learn (the 
 
 lesson of humbled pride), 
 The price you fix at two-and-six, it shall not be 
 
 denied ; 
 Come, take your stand at my right hand, for here 
 
 is the mark we toe : 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 Now, are you ready, and are you steady ? Gird 
 up your petticoats ? Go ! " 
 
 And Jill she ran like a winging bolt, a bolt from 
 
 the bow released, 
 But Jack like a stream of the lightning gleam, wit. \ 
 
 its pathway duly greased ; 
 He ran down hill in front of Jill like a summer 
 
 lightning flash 
 Till he suddenly tripped on a stone, or slipped, and 
 
 fell to the earth with a crash. 
 Then straight did rise on his wondering eyes the 
 
 constellations fair, 
 Arcturus and the Pleiades, the Greater and Lesser 
 
 Bear, 
 The swirling rain of a comet's train he saw, as he 
 
 swiftly fell 
 And Jill came tumbling after him with a loud, 
 
 triumphant yell : 
 " You have won, you have won, the race is done ! 
 
 And as for the wager laid 
 You have fallen down with a broken crown the 
 
 half-crown debt is paid ! " 
 
 They have taken Jack to the room at the back 
 
 where the family medicines are, 
 And he lies in bed with a broken head in a halo of 
 
 vinegar ; 
 While, in that Jill had laughed her fill as her brother 
 
 fell to earth 
 She had felt the sting of a walloping she hath 
 
 paid the price of her mirth ! 
 [ 3" ] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 Here is the tale and now you have the whole of it ! 
 
 Here is the story, well and wisely planned ; 
 Beauty Duty these make up the soul of it 
 But, ah, my little readers, will you mark and 
 understand ? 
 
 Anthony C. Deane. 
 
 THE LEGEND OF REALISM 
 
 THIS is the sorrowful story, 
 Told when the twilight fails, 
 And the authors sit together 
 Reading each other's tales. 
 
 " Our fathers lived in the cloudland, 
 
 They were Romanticists, 
 They went down to the valley 
 
 To play with the Scientists. 
 
 " Our fathers murmured of moonshine, 
 Our fathers sang to the stars, 
 
 Our fathers were playfully prolix, 
 Our fathers knew nothing of c pars.' 
 
 u Then came the terrible savants, 
 Nothing of play they knew, 
 
 Only they caught our fathers, 
 And set them to burrow too. 
 
 " Set them to work in the workshop, 
 With crucible, test, and scales, 
 
 Put them in mud-walled prisons, 
 And cut up their beautiful tales. 
 
 [313] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 " Now we can read our fathers, 
 Trenchant, and terse, and cold, 
 
 Stooping to dig in dust-heaps, 
 Sharing the common mold. 
 
 a Driving a quill quotidian, 
 
 Mending a muddy plot, 
 Sitting in mud-walled prison^ 
 
 Steeping their souls in rot. 
 
 " Thus and so do our fathers, 
 
 Thus and so must we do, 
 For we are the slaves of science, 
 
 And we are Realists too." 
 
 This is the horrible story, 
 
 Told as the twilight fails, 
 And the authors sit together 
 
 Reading each other's tales. 
 
 Hilda Johnson, 
 
 [314] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 AFTER STEPHEN PHILLIPS 
 
 LITTLE JACK HORNER 
 
 LITTLE JACK HORNER sat in an angle 
 Meditating. 
 Before we go farther, 
 
 Please clearly understand this is blank verse. 
 If it reads strangely, and the accent falls 
 In unexpected places, do not dare 
 To criticise. Remember once for all, 
 That I and Milton judge questions like that 
 Vide my letters to the daily press. 
 As for my critics wholesale ignorance 
 Were a term far too mild to paint their gross 
 Unintellectuality. So much said, 
 I start again. 
 
 In a corner he sat, 
 
 Remote from comrades. Resolutely his hand 
 Clutched a delicious pie. Anon his thumb 
 From the pasty depth produced a currant. 
 
 (Excuse another interruption, but 
 Observe the beauty of that ultimate line ! 
 With equal ease I might have written it 
 " Produced a currant from the pasty depth," 
 But I and Milton in his better moments 
 
 lr-s J 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 Prefer to be original.) In his soul 
 The obsession of his own superior virtue 
 Grew and prevailed, till at the last he cried : 
 u I am a Paragon of Excellence ! " 
 
 Happy Jack Horner, thus fully convinced 
 Of his remarkable superiority ! 
 And happy readers, who peruse his tale 
 Retold in such magnificent blank verse ! 
 
 Antbony C. Deane* 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 AFTER FIONA McLEOD, W. B. 
 YEATS, AND OTHERS 
 
 THE CULT OF THE CELTIC 
 
 WHEN the eager squadrons of day are faint 
 and disbanded, 
 And under the wind-swept stars the 
 reaper gleans 
 The petulant passion flowers although, to be 
 
 candid, 
 I haven't the faintest notion what that means 
 
 Surely the Snow-White Bird makes melody sweeter 
 High in the air than skimming the clogging 
 
 dust. 
 (Yes, there 's certainly something queer about this 
 
 metre, 
 
 But, as it 's Celtic, you and I must take it on 
 trust.) 
 
 And oh, the smile of the Slave as he shakes his 
 
 fetters ! 
 
 And oh, the Purple Pig as it roams afar ! 
 And oh, the something or other in capital let- 
 ters 
 
 As it yields to the magic spell of a wind-swept 
 star ! 
 
 [317] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 And look at the tricksy Elves, how they leap and 
 
 frolic, 
 
 Ducking the Bad Banshee in the moonlit pool, 
 Celtic, yet fully content to be u symbolic," 
 
 Never a thought in their heads about Home 
 Rule! 
 
 But the wind-swept star you notice it has to 
 
 figure, 
 
 Taking an average merely, in each alternate verse 
 Of every Celtic poem smiles with a palpable 
 
 snigger, 
 
 While the Yellow Wolf-Hound bays his blight- 
 ing curse, 
 
 And the voices of dead desires in sufferers waken, 
 And the voice of the limitless lake is harsh and 
 
 rough, 
 
 And the voice of the reader, too, unless I 'm mis- 
 taken, 
 Is heard to remark that he 's had about enough. 
 
 But since the critics have stated with some decision 
 That stanzas very like these are simply grand, 
 
 Showing u a sense of beauty and intimate vision," 
 Proving a u Celtic Renaissance " close at hand ; 
 
 Then, although I admit it 's a terrible tax on 
 Powers like mine, yet I sincerely felt 
 
 My task, as an unintelligent Saxon, 
 
 Was, at all hazards, to try to copy the Celt ! 
 
 Anthony C. Deane, 
 
 [ 318] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 AFTER VARIOUS WRITERS OF 
 VERS DE SOCIETE 
 
 BEHOLD THE DEEDS! 
 (Chant Royal) 
 
 (Being the Plaint of Adolphe Culpepper Ferguson, 
 Salesman of Fancy Notions, held in durance of his 
 Landlady for a failure to connect on Saturday 
 night) 
 
 I 
 
 I WOULD that all men my hard case might 
 know; 
 How grievously I suffer for no sin : 
 I, Adolphe Culpepper Ferguson, for lo ! 
 
 I, of my landlady am locked in. 
 For being short on this sad Saturday, 
 Nor having shekels of silver wherewith to pay, 
 She has turned and is departed with my key; 
 Wherefore, not even as other boarders free, 
 
 I sing (as prisoners to their dungeon stones 
 When for ten days they expiate a spree) : 
 
 Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones ! 
 
 II 
 
 One night and one day have I wept my woe ; 
 
 Nor wot I when the morrow doth begin, 
 If I shall have to write to Briggs & Co., 
 
 To pray them to advance th^ requisite tin 
 F 3*9 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 For ransom of their salesman, that he may 
 Go forth as other boarders go alway 
 As those I hear now flocking from their tea, 
 Led by the daughter of my landlady 
 
 Pianoward. This day for all my moans, 
 Dry bread and water have been served me. 
 
 Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones! 
 
 in 
 
 Miss Amabel Jones is musical, and so 
 
 The heart of the young he-boarder doth win, 
 Playing " The Maiden's Prayer," adagio 
 
 That fetcheth him, as fetcheth the banco skin 
 The innocent rustic. For my part, I pray : 
 That Badarjewska maid may wait for aye 
 Ere sits she with a lover, as did we 
 Once sit together, Amabel ! Can it be 
 
 That all of that arduous wooing not atones 
 For Saturday shortness of trade dollars three ? 
 
 Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones ! 
 
 IV 
 
 Yea ! she forgets the arm was wont to go 
 
 Around her waist. She wears a buckle whose 
 
 pin 
 Galleth the crook of the young man's elbow; 
 
 I forget not, for I that youth have been. 
 Smith was aforetime the Lothario gay. 
 Yet once, I mind me, Smith was forced to stay 
 Close in his room. Not calm, as I, was he; 
 [ 3'] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 But his noise brought no pleasaunce, verily. 
 
 Small ease he gat of playing on the bones, 
 Or hammering on his stove-pipe, that I see. 
 
 Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones ! 
 
 Thou, for whose fear the figurative crow 
 
 I eat, accursed be thou and all thy kin ! 
 Thee will I show up yea, up will I show 
 
 Thy too thick buckwheats, and thy tea too thin 
 Ay ! here I dare thee, ready for the fray ! 
 Thou dost not keep a first-class house, I say ! 
 It does not with the advertisements agree. 
 Thou lodgest a Briton with a pugaree, 
 
 And thou hast harbored Jacobses and Cohns, 
 Also a Mulligan. Thus denounce I thee ! 
 
 Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones! 
 
 ENVOY 
 
 Boarders ! the worst I have not told to ye : 
 She hath stole my trousers, that I may not flee 
 
 Privily by the window. Hence these groans, 
 There is no fleeing in a robe de nuit. 
 
 Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones ! 
 
 H. C. Bunner. 
 
 [ 3" 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 CULTURE IN THE SLUMS 
 
 (Inscribed to an Intense Poet) 
 
 " /"X CRIKEY, Bill ! " she ses to me, she ses, 
 I 1 " Look sharp," ses she, " with them there 
 
 sossiges. 
 
 Yea ! sharp with them there bags of mysteree ! 
 For lo !" she ses, " for lo! old pal," ses she, 
 
 " I 'm blooming peckish, neither more or less." 
 Was it not prime I leave you all to guess 
 How prime to have a Jude in love's distress 
 Come spooning round, and murmuring balmilee, 
 O crikey, Bill ! " 
 
 For in such rorty wise doth Love express 
 
 His blooming views, and asks for your address, 
 
 And makes it right, and does the gay and free. 
 I kissed her I did so ! And her and me 
 Was pals. And if that ain't good business, 
 
 O crikey, Bill ! 
 
 W. E. Hen/ey. 
 
 A BALLADE OF BALLADE-MONGERS 
 
 (After the manner of Master Francois Villon of Paris) 
 
 
 i 
 
 N Ballades things always contrive to get lost, 
 
 And Echo is constantly asking where 
 Are last year's roses and last year's frost ? 
 And where are the fashions we used to wear? 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 And what is a "gentleman," and what is a " player" ? 
 
 Irrelevant questions I like to ask : 
 Can you reap the tret as well as the tare ? 
 
 And who was the Man in the Iron Mask ? 
 
 What has become of the ring I tossed 
 
 In the lap of my mistress false and fair? 
 Her grave is green and her tombstone mossed ; 
 
 But who is to be the next Lord Mayor ? 
 And where is King William, of Leicester Square ? 
 
 And who has emptied my hunting flask ? 
 And who is possessed of Stella's hair ? 
 
 And who was the Man in the Iron Mask ? 
 
 And what became of the knee I crossed, 
 
 And the rod and the child they would not spare ? 
 And what will a dozen herring cost 
 
 When herring are sold at three halfpence a pair ? 
 And what in the world is the Golden Stair ? 
 
 Did Diogenes die in a tub or cask, 
 Like Clarence , for love of liquor there ? 
 
 And who was the Man in the Iron Mask? 
 
 ENVOY 
 
 Poets, your readers have much to bear, 
 For Ballade-making is no great task, 
 
 If you do not remember, I don't much care 
 Who was the man in the Iron Mask. 
 
 Augustus M. Moore 
 
 [3*3 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 AFTER VARIOUS POPULAR 
 SONGS 
 
 BEAUTIFUL SNOW 
 
 (With a drift} 
 
 OH ! the snow, the beautiful snow 
 (This is a parody, please, you know , 
 Over and over again you may meet 
 Parodies writ on this poem so sweet ; 
 Rhyming, chiming, skipping along, 
 Comical bards think they do nothing wrong \ 
 Striving to follow what others have done, 
 One to the number may keep up the fun). 
 Beautiful snow, so gently you scud, 
 Pure for a minute, then dirty as mud ! 
 
 Oh ! the snow, the beautiful snow ! 
 Here 's a fine mess you have left us below , 
 Chilling our feet to the tips of our toes; 
 Cheekily landing full pert on our nose; 
 Jinking, slinking, ever you try 
 'Neath our umbrella to flop in our eye; 
 Gamins await us at every new street, 
 Watching us carefully, guiding our feet, 
 Joking, mocking, ready to throw 
 A hard-compressed ball of this beautiful snow 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 THE NEWEST THING IN CHRISTMAS 
 CAROLS 
 
 GOD rest you, merry gentlemen ! 
 May nothing you dismay ; 
 Not even the dyspeptic plats 
 Through which you'll eat your way; 
 Nor yet the heavy Christmas bills 
 
 The season bids you pay ; 
 No, nor the ever tiresome need 
 Of being to order gay ; 
 
 Nor yet the shocking cold you '11 catch 
 
 If fog and slush hold sway ; 
 Nor yet the tumbles you must bear 
 
 If frost should win the day ; 
 Nor sleepless nights they 're sure to come 
 
 When " waits " attune their lay ; 
 Nor pantomimes, whose dreariness 
 
 Might turn macassar gray; 
 
 Nor boisterous children, home in heaps, 
 
 And ravenous of play ; 
 Nor yet in fact, the host of ills 
 
 Which Christmases array. 
 God rest you, merry gentlemen, 
 
 May none of these dismay ! 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 [3*5] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 THE TALE OF LORD LOVELL 
 
 LORD LOVELL he stood at his own front 
 door, 
 
 Seeking the hole for the key ; 
 His hat was wrecked, and his trousers bore 
 
 A rent across either knee, 
 When down came the beauteous Lady Jane 
 In fair white draperie. 
 
 u Oh, where have you been, Lord Lovell ? " she 
 said, 
 
 u Oh, where have you been ? " said she ; 
 " I have not closed an eye in bed, 
 
 And the clock has just struck three. 
 Who has been standing you on your head 
 
 In the ash-barrel, pardie ? " 
 
 " I am not drunk, Lad' Shane," he said : 
 
 u And so late it cannot be ; 
 The clock struck one as I entered 
 
 I heard it two times or three ; 
 It must be the salmon on which I fed 
 
 Has been too many for me." 
 
 " Go tell your tale, Lord Lovell," she said, 
 
 " To the maritime cavalree, 
 To your grandmother of the hoary head 
 
 To any one but me : 
 The door is not used to be opened 
 
 With a cigarette for a key." 
 
 [ 326 ] Anonymous. 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 "SONGS WITHOUT WORDS" 
 
 I CANNOT sing the old songs, 
 Though well I know the tune, 
 Familiar as a cradle-song 
 With sleep-compelling croon ; 
 Yet though I 'm filled with music 
 
 As choirs of summer birds, 
 44 1 cannot sing the old songs " 
 I do not know the words. 
 
 I start on " Hail Columbia," 
 
 And get to- 44 heav'n-born band," 
 And there I strike an up-grade 
 
 With neither steam nor sand ; 
 44 Star-Spangled Banner " downs me 
 
 Right in my wildest screaming, 
 I start all right, but dumbly come 
 
 To voiceless wreck at 4C streaming." 
 
 So when I sing the old songs, 
 
 Don't murmur or complain 
 If 44 Ti, diddy ah da, turn dum " 
 
 Should fill the sweetest strain. 
 I love u Tolly um dum di do," 
 
 And the 44 Trilla-la yeep da " birds, 
 But 44 1 cannot sing the old songs " 
 
 I do not know the words. 
 
 Robert J. Eurdette. 
 
 [3*7] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN 
 
 B 
 
 Y the side of a murmuring stream, an elderly 
 
 gentleman sat, 
 
 On the top of his head was his wig, and 
 a-top of his wig was his hat. 
 
 The wind it blew high and blew strong, as the 
 
 elderly gentleman sat ; 
 And bore from his head in a trice, and plunged in 
 
 the river his hat. 
 
 The gentleman then took his cane, which lay by 
 his side as he sat; 
 
 And he dropped in the river his wig, in attempt- 
 ing to get out his hat. 
 
 His breast it grew cold with despair, and full in 
 
 his eye madness sat; 
 So he flung in the river his cane to swim with his 
 
 wig and his hat. 
 
 Cool reflection at last came across, while this 
 
 elderly gentleman sat ; 
 So he thought he would follow the stream, and 
 
 look for his cane, wig, and hat. 
 
 His head, being thicker than common, overbalanced 
 
 the rest of his fat, 
 And in plumpt this son of a woman, to follow his 
 
 wig, cane, and hat. 
 
 George Canning. 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 TURTLE SOUP 
 
 BEAUTIFUL soup, so rich and green, 
 Waiting in a hot tureen ! 
 Who for such dainties would not stoop ? 
 Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup ? 
 Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup ? 
 Beau ootiful Soo oop ! 
 Beau ootiful Soo oop ! 
 Soo oop of the e e evening, 
 Beautiful, beautiful Soup ! 
 
 " Beautiful Soup ! Who cares for fish, 
 Game, or any other dish ? 
 Who would not give all else for two p 
 Ennyworth only of beautiful Soup ? 
 Pennyworth only of beautiful soup? 
 
 Beau ootiful Soo oop ! 
 
 Beau ootiful Soo oop ! 
 Soo oop of the e e evening, 
 
 Beautiful, beauti FUL SOUP ! " 
 
 Lewis Carroll, 
 
 I 
 
 SOME DAY 
 (To an Extortionate Tailor) 
 
 KNOW not when your bill I '11 see, 
 I know not when that bill fell due, 
 
 What interest you will charge to me, 
 Or will you take my I. O. U. ? 
 
 [329] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 It may not be till years are passed, 
 
 Till chubby children's locks are gray ; 
 The tailor trusts us, but at last 
 
 His reckoning we must meet some day. 
 Some day some day some day I must meet it, 
 Snip, I know not when or how, 
 Snip, I know not when or how ; 
 Only this only this this that once you did 
 
 me 
 
 Only this I '11 do you now I '11 do you now 
 
 I '11 do you now ! 
 
 I know not are you far or near 
 . Are you at rest, or cutting still ? 
 I know not who is held so dear ! 
 
 Or who 's to pay your " little bill " ! 
 But when it comes, some day some day 
 
 These eyes an awful tote may see ; 
 And don't you wish, my tailor gay, 
 That you may get your . s. d. ? 
 Some day some day some day I must meet it, 
 Snip, I know not when or how, 
 Snip, I know not when or how ; 
 Only this only this this that once you did 
 
 me 
 
 Only this I '11 do you now I '11 do you now 
 
 I '11 do you now ! 
 F. P. Doveton. 
 
 [ 330 ] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 IF I SHOULD DIE TO-NIGHT 
 
 IF I should die to-night 
 And you should come to my cold corpse and 
 say, 
 Weeping and heartsick o'er my lifeless clay 
 
 If I should die to-night, 
 
 And you should come in deepest grief and woe 
 And say : " Here 's that ten dollars that I owe," 
 I might arise in my large white cravat 
 And say, " What 's that ? " 
 
 If I should die to-night 
 
 And you should come to my cold corpse and kneel, 
 Clasping my bier to show the grief you feel, 
 
 I say, if I should die to-night 
 And you should come to me, and there and then 
 Just even hint 'bout paying me that ten, 
 
 I might arise the while, 
 
 But I'd drop dead again. 
 
 Ben King. 
 
 F 
 
 A LOVE SONG 
 
 (In the modern taste, 1733) 
 
 BUTTERING spread thy purple pinions, 
 
 Gentle Cupid, o'er my heart ; 
 I, a slave in thy dominions ; 
 
 Nature must give way to art. 
 L 33i ] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 Mild Arcadians, ever blooming, 
 Nightly nodding o'er your flocks, 
 
 See my weary days consuming 
 All beneath yon flowery rocks. 
 
 Thus the Cyprian goddess weeping 
 Mourn'd Adonis, darling youth ; 
 
 Him the boar, in silence creeping, 
 Gored with unrelenting tooth. 
 
 Cynthia, tune harmonious numbers, 
 Fair Discretion, string the lyre ; 
 
 Soothe my ever-waking slumbers; 
 Bright Apollo, lend thy choir. 
 
 Gloomy Pluto, king of terrors, 
 
 Arm'd in adamantine chains, 
 Lead me to the crystal mirrors 
 
 Watering soft Elysian plains. 
 
 Mourning cypress, verdant willow, 
 
 Gilding my Aurelia's brows, 
 Morpheus hovering o'er my pillow, 
 
 Hear me pay my dying vows. 
 
 Melancholy smooth Meander, 
 
 Swiftly purling in a round, 
 On thy margin lovers wander, 
 With thy flowery chaplets crowned. 
 
 Thus when Philomela drooping 
 
 Softly seeks her silent mate, 
 See the bird of Juno stooping ; 
 
 Melody resigns to fate. 
 
 Dean Swift. 
 
 [33'] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 OLD FASHIONED FUN 
 
 WHEN that old joke was new, 
 It was not hard to joke, 
 And puns we now pooh-pooh, 
 Great laughter would provoke. 
 
 True wit was seldom heard, 
 
 And humor shown by few, 
 When reign'd King George the Third, 
 
 And that old joke was new. 
 
 It passed indeed for wit, 
 
 Did this achievement rare, 
 When down your friend would sit, 
 
 To steal away his chair. 
 
 You brought him to the floor, 
 You bruised him black and blue, 
 
 And this would cause a roar, 
 When your old joke was new. 
 
 W. M. Thackeray. 
 
 [ 333 ] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 THEMES WITH VARIATIONS 
 
 HOME SWEET HOME WITH 
 VARIATIONS 
 
 (Being suggestions of the various styles in which an old 
 theme might have been treated by certain metrical 
 composers} 
 
 FANTASIA 
 
 I 
 The original theme as John Howard Payne wrote it : 
 
 'TV yTID pleasures and palaces though we may 
 I VI roam, 
 
 Be it ever so humble, there 's no place like 
 home ! 
 
 A charm from the skies seems to hallow it there, 
 Which, seek through the world, is not met with 
 elsewhere. 
 
 Home, home ! Sweet, Sweet Home ! 
 There 's no place like Home ! 
 
 An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain ! 
 Oh, give me my lowly thatched cottage again ! 
 The birds singing gaily that came at my call ! 
 Givemethem! and the peace of mind, dearer than all 
 
 Home, home ! Sweet, Sweet Home! 
 There's no place like Home ! 
 [334] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 II 
 
 ( As Algernon Charles Swinburne might have wrapped 
 it up in variations} 
 
 ('Mid pleasures and palaces ) 
 
 As sea-foam blown of the winds, as blossom of 
 
 brine that is drifted 
 
 Hither and yon on the barren breast of the breeze, 
 Though we wander on gusts of a god's breath, 
 
 shaken and shifted, 
 The salt of us stings and is sore for the sobbing 
 
 seas. 
 For home's sake hungry at heart, we sicken in 
 
 pillared porches 
 
 Of bliss made sick for a life that is barren of bliss, 
 For the place whereon is a light out of heaven that 
 
 sears not nor scorches, 
 Nor elsewhere than this. 
 
 (An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain ) 
 
 For here we know shall no gold thing glisten, 
 
 No bright thing burn, and no sweet thing shine ; 
 Nor love lower never an ear to listen 
 
 To words that work in the heart like wine. 
 What time we are set from our land apart, 
 For pain of passion and hunger of heart, 
 Though we walk with exiles fame faints to christen, 
 Or sing at the Cytherean's shrine. 
 
 Variation : An exile from home ) 
 [ 335 ] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 Whether with him whose head 
 
 Of gods is honored, 
 
 With song made splendent in the sight of men 
 
 Whose heart most sweetly stout, 
 
 From ravishing France cast out, 
 Being firstly hers, was hers most wholly then 
 
 Or where on shining seas like wine 
 
 The dove's wings draw the drooping Erycine. 
 
 (Give me my lowly thatched cottage ) 
 
 For Joy finds Love grow bitter, 
 And spreads his wings to quit her, 
 At thought of birds that twitter 
 
 Beneath the roof-tree's straw 
 
 Of birds that come for calling, 
 
 No fear or fright appalling, 
 
 When dews of dusk are falling, 
 Or daylight's draperies draw. 
 
 (Give me them, and the peace of mind ) 
 
 Give me these things then back, though the giving 
 
 Be at cost of earth's garner of gold ; 
 There is no life without these worth living, 
 
 No treasure where these are not told. 
 For the heart give the hope that it knows not, 
 
 Give the balm for the burn of the breast 
 For the soul and the mind that repose not, 
 
 Oh, give us a rest ! 
 
 [ 336 ] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 III 
 
 (As Mr. Francis Bret Harte might have woven it into 
 a touching tale of a western gentleman in a red shirt) 
 
 Brown o' San Juan, 
 
 Stranger, I 'm Brown. . 
 Come up this mornin' from 'Frisco 
 
 Be'n a-saltin' my specie-stacks down. 
 
 Be'n a-knockin* around, 
 
 Fer a man from San Juan, 
 Putty consid'able frequent 
 
 Jes' catch onter that streak o' the dawn ! 
 
 Right thar lies my home 
 
 Right thar in the red 
 I could slop over, stranger, in po'try 
 
 Would spread out old Shakspoke cold dead. 
 
 Stranger, you freeze to this : there ain't no kinder 
 
 gin-palace, 
 
 Nor no variety-show lays over a man's own rancho. 
 Maybe it hain't no style, but the Queen in the 
 
 Tower o' London, 
 Ain't got naathin' I 'd swop for that house over 
 
 thar on the hill-side. 
 
 Thar is my ole gal, V the kids, V the rest o' my 
 
 live-stock ; 
 Thar my Remington hangs, and thar there's a 
 
 griddle-cake br'ilin' 
 [22] [337] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 For the two of us, pard and thar, I allow, the 
 
 heavens 
 Smile more friendly-like than on any other locality. 
 
 Stranger, nowhere else I don't take no satisfaction. 
 Gimme my ranch, 'n' them friendly old Shanghai 
 
 chickens 
 I brung the original pair f'm the States in eighteen- 
 
 V-fifty 
 Gimme me them and the feelin' of solid domestic 
 
 comfort. 
 
 Yer parding, young man 
 
 But this landscape a kind 
 Er flickers I 'low 't wuz the po'try 
 
 I thought that my eyes hed gone blind. 
 
 Take that pop from my belt ! 
 
 Hi, thar ! gimme yer han' 
 Or I '11 kill myself Lizzie she 's left me 
 
 Gone off with a purtier man ! 
 
 Thar, I '11 quit the ole gal 
 
 An' the kids run away ! 
 I be derned ! Howsomever, come in, pard 
 
 The griddle-cake 's thar, anyway. 
 
 [338] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 IV 
 
 (As Austin Dobson might have translated it from 
 Horace, if it had ever occurred to Horace to 
 write it) 
 
 RONDEAU 
 
 At home alone, O Nomades, 
 Although Maecenas' marble frieze 
 
 Stand not between you and the sky, 
 
 Nor Persian luxury supply 
 Its rosy surfeit, find ye ease. 
 
 Tempt not the far ^Egean breeze ; 
 With home-made wine and books that please, 
 To duns and bores the door deny, 
 At home, alone. 
 
 Strange joys may lure. Your deities 
 Smile here alone. Oh, give me these : 
 Low eaves, where birds familiar fly, 
 And peace of mind, and, fluttering by, 
 My Lydia's graceful draperies, 
 At home, alone. 
 
 [339] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 {As it might have been constructed in 1744, Oliver 
 Goldsmith, at 19, writing the first stanza, and 
 Alexander Pope, at 52, the second) 
 
 Home ! at the word, what blissful visions rise, 
 Lift us from earth, and draw toward the skies ; 
 'Mid mirag'd towers, or meretricious joys, 
 Although we roam, one thought the mind employs : 
 Or lowly hut, good friend, or loftiest dome, 
 Earth knows no spot so holy as our Home. 
 There, where affection warms the father's breast, 
 There is the spot of heav'n most surely blest. 
 Howe'er we search, though wandering with the 
 
 wind 
 
 Through frigid Zembla, or the heats of Ind, 
 Not elsewhere may we seek, nor elsewhere know, 
 The light of heaven upon our dark below. 
 
 When from our dearest hope and haven reft, 
 Delight nor dazzles, nor is luxury left, 
 We long, obedient to our nature's law, 
 To see again our hovel thatched with straw : 
 See birds that know our avenaceous store 
 Stoop to our hand, and thence repleted soar : 
 But, of all hopes the wanderer's soul that share, 
 His pristine peace of mind 's his final prayer. 
 
 [ 34<>] 
 
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, his<postrils expand with the 
 
 big breaths of free air ; with shame, with 
 
 [ 343 ] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 wonderment, with a trembling joy, his heart 
 too, expanding. 
 
 The old mother busies herself about the table ; 
 she has ready for him the dishes he us'd to 
 like ; the father sits with his back to them, 
 reading the newspaper, the newspaper shaking 
 and rustling much ; the children hang won- 
 dering around the prodigal they have been 
 caution'd : Do not ask where our Jim has 
 been \ only say you are glad to see him. 
 
 The elder daughter is there, palefac'd, quiet ; her 
 young man went back on her four years ago ; 
 his folks would not let him marry a convict's 
 sister. She sits by the window, sewing on 
 the children's clothes, the clothes not only 
 patching up ; her Hunger for children of her 
 own invisibly patching up. 
 
 The brother looks up ; he catches her eye, he fear- 
 ful, apologetic ; she smiles back at him, not 
 reproachfully smiling, with loving pretence of 
 hope smiling it is too much for him ; he 
 buries his face in the folds of the mother's 
 black gown. 
 
 7. The best room of the house, on the Sabbath 
 only open'd ; the smell of horse-hair furniture 
 and mahogany varnish ; the ornaments on the 
 what-not in the corner; the wax fruit, dusty, 
 sunken, sagged in, consumptive-looking, un- 
 der a glass globe, the sealing-wax imitation of 
 coral ; the cigar boxes with shells plastered 
 over, the perforate^ card-board motto. 
 
 The kitchen ; the housewife sprinkling the clothes 
 [ 344 ] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 for the fine ironing to-morrow it is the 
 Third-day night, and the plain things are 
 ready iron'd, now in cupboards, in drawers 
 stowed away. 
 
 The wife waiting for the husband he is at the 
 tavern, jovial, carousing ; she, alone in the 
 kitchen sprinkling clothes the little red 
 wood clock with peaked top, with pendulum 
 wagging behind a pane of gayly painted glass, 
 strikes twelve. 
 
 The sound of the husband's voice on the still night 
 air he is singing : " We won't go home un- 
 til morning ! " the wife arising, toward the 
 wood-shed hastily going, stealthily entering, 
 the voice all the time coming nearer, inebriate, 
 chantant. 
 
 The husband passing the door of the wood-shed ; 
 the club over his head, now with his head in 
 contact ; the sudden cessation of the song ; 
 the benediction of peace over the domestic 
 foyer temporarily resting. 
 
 I sing the soothing influences of home. 
 
 You, young man, thoughtlessly wandering, with 
 
 courier, with guide-book wandering, 
 You hearken to the melody of my steam-calliope 
 Yawp ! 
 
 Henry Cuyler Eunner 
 
 [345] 
 
A P arody Ant ho logy 
 
 MODERN VERSIFICATION ON 
 ANCIENT THEMES 
 
 GOOSE A LA MODE 
 
 Mary, Mary, quite contrary, 
 How does your garden grow ? 
 
 WITHIN the garden's deepness filled of light 
 Stood Mary, and upon her fair green 
 gown 
 
 Fell glory of gold hair, a stern sweet frown 
 Was on her forehead, slim cold hands and white 
 Made ending of her long pale arms' delight. 
 
 And questioning, I " How does your garden 
 
 grow ? " 
 Then she u With bells that ring, and shells that 
 
 sing 
 Of strange gray seas, with fair, strong hands that 
 
 cling 
 Together, stand tall damozels a-row." 
 
 Elizabeth Ca 
 
 THREE CHILDREN SLIDING 
 
 F 
 
 Three children sliding on the ice 
 All on a summer's day. 
 
 OUR are the names of the seasons spring, 
 
 summer, autumn, and winter. 
 Summer is hot and winter is cold, while the 
 others partake in 
 
 [ 346] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 Greater or less degree of cold and caloric com- 
 mingled. 
 
 Surely, I think, it is well to be good, and my mind 
 is astonished 
 
 At the exceeding sin of sinfulness, whereof the perils 
 
 Shown in my verse are apparent. Three rosy 
 children were sliding 
 
 Over the ice in summer and fate so decreeing, 
 it happened 
 
 Fell through the ice and were drowned. Had these 
 "children in winter been sliding 
 
 On the bare earth, or had they, by the peaceful 
 fireside sitting, 
 
 Studied their catechism, it were strange so the 
 novel thought strikes me 
 
 Even in summer's heat had the ice broken suddenly 
 under 
 
 Avoirdupois of these babes, and diluted the well- 
 springs of pleasure. 
 
 JACK AND JILL 
 
 Jack and Jill went up a hill 
 To draw a pail of water. 
 
 WHAT moan is made of the mountain, what 
 sob of the hillside, 
 Why a lament of the south wind, and rain- 
 fall as tears ? 
 
 Brother and sister, once bodies and spirits together, 
 Fell as fair ghosts down the sad swift slope of 
 the years. 
 
 [347] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 Where is the fount on the mount where the thrill 
 
 of water 
 
 Sang as a siren its song to the steep beneath ? 
 Where are the feet of the son and the fair-eyed 
 
 daughter, 
 
 Feet drawn aside of Fate, and set in the path- 
 way of Death ! 
 
 Ah cruel earth and hard, ah, pitiless laughter 
 
 Made of the waters, when, shattered his golden 
 
 crown, 
 
 Fell the fair boy as a star, and his sister after, 
 To the field of the dead, to its cold and the 
 darkness unknown ! 
 
 Elizabeth Cavazza. 
 
 JACK AND JILL 
 (As Austin Dobson might have written it) 
 
 rrNHEIR pail they must fill 
 
 In a crystalline springlet, 
 Brave Jack and fair Jill. 
 Their pail they must fill 
 At the top of the hill, 
 
 Then she gives him a ringlet. 
 Their pail they must fill 
 In a crystalline springlet. 
 
 They stumbled and fell, 
 
 And poor Jack broke his forehead, 
 Oh, how he did yell ! 
 They stumbled and fell, 
 
 [ 348 1 
 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 And went down pell-mell 
 
 By Jove ! it was horrid. 
 They stumbled and fell, 
 
 And poor Jack' broke his forehead. 
 
 (As Swinburne might have written it) 
 
 The shuddering sheet of rain athwart the trees ! 
 The crashing kiss of lightning on the seas ! 
 
 The moaning of the night wind on the wold, 
 That erstwhile was a gentle, murm'ring breeze ! 
 
 On such a night as this went Jill and Jack 
 
 With strong and sturdy strides through dampness 
 
 black 
 
 To find the hill's high top and water cold, 
 Then toiling through the town to bear it back. 
 
 The water drawn, they rest awhile. Sweet sips 
 Of nectar then for Jack from Jill's red lips, 
 
 And then with arms entwined they homeward go ; 
 Till mid the *nad mud's moistened mush Jack slips. 
 
 Sweet Heaven, draw a veil on this sad plight, 
 
 His crazed cries and cranium cracked ; the fright 
 
 Of gentle Jill, her wretchedness and wo ! 
 Kind Phoebus, drive thy steeds and end this night ! 
 
 (As Walt Whitman might have written if) 
 
 I celebrate the personality of Jack ! 
 I love his dirty hands, his tangled hair, his locomo- 
 tion blundering. 
 
 [ 349] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 Each wart upon his hands I sing, 
 
 Paeans I chant to his hulking shoulder blades. 
 
 Also Jill ! 
 
 Her I celebrate. 
 
 I, Walt, of unbridled thought and tongue, 
 
 Whoop her up ! 
 
 What 's the matter with Jill ? 
 
 Oh, she 's all right ! 
 
 Who 's all right ? 
 
 Jill. 
 
 Her golden hair, her sun-struck face, her hard and 
 
 reddened hands ; 
 
 So, too, her feet, hefty, shambling. 
 I see them in the evening, when the sun empurples 
 
 the horizon, and through the darkening forest 
 
 aisles are heard the sounds of myriad creatures 
 
 of the night. 
 I see them climb the steep ascent in quest of water 
 
 for their mother. 
 Oh, speaking of her, I could celebrate the old lady 
 
 if I had time. 
 She is simply immense ! 
 
 But Jack and Jill are walking up the hill. 
 (I did n't mean that rhyme.) 
 I must watch them. 
 I love to watch their walk, 
 And wonder as I watch ; 
 He, stoop-shouldered, clumsy, hide-bound, 
 Yet lusty, 
 
 Bearing his share of the i-lb bucket as though it 
 were a paperweight. 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 She, erect, standing, her head uplifting, 
 Holding, but bearing not the bucket. 
 
 They have reached the spring. 
 
 They have filled the bucket. 
 
 Have you heard the "Old Oaken Bucket" ? 
 
 I will sing it : 
 
 Of what countless patches is the bed-quilt of life 
 
 composed ! 
 
 Here is a piece of lace. A babe is born. 
 The father is happy, the mother is happy. 
 Next black crepe. A beldame "shuffles off this 
 
 mortal coil." 
 
 Now brocaded satin with orange blossoms, 
 Mendelssohn's "Wedding March," an old shoe 
 
 missile, 
 A broken carnage window, the bride in the Bellevue 
 
 sleeping. 
 
 Here 's a large piece of black cloth ! 
 " Have you any last words to say ? " 
 " No." 
 
 " Sheriff, do your work ! " 
 Thus it is : from " grave to gay, from lively to 
 
 severe." 
 
 I mourn the downfall of my Jack and Jill. 
 
 I see them descending, obstacles not heeding. 
 
 I see them pitching headlong, the water from the 
 pail outpouring, a noise from leathern lungs 
 out-belching. 
 
 The shadows of the night descend on Jack, recum- 
 bent, bellowing, his pate with gore besmeared. 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 I love his cowardice, because it is an attribute, just 
 
 like 
 Job's patience or Solomon's wisdom, and I love 
 
 attributes. 
 Whoop ! ! ! 
 
 Charles Eattell Loomis, 
 
 THE REJECTED " NATIONAL HYMNS " 
 
 i 
 
 BY H Y W. L-NGF w 
 
 BACK in the years when Phlagstaff, the Dane, 
 was monarch 
 Over the sea-ribb'd land of the fleet-footed 
 Norsemen, 
 Once there went forth young Ursa to gaze at the 
 
 heavens 
 Ursa the noblest of all the kings and horsemen. 
 
 Musing, he sat in his stirrups and viewed the horizon, 
 Where the Aurora lapt stars in a North-polar 
 
 manner, 
 Wildly he stared, for there in the heavens before 
 
 him 
 
 Fluttered and flam'd the original Star 
 Banner. 
 
 [35*] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 II 
 
 BY J-HN GR NL F WH T R 
 
 My Native Land, thy Puritanic stock 
 Still finds its roots firm-bound in Plymouth Rock, 
 And all thy sons unite in one grand wish 
 To keep the virtues of Preserved Fish. 
 
 Preserved Fish, the Deacon stern and true 
 Told our New England what her sons should do, 
 And if they swerve from loyalty and right, 
 Then the whole land is lost indeed in night. 
 
 Ill 
 BY DR. OL-V-R W-ND L H-LMES 
 
 A diagnosis of our history proves 
 
 Our native land a land its native loves ; 
 
 Its birth a deed obstetric without peer, 
 
 Its growth a source of wonder far and near. 
 
 
 
 To love it more, behold how foreign shores 
 Sink into nothingness beside its stores; 
 Hyde Park at best though counted ultra-grand 
 The " Boston Common " of Victoria's land. 
 
 [23] f 353 ] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 IV 
 
 BY RALPH W-LDO EM-R N 
 
 Source immaterial of material naught, 
 
 Focus of light infinitesimal, 
 Sum of all things by sleepless Nature wrought, 
 
 Of which the normal man is decimal. 
 
 Refract, in Prism immortal, from thy stars 
 To the stars bent incipient on our flag, 
 
 The beam translucent, neutrifying death, 
 And raise to immortality the rag. 
 
 V 
 
 BY W-LL M C-LL-N B-Y-NT 
 
 The sun sinks softly to his Ev'ning Post, 
 
 The sun swells grandly to his morning crown ; 
 
 Yet not a star our Flag of Heav'n has lost, 
 And not a sunset stripe with him goes down, 
 
 So thrones may fall, and from the dust of those, 
 New thrones may rise, to totter like the last ; 
 
 But still our Country's nobler planet glows 
 While the eternal stars of Heaven are fast. 
 
 135+1 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 VI 
 
 BY N. P. W-LLIS 
 
 One hue of our Flag is taken 
 
 From the cheeks of my blushing Pet, 
 
 And its stars beat time, and sparkle 
 Like the studs on her chemisette. 
 
 Its blue is the ocean shadow 
 That hides in her dreamy eyes, 
 
 It conquers all men, like her, 
 And still for a Union flies. 
 
 VII 
 BY TH-M-S B-IL-Y ALD CH 
 
 The little brown squirrel hops in the corn, 
 
 The cricket quaintly sings, 
 The emerald pigeon nods his head, 
 
 And the shad in the river springs, 
 The dainty sunflower hangs its head 
 
 On the shore of the summer sea ; 
 And better far that I were dead, 
 
 If Maud did not love me. 
 
 I love the squirrel that hops in the corn, 
 And the cricket that quaintly sings ; 
 
 And the emerald pigeon that nods his head, 
 And the shad that gaily springs. 
 [ 355 ] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 I love the dainty sunflower too, 
 
 And Maud with her snowy breast ; 
 
 I love them all ; but I love I love 
 I love my country best. 
 
 Robert Henry Newell. 
 ("Orpheus C. Kerr.") 
 
 A THEME WITH VARIATIONS 
 
 THEME 
 
 RIDE a cock-horse to Banbury Cross, 
 To see a fine lady ride on a white horse ; 
 With rings on her fingers, and bells on her 
 
 toes, 
 She shall have music wherever she goes. 
 
 (Variation L Edmund Spenser^) 
 
 So on he pricked, and loe, he gan espy, 
 A market and a crosse of glist'ning stone, 
 
 And eke a merrie rablement thereby, 
 
 That with the musik of the strong trombone, 
 And shaumes, and trompets made most dyvillish 
 mone. 
 
 And in their midst he saw a lady sweet, 
 That rode upon a milk white steed alone, 
 
 In scarlet robe ycladd and wimple meet, 
 
 Bedight with rings of gold, and bells about her feet 
 
 Whereat the knight empassioned was so deepe, 
 His heart was perst with very agony. 
 
 Certes (said he) I will not eat, ne sleepe, 
 Till I have seen the royall maid more ny ; 
 
 [ 356 ] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 Then will I holde her in fast fealtie, 
 Whom then a carle advised, louting low, 
 
 That little neede there was for him to die, 
 Sithens in yon pavilion was the show, 
 Where she did ride, and he for two-and-six mote go 
 
 (Variation II. Dr. Jonathan Swift) 
 
 Our Chloe, fresh from London town, 
 
 To country B y comes down. 
 
 Furnished with half-a-thousand graces 
 Of silks, brocades, and hoops, and laces ; 
 And tired of winning coxcombs' hearts, 
 On simple bumpkins tries her arts. 
 Behold her ambling down the street 
 On her white palfrey, sleek and neat. 
 (Though rumor talks of gaming-tables, 
 
 And says 't was won from C 's stables. 
 
 And that, when duns demand their bill, 
 She satisfies them at quadrille.) 
 Her fingers are encased with rings, 
 Although she vows she hates the things. 
 ( u Oh, la ! Why ever did you buy it ? 
 Well it 's a pretty gem I '11 try it.") 
 The fine French fashions all combine 
 To make folk stare, and Chloe shine, 
 From ribbon'd hat with monstrous feather, 
 To bells upon her under-leather. 
 Now Chloe, why, do you suppose, 
 You wear those bells about your toes ? 
 Is it, your feet with bells you deck 
 For want of bows about your neck ? 
 [357 J 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 (Variation III Sir Walter Scott 
 
 From " The Lady of the Cake'' 
 
 " Who is this maid in wild array, 
 
 And riding in that curious way ? 
 
 What mean the bells that jingle free 
 
 About her as in revelry ? " 
 
 u 'T is Madge of Banbury," Roderick said. 
 
 " And she 's a trifle off her head, 
 
 'T was on her bridal morn, I ween, 
 
 When she to Graeme had wedded been, 
 
 The man who undertook to bake 
 
 Never sent home the wedding cake ! 
 
 Since then she wears those bells and rings, 
 
 Since then she rides but, hush, she sings." 
 
 She sung ! The voice in other days 
 
 It had been difficult to praise, 
 
 And now it every sweetness lacked, 
 
 And voice and singer both were cracked. 
 
 SONG 
 
 They bid me ride the other way, 
 
 They say my brain is warp'd and wrung, 
 But, oh ! the bridal bells are gay 
 
 That I about my feet have strung ! 
 And when I face the horse's tail 
 I see once more in Banbury's vale 
 My Graeme's white plume before me wave, 
 So thus I'll ride until the grave. 
 [ 358 ] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 They say that this is not my home, 
 
 'Mid Scotland's moors and Scotland's brakes. 
 But, oh ! 't is love that makes me "roam 
 
 Forever in the land of cakes ! 
 And woe betide the baker's guile, 
 Whose blight destroyed the maiden's smile ! 
 O woe the day, and woe the deed, 
 And woa gee woa my bonnie steed ! 
 
 Barry Pain. 
 
 THE POETS AT TEA 
 
 1 . {Macaulay, who made it) 
 
 POUR, varlet, pour the water, 
 The water steaming hot ! 
 A spoonful for each man of us, 
 Another for the pot ! 
 We shall not drink from amber, 
 
 Nor Capuan slave shall mix 
 For us the snows of Athos 
 With port at thirty-six ; 
 Whiter than snow the crystals, 
 
 Grown sweet 'neath tropic fires, 
 More rich the herbs of China's field, 
 The pasture-lands more fragrance yield ; 
 For ever let Britannia wield 
 The tea-pot of her sires ! 
 
 2. (Tennyson, who took it hot) 
 
 I think that I am drawing to an end : 
 For on a sudden came a gasp for breath, 
 
 F 359] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 And stretching of the hands, and blinded eyes, 
 And a great darkness falling on my soul. 
 O Hallelujah ! . . . Kindly pass the milk. 
 
 3. (Swinburne, who let it get cold) 
 
 As the sin that was sweet in the sinning 
 
 Is foul in the ending thereof, 
 As the heat of the summer's beginning 
 
 Is past in the winter of love : 
 O purity, painful and pleading ! 
 
 coldness, ineffably gray ! 
 
 Oh, hear us, our handmaid unheeding, 
 And take it away ! 
 
 4, (Gowper, who thoroughly enjoyed it) 
 
 The cosy fire is bright and gay, 
 The merry kettle boils away 
 
 And hums a cheerful song. 
 
 1 sing the saucer and the cup ; 
 Pray, Mary, fill the tea-pot up, 
 
 And do not make it strong. 
 
 5 . (Browning, who treated it allegoric ally) 
 
 Tut ! Bah ! We take as another case 
 
 Pass the bills on the pills on the window-sill; 
 
 notice the capsule 
 (A sick man's fancy, no doubt, but I place 
 
 Reliance on trade-marks, Sir) so perhaps 
 you '11 
 
 [36o] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 Excuse the digression this cup which I hold 
 Light-poised Bah, it's spilt in the bed! 
 well, let 's. on go 
 
 Hold Bohea and sugar, Sir ; if you were told 
 The sugar was salt, would the Bohea be Congo ? 
 
 6. (Wordsworth, who gave it away) 
 
 " Come, little cottage girl, you seem 
 
 To want my cup of tea ; 
 And will you take a little cream ? 
 
 Now tell the truth to me." 
 
 She had a rustic, woodland grin, 
 
 Her cheek was soft as silk, 
 And she replied, u Sir, please put in 
 
 A little drop of milk." 
 
 u Why, what put milk into your head ? 
 
 'T is cream my cows supply ; " 
 And five times to the child I said, 
 
 " Why, pig-head, tell me, why ? " 
 
 " You call me pig-head," she replied ; 
 
 u My proper name is Ruth. 
 I'called that milk " she blushed with pride 
 
 " You bade me speak the truth." 
 
 [ 361 1 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 7. (Poe, who got excited over it) 
 
 Here 's a mellow cup of tea, golden tea ! 
 What a world of rapturous thought its fragrance 
 brings to me ! 
 
 Oh, from out the silver cells 
 
 How it wells ! 
 
 How it smells ! 
 Keeping tune, tune, tune 
 To the tintinnabulation of the spoon. 
 And the kettle on the fire 
 Boils its spout off with desire, 
 With a desperate desire 9 
 And a crystalline endeavour 
 Now, now to sit, or never, 
 On the top of the pale-faced moor^ 
 But he always came home to tea, tea, tea, tea, tea, 
 Tea to the n th. 
 
 8. (Rossetti, who took six cups of if) 
 
 The lilies lie in my lady's bower 
 (O weary mother, drive the cows to roost), 
 They faintly droop for a little hour ; 
 My lady's head droops like a flower. 
 
 She took the porcelain in her hand 
 (O weary mother, drive the cows to roost); 
 She poured ; I drank at her command ; 
 Drank deep, and now you understand! 
 (O weary mother, drive the cows to roost.) 
 
 [362] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 9. (Burns, who liked it adulterated) 
 
 Weel, gin ye speir, I 'm no inclined, 
 Whusky or tay to state my mind, 
 
 Fore ane or ither ; 
 For, gin I tak the first, I 'm fou, 
 And gin the next, I 'm dull as you, 
 Mix a' thegither. 
 
 10. (Walt Whitman, who didn't stay more 
 than a minute) 
 
 One cup for my self-hood, 
 
 Many for you. Aliens, camerados, we will drink 
 together, 
 
 O hand-in-hand ! That tea-spoon, please, when 
 you 've done with it. 
 
 What butter-colour'd hair you 've got. I don't 
 want to be personal. 
 
 All right, then, you need n't. You 're a stale- 
 cadaver. 
 
 Eighteen-pence if the bottles are returned. 
 
 Allons, from all bat-eyed formula. 
 
 Barry Pain. 
 
 THE POETS AT A HOUSE-PARTY 
 
 (A modern mortal having inadvertently stumbled in 
 upon a home-party of poets given on Mount Olympus, 
 being called upon to justify his presence there by writing 
 \ 31 ] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 a poem, offered a Limerick. Whereupon each poet 
 scoffed, and the mortal, offended, challenged them to 
 do better with the same theme) 
 
 The Limerick 
 
 A SCHOLARLY person named Finck 
 Went mad in the effort to think 
 Which were graver misplaced, 
 To dip pen in his paste, 
 Or dip his paste-brush in the ink. 
 
 {Omar Khayyatrfs version) 
 
 Stay, fellow-traveler, let us stop and think, 
 Pause and reflect on the abysmal brink ; 
 
 Say, would you rather thrust your pen in paste, 
 Or dip your paste-brush carelessly in ink ? 
 
 (Rudyard Kipling s version) 
 
 Here is a theme that is worthy of our cognizance, 
 A theme of great importance and a question for 
 
 your ken ; 
 
 Would you rather stop and think well 
 Dip your paste-brush in your ink-well, 
 
 Or in your pesky pasting-pot immerse your ink^ 
 pen ? 
 
 (Walt Whitman's version) 
 
 Hail, Camerados ! 
 I salute you, 
 
 Also I salute the sewing-machine, and the flour- 
 barrel, and the feather-duster. 
 
 [ 364 ] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 What is an aborigine, anyhow ? 
 I see a paste-pot. 
 Ay, arid a well of ink. 
 Well, well ! 
 Which shall I do r 
 Ah, the immortal fog. 
 What am I myself 
 But a meteor 
 In the fog ? 
 
 (Chaucer's version^ 
 
 A mayde ther ben, a wordy one and wyse, 
 Who wore a paire of gogles on her eyes. 
 O'er theemes of depest thogt her braine she werked, 
 Nor ever any knoty problemme sherked. 
 Yette when they askt her if she 'd rather sinke 
 Her penne in payste, or eke her brushe in inke, 
 " Ah," quo' the canny mayde, u now wit ye wel, 
 I'm wyse enow to know too wyse to tel." 
 
 (Henry James' version^) 
 
 She luminously wavered, and I tentatively in- 
 ferred that she would soon perfectly reconsider her 
 not altogether unobvious course. Furiously, though 
 with a tender, ebbing similitude, across her mental 
 consciousness stole a re-culmination of all the 
 truths she . had ever known concerning, or even 
 remotely relating to, the not-easily fathomed quali- 
 ties of paste and ink. So she stood, focused in an 
 intensity of soul-quivers, and I, all unrelenting, 
 waited, though of a dim uncertainty whether, after 
 all, it might not be only a dubitant problem. 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 (Swinburne's version} 
 
 Shall I dip, shall I dip it, Dolores, 
 
 This luminous paste-brush of thine ? 
 Shall I sully its white-breasted glories, 
 
 Its fair, foam-flecked figure divine ? 
 * Or shall I abstracted, unheeding 
 
 Swish swirling this pen in my haste, 
 And, deaf to thy pitiful pleading, 
 
 Just jab it in paste ? 
 
 (Eugene Field's version') 
 
 See the Ink Bottle on the Desk ! It is full of 
 Nice Black Ink. Why, the Paste-Pot is there, 
 Too ! Let us watch Papa as he sits down to 
 write. Oh, he is going to paste a Second-hand 
 Stamp on a Letter. See, he has dipped his Brush 
 in the Ink by Mistake. Oh, what a Funny Mis- 
 take ! Now, although it is Winter, we may have 
 to Endure the Heated Term. 
 
 (Stephen Crane's version') 
 
 I stood upon a church spire, 
 
 A slender, pointed spire, 
 
 And I saw 
 
 Ranged in solemn row before me, 
 
 A paste-pot and an ink-pot. 
 
 I held in my either hand 
 
 A pen and a brush. 
 
 Ay, a pen and a brush. 
 
 [ 366] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 Now this is the strange part ; 
 
 I stood upon a church spire, 
 
 A slender, pointed spire, 
 
 Glad, exultant, 
 
 Because 
 
 The choice was mine ! 
 
 Ay, mine ! 
 
 As I stood upon a church spire, 
 
 A slender, pointed spire. 
 
 (Mr. Dooley 9 s version) 
 
 " I see by th' pa-apers, Hennessy," said Mr. 
 Dooley, u that they'se a question up for dee-bate." 
 
 " What 's a dee-bate ? " asked Mr. Hennessy; 
 
 u Well, it 's different from a fish-bait," returned 
 Mr. Dooley, " an' it 's like this, if I can bate it 
 into the thick head of ye. A lot of people argyfies 
 an' argyfies to decide, as in the prisint instance, 
 whether a man 'd rayther shtick his pastin'-brush in 
 his ink-shtand, or if he 'd like it betther to be afther 
 dippin' his pen in his pashte-pot." 
 
 "Thot," said Mr. Hennessy, "is a foolish 
 question, an' only fools wud argyfy about such a 
 thing as thot." 
 
 "That's what makes it a dee-bate," said Mr. 
 Dooley. 
 
 Carolyn Wells. 
 
 I 367 ] 
 
A Parody Ant ho logy 
 
 AN OLD SONG BY NEW SINGERS 
 
 (Jn the original) 
 
 MARY had a little lamb, 
 Its fleece was white as snow, 
 And everywhere that Mary went 
 The lamb was sure to go. 
 
 (As Austin Dobson writes if) 
 
 TRIOLET 
 
 A little lamb had Mary, sweet, 
 
 With a fleece that shamed the driven snow. 
 Not alone Mary went when she moved her feet 
 (For a little lamb had Mary, sweet), 
 And it tagged her 'round with a pensive bleat, 
 
 And wherever she went it wanted to go; 
 A little lamb had Mary, sweet, 
 
 With a fleece that shamed the driven snow. 
 
 (As Mr. Browning has it) 
 
 You knew her ? Mary the small, 
 How of a summer, or, no, was it fall ? 
 You 'd never have thought it, never believed, 
 But the girl owned a lamb last fall. 
 
 Its wool was* subtly, silky white, 
 Color of lucent obliteration of night, 
 Like the shimmering snow or our Clothildas 
 arm ! 
 
 [ 368 ] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 You've seen her arm her right, I mean 
 The other she scalded a-washing, 1 ween 
 How white it is and soft and warm? 
 
 Ah, there was soul's heart-love, deep, true, and 
 
 tender, 
 
 Wherever went Mary, the maiden so slender, 
 There followed, his all-absorbed passion, inciting, 
 That passionate lambkin her soul's heart de- 
 lighting 
 
 Ay, every place that Mary sought in, 
 That lamb was sure to soon be caught in. 
 
 (As Longfellow might have done it) 
 
 Fair the daughter known as Mary, 
 Fair and full of fun and laughter, 
 Owned a lamb, a little he-goat, 
 Owned him all herself and solely. 
 White the lamb's wool as the Gotchi 
 The great Gotchi, driving snowstorm. 
 Hither Mary went and thither, 
 But went with her to all places, 
 Sure as brook to run to river, 
 Her pet lambkin following with her. 
 
 (How Andrew Lang sings it) 
 
 RONDEAU 
 
 A wonderful lass was Marie, petite, 
 And she looked full fair and passing sweet 
 And, oh ! she owned but cannot you guess 
 What pet can a maiden so love and Caress 
 [ 24 ] [ 369 ] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 $ As a tiny lamb with a plaintive bleat, 
 And mud upon his dainty feet, 
 And a gentle veally odour of meat, 
 
 And a fleece to finger and kiss and press 
 White as snow ? 
 
 Wherever she wandered, in lane or street, 
 As she sauntered on, there at her feet 
 She would find that lambkin bless 
 The dear ! treading on her dainty dress, 
 Her dainty dress, fresh and neat 
 White as snow ! 
 
 (Mr. Algernon C. Swinburne's idea) 
 
 VILLANELLE 
 
 Dewy-eyed with shimmering hair, 
 
 Maiden and lamb were a sight to see, 
 For her pet was white as she was fair. 
 
 And its lovely fleece was beyond compare, 
 And dearly it loved its Mistress Marie, 
 Dewy-eyed, with shimmering hair. 
 
 Its warped wool was an inwove snare, 
 
 To tangle her fingers in, where they could be 
 (For her pet was white as she was fair). 
 
 Lost from sight, both so snow-white were, 
 
 And the lambkin adored the maiden wee, 
 Dewy-eyed with shimmering hair. 
 [ 370] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 Th' impassioned incarnation of rare, 
 
 Of limpid-eyed, luscious-lipped, loved beauty, 
 And her pet was white as she was fair. 
 
 Wherever she wandered, hither and there, 
 
 Wildly that lambkin sought with her to be, 
 With the dewy-eyed, with shimmering hair, 
 And a pet as white as its mistress was fair. 
 
 A. C. Wilkie. 
 
INDEX OF TITLES 
 
INDEX OF TITLES 
 
 AESTHETE TO THE ROSE, THE Punch 40 
 
 After Browning 194 
 
 Amateur Flute, The 140 
 
 American, One of the Roughs, 
 
 A Kosmos, An 219 
 
 Ancient Mariner, The 61 
 
 Angelo Orders His Dinner . Bayard Taylor . . 205 
 
 Annabel Lee Stanley Huntley . . 147 
 
 Answer to Master Withers 
 
 Song, " Shall I, Wasting 
 
 in Despair?" Ben Jonson ... 25 
 
 Atalanta in Camden-Town . Leivis Carroll . . 270 
 
 At the Sign of the Cock . . Owen Seaman . . 248 
 
 BABY'S OMAR, THE . . . Carolyn Wells . . 12 
 
 Bachelor's Soliloquy, The 17 
 
 Ballad Charles S. Cal<verley 253 
 
 Ballad, A Guy Wetmore Carryl 307 
 
 Ballade of Ballade-Mongers, A Augustus M. Moore . 322 
 
 Bat, The . Lewis Carroll . . 82 
 
 Bather's Dirge, The . . . Tennyson Minor . . 155 
 
 Beautiful Snow . . . 324 
 
 Bed During Exams .... Clara Warren Vail . 298 
 
 Behold the Deeds ! . . . . H. C. Bunner . . 319 
 
 Bells, The Judy 148 
 
 Birds and the Pheasant, The . Punch 131 
 
 Biter Bit, The ..... William Aytoun . . 161 
 
 Bo-Peep. Anthony C. Deane . 294 
 
 B >ston 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. Cal<verley 195 
 Cockney Enigma on the 
 
 Letter H Horace Mayheiv . 49 
 
 Commonplaces Rudyard Kipling . 97 
 
 Crocodile, The . . . . . Lewis Carroll . . 43 
 
 Cult of the Celtic, The . . Anthony C. Deane . 317 
 
 Culture in the Slums . . . W. E. Henley . . 322 
 
 DESOLATION Tom Masson . . . 130 
 
 De Tea Fabula A T. Quitter-Couch . 289 
 
 Disaster Charles S. Catoer ley 79 
 
 Domicile of John, The . . A. Pope .... 34 
 
 Dreary Song, A .... Shirley Brooks . . 20 
 
 ELDERLY GENTLEMAN, THE . George Canning . . 328 
 
 Estunt the Griff Rudyard Kipling . '. 235 
 
 Excelsior 124 
 
 FATHER WILLIAM .... Lewis Carroll . . 67 
 
 Flight of the Bucket, The . Rudyard Kipling . 206 
 
 Foam and Fangs . ... Walter Parke . . 278 
 Fragment in Imitation of 
 
 Wordsworth C. M. Fanshawe . 52 
 
 Fuzzy Wuzzy Leaves us . . E. P. C. . . . . 305 
 
 GAELIC SPEECH j or " Auld 
 
 Lang Syne" Done Up in 
 
 Tartan 4 
 
 Gillian 268 
 
 Goblin Goose, The ." . . Punch 150 
 
 Godiva Oliver Herford . . 177 
 
 Golfer's Rubaiyat, The . . H. W. Boynton . . 3 
 
 Grievance, A J. K. Stephen . . 85 
 
 Gwendoline Bayard Taylor . . 118 
 
 [ 376] 
 
Index of Titles 
 
 HADRAMAUT Bayard Taylor . . 233 
 
 Heathen Pass-ee, The . . . A. C. Hilton . . . 286 
 
 Higher 120 
 
 Higher Pantheism in a Nutshell, 
 
 The . .* Algernon C. Swinburne 180 
 
 Hiram Hover Bayard Taylor . . 133 
 
 Horse and His Master, The Philip F. Allen . . 136 
 Home Sweet Home with 
 
 Variations Henry C. Banner . 334 
 
 Home Truths from Abroad 193 
 
 House that Jack Built, The . Samuel T. Coleridge 3 i 
 
 How Often Ben King . . . . 129 
 
 IDYLL OF PHATTE AND LEENE, 
 
 AN 29 
 
 If! Mortimer Collins . . 274 
 
 If I Should Die To-Night . Ben King . . . . 331 
 
 Imitation . Henry C. Bunner . 96 
 
 Imitation of Robert Browning J. K. Stephen . . 210 
 
 Imitation of Walt Whitman . Judy 221 
 
 Imitation of Walt Whitman J. K. Stephen . . 224 
 
 Imitation Anthony C. Deane . 296 
 
 In Immemorian Cuthbert Bede . . 174 
 
 In the Gloaming .... Charles S. Calverley 116 
 
 I Remember, I Remember . Phcebe Gary . . . 101 
 
 JACK AND JILL Anthony C. Deane . 309 
 
 Jack and Jill Charles Battell Loomis 348 
 
 Jacob Phcebe Gary ... 51 
 
 Jam-Pot, The Rudyard Kipling . . 210 
 
 Jane Smith Rudyard Kipling . . 54 
 
 John Thompson's Daughter . Phcebe Gary ... 73 
 
 LADY JANE A. T. Quitter-Couch 69 
 
 Last Cigar, The 76 
 
 Last Ride Together, The . . J. K. Stephen . . 212 
 
 Laureate, The William Aytoun . . 163 
 
 [377] 
 
A Parody Anthology 
 
 laureate's Log, A .... Punch 178 
 
 La ueate's Tourney, The . . William Aytoun . . 105 
 
 Lay of Macaroni, The . . Bayard Taylor . . 284 
 
 Luy of the Lovelorn, The . . William Aytoun . . 165 
 
 Le end of Realism, The . . Hilda Johnson- . . 313 
 ..in-s Written ("By Re- 
 
 cj ;Cit ") for a Dinner of the 
 
 ();iiar Khayyam Club . . Owen Seaman . . 10 
 
 Little Jack Homer . . / . . Anthony C. Deane . 315 
 
 Little Miss Muffet 156 
 
 L hster Quadrille, The . . Lewis Carroll . . 114 
 
 J,t Ape, The J. W. G. W. . . 245 
 
 Lo.t Voice, The . . . . A. H. S 244 
 
 i...| Word, The . . . . C. H . Webb ... 246 
 
 L ve and Science 153 
 
 Lovers, and a Reflection . . Charles S. Calmer lev . 259 
 
 L ve Song, A Dean Swift . ; . 331 
 
 I ucy Lake Newton Mackintosh . 57 
 
 MAID OF THE MEERSCHAUM, 
 
 THE Rudyard Kipling . . 275 
 
 Manlet, The . . . . . Lewis Carrol/ . . 272 
 
 Man 1 Place in Nature 191 
 
 Marriage of Sir John Smith, 
 
 The ....... Phcebe Gary ... 91 
 
 M.iry and the Lamb . . . Frank D. Sherman . 37 
 
 Maudle-in Ballad, A ... Punch 300 
 
 Melton Mowbray Pork-Pie, A Richard Le Gallienne 278 
 
 Modern Hiawatha, The . . . . . . . . . 120 
 
 Modern Rubaiyat, The . . Kate Master son . .. 7 
 .Modern Versification on An- 
 cient Themes . . . . Elizabeth Cavazza 346 
 
 M ;re Impressions .... Oscuro Wildgoose . 299 
 
 Musical Pitch, The 158 
 
 Mutton ' 113 
 
 My Foe 46 
 
 NEPHELJDIA A. C. Swinburne . 282 
 
 N -ttl \ The Bayard Taylor . . 231 
 
 [ 3-3 1 
 
Index of Titles 
 
 New Arrival, The .... George W. Cable . . 72 
 Newe t Tiling in Christmas 
 
 Carols, The, 325 
 
 New Version, The . . . . W. J. Lampton . . 138 
 
 Not a Sou had he Got . R. Harris Barbam . 89 
 
 Nursery Rhymes a la Mode 299 
 
 Nursery Song in Pidgin English 30 
 
 ODE, AN . Anthony C. Deane . 237 
 
 Ode on a Jar of Pickles . . Bayard Taylor . . 94 
 
 Ode to a London Fog 239 
 
 Of Friendship Charles S. Calmer ley . 185 
 
 Of Reading Charles S. Calverley . 186 
 
 Old Fashioned Fun . W. M. Thackeray . 333 
 Old Man's Cold and How He 
 
 Got It, The 66 
 
 Old Song by New Singers, An A. C. Wilkie . . . 368 
 
 Omar for Ladies, An . . . Josephine D. Bacon . 5 
 
 Only Seven . . . . . . Henry S. Leigh . . 55 
 
 O.i Wordsworth 51 
 
 Oyster-Crabs Carolyn Wells . . 41 
 
 POET AND THE WOODLOUSE, 
 
 THE A. C. Swinburne . . 224 
 
 P.>ets 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; 
 
 \<digals, The 292 
 
 nnissory Note, The . . . Bayard Taylor . . 143 
 
 >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 ] 
 
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