O, THE SNOW! the beautiful snow! Snow on the pavement, and snow on the street, O, the slush! the ineffable slush! Snow, mud, and fog churned to maddening mush, Slush that slips in through the boots on your feet, Slush that slops up to your chimney-pot neat. Into town-into country-wherever you rush Nothing to-day but ineffable slush: Bedraggled merino, and velvet, and plush, Trail through the swamps of ineffable slush. The Globe. January, 28, 1886. THAT BEAUTIFUL KISS. When Madame Patti was in St. Louis, U.S., in 1884, the then Governor, Mr. T. T. Crittenden, called upon her, and during some playful badinage, he kissed her. The newspapers got hold of the story and humourously enlarged upon it, one of them published the following parody, wickedly ascribing it to the Governor : OH, THAT kiss! that beautiful kiss! Sense robbing, Oh bountiful bliss, I'd yield my political hopes for that kiss! For me holds no bliss One half so entrancing as that Patti kiss. It could scarcely have been the same newspaper writer who wrote the following unfavourable criticism upon Madame Patti's singing: "Her technique is bad, besides being too small. When a bran-new technique can now be had for three dollars, and a good second-hand one, holding over two quarts, for $1.75, there is no excuse for this. Of course we all know-all we critics-that there are no tears in Mrs. A. Patti's voice, which is the reason for her having to wet her whistle so early and often. There is a marked deficiency in breadth, and depth, and thickness in the upper register, which does not admit the air freely in consequence, and a far-off nearness, a sort of inanimate after-taste, so to speak, in the diminuendo of her flats, particularly her French flat. Her singular mannerism of holding her chin lopsided during her G ups is in bad form, and the first thing she knows, one of her sharps will come out edgeways and cut her throat. Then she opens her mouth too much and too often when she sings, which makes her chest-notes mouthy, and her mouthnotes chesty. It would be much better, to say nothing of more artistic, if she were to open only one side of her mouth at a time. This would save wear and tear of her teeth, and at the same time give the other corner time to rest and brace up. She exerts herself too much in her trills, and it would save her both breath and expense if she had them hereafter done behind the scenes, by a boy with a dog-whistle or something." :0: HANS BREITMANN'S BARTY. HANS BREITMANN gife a barty; Dey had biano-blayin; I felled in lofe mit a Merican frau, Hans Breitmann gife a barty, I vent dere you'll pe pound; I valtzet mit Madilda Yane, Und vent shpinnen' round and round. She vayed 'pout dwo hoondred pound, Hans Breitmann gife a barty, I dells you it cost him dear; Dey rolled in more ash sefen kecks Öf foost-rate lager beer. Und vhenefer dey knocks de shpicket in De Deutschers gifes a cheer; I dinks dat so vine a barty Never coom to a het dis year. Hans Breitmann gife a barty; Dere all was Souse and Brouse, Hans Breitmann gife a barty; I put mine mout' to a parrel of beer, Und she shlog me on the kop, Und de gompany vighted mit daple-lecks Hans Breitmann gife a barty- Vhere ish de lofely golden cloud Dat float on de moundain's prow? All goned afay mit de lager beer- CHARLES GODFREY LELAND. THE FATE OF THE FOUR. LORD Woodcock* had a Party, They held that the Liberal lot were naught, They had principles of the patriot type, And when in muster full they met, They numbered-just twice two! * Lord Randolph Churchill. THE FATE OF THE FRONTIERSMAN. After Joaquin Miller, an exaggeration of an exaggeration, for indeed much of Miller's verse is a travesty of poetry. THAT whiskey-jug! For dry or wet, We made for the desert, she and I, Though life was loathsome, and love a lie, For why?-there was barely water for one A splendid snake, with an emerald scale, With a famished parrot pecking its head; I laid her as dead as the snake at my feet, The plain stretched wide from side to side, And my throat grew hot, as I walked the trail, Not even a bilberry's ball of blue To slush my tongue with its indigo dew, And the dry brown palm-trees rattled and roared Like the swish and swizzle of Walker's sword. I was nigh rubbed out; when, far away, A shanty baked in the furnace of day, Till I dropped, like a mangy hound, at the door. No soul to be seen; but a basin stood Stringy and doughy and lumpy and thick, A prairie squall of hungry desire, And strength came back; when, lo! a scream She stood before me, as lithe and tall A lariat draped her broad brown hips, You may rip the cloud from the frescoed sky, And there in the shanty, side by side, Each on the other's bosom died. She's now the mistress of Buffalo Bill, And pure as the heart of a lily still; While I've killed all who have cared for me, And I'm just as lonely as I can be, So, pass the whiskey,-we'll have a spree ! From Diversions of the Echo Club, by Bayard Taylor. Several other parodies of American poets have already been quoted from The Diversions of the Echo Club, and it is only now necessary to say of the others that they are written in imitation of E. C. Stedman, Mrs. Sigourney, W. C. Bryant, T. B. Oldrich, Mrs. Stoddard, N. P. Willis, R. H. Stoddard, Henry T. Tuckerman, Jean Ingelow, George H. Baker, Mrs. Julia Ward Howe, and William Winter. :0: WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE! This favourite old song was written by an American, General G. P. Morris, and several parodies of it were inserted in Volume IV., the following has since been received from the United States : THE WOODMAN'S REPLY. No, mum, this 'ere old tree It ain't no odds to me, If Muster Brown was squared ; But Muster Brown says, "Green, You drop that there tree down," And what he say he mean, Sure-ly, do Muster Brown. I don't possess the 'ed A lady born and bred Is safe to speak what's true. (And little 'tis I makes Out of the likes of he). Your heart-strings, and all that, Round this 'ere tree may clingTo contradict you flat, Would not be quite the thing; But if you talk of shade, There's other boughs than these, And other folks have played, Mayhap, round other trees. It's very good to feel A mystning of the eyes, For chairs of oak or deal, And old straw-hats likewise, To keep, if you've a mind, The things as makes you weep; I've got no fault to find, If they're your own to keep. As you don't want cut down, Should like your health to drink. GODFREY TURNER. Although, as has been seen, American writers have abundance of humour, it does not make them proud, and they will appropriate the comic writings of our authors, without acknowledgment, in the most condescending manner. A volume of amusing verse entitled "Songs of Singularity" was brought out by Mr. Walter Parke in 1874, it contained a ballad on the mother-in-law, a theme of never-failing fruitfulness to the satirist. That same ballad afterwards appeared in the San Francisco News Letter, duly appropriated and altered to suit the local market, without one word of acknowledgment to the original author. BY THE SAD SEA WAVES. AN IDYLL. "O gai!"-French exclamation of delight. And why? In that vessel that left the bay To a tropical country far away, Where tigers and snakes prevailed. But he watch'd the vessel, this singular chap, And he felt exactly like Louis Nap. Till over the blue horizon's edge She disappeared from view, And many and many a joysome lay 'Till down with a "fizz" went the orb of day, And then he went home to tea. WALTER PARKE. HIS MOTHER-IN-LAW. HE stood on his head by the wild sea shore, In all his emotions, as never before, A wildly hilarious grig. And why? In that ship just crossing the bay His mother-in-law had sail'd For a tropical country far away, Where tigers and fever prevailed. Oh! now he might hope for a peaceful life Though owning no end of neuralgic wife, And up to his collar in debt. He had borne the old lady through thick and thin; And now as he looked at the ship she was in, He watched as the good ship cut the sea, And thought if already she qualmish might be, He watched till the vessel became a speck From The San Francisco News Letter. Mr. Parke, being a good natured man, might not, perhaps, have objected to the theft of his poem, but the mutilations must have been galling to his feelings. He has since republished the poem, with some alterations to fit it for music, in "Patter Poems, humourous and serious." London, Vizetelly and Co. ·:0: ON THE PIER. An American Idyll. Our friend, Dapper English, on a Mississippi Pier, awaits the advent by river boat, of an Americaness whom he adores. A hunter, who will voyage by the same boat, drinks freely until its arrival, and thus urbanely accosts Dapper :Look ye hyar, young feller! Not you, ye wizen'd old stoat! Him! that smarty chap. What flower 's that in your coat? It looks so bright an' red 'longside 'o that sprig o' green, I like the look of it rayther. Don't you know what I mean? Don't yer know who I am? Look hyar! Y' see that knife? It's dug out o' human an' grizzly the red and ragin' life. I'm Grizzly Jim o' Nebraska! Hain't ye heerd o' him? Now, I like yer flower, young feller. Confound yer Britisher look: Don't yer know what I mean? What I've liked I've allus took. Jest you hand over that flower as humble as humble can be, Or this 'll make winders and doors where yer won't like sich to be. Laughin'. By thunder! Dog done it, ye're grit, an' I love yer spunk. Come, tip us yer flipper, stranger; I reckon yer not such a skunk. Why that was the grip of a man, yer a fellow the reds 'ud fear, Let's have a drink. Don't? Moses! Don't! Why ain't that queer, Not! an' a feller like you! Nor smoke? Eh? Well, that's rum ! What's the name o' yer flower, I say! Gee-ray-nee-um. That's a comical name; and fern's that bit o' green, Never know'd it before, though acres of 'em I've seen. Where'd you get 'em? Grew 'em? Come, sell me one, I say! Here's half-a-dozen o' dollars: I want to throw 'em away, Hain't got yer flowers clus by? Besides, you wouldn't trade. You'd gi' me 'em if you had em. Well, yer a generous blade. Too tarnal proper a chap by half for a Britisher. But why wouldn't you gi' me that flower, you lyin' sneak of a cur? Well, beg parding. You were'nt ask'd, that is, in a proper way; Besides, goin' courtin' I s'pose. Ay, an' likely, too, I say. I forgot, yer Well, let's liquor up, old chap-my stars! It's extrornery cert'nly, but if yer won't, yer won't. From Kottabos. Trinity College, Dublin. :0: JOSEPH SWIFE, OF POTIPHAR. A Man after Twain's own Michaelmas "Harte." THERE'S been some whales 'mong the buoys I've know'd, All mussell and grit when he stripp'd, He'd see as all things went square; 273 His Bowie was now jest a 'leven-inch rip, ('Twas thirteen when it was bought, But he wore two inches off the tip With carvin' the men he'd fought.) A plumb-centre shot was his Derringer, He didn't let that iron rust, He'd spot a couple a day with her, Would Joseph-when on the bust. We reckon'd his "down-pins" about fourscore, But we hadn't the c'rect amount; 'Cos arter he'd notch'd up to seventy-four, Where is he now? I knows no more 'Cos one arternoon in sixty-four He had to "pass his checks." The way that it mayhap'd was thus :- I tell ye, they felt it pooty bad, They wanted that skunk to knife, An' the lad that 'peared to git most mad Was him as I've named-Joe Swife. To see that critter cavortin' around, Jest arx him if the thief was found, Joe left Potiphar then an' came here to Creek, He hadn't been prospectin' more'n a week 'Fore he said a big pocket he'd struck. One day we was lappin' round Joggles's bar- But he dropp'd it smash on the floor in a wink, Ses he: "Joe Swife, my gentle son, But Joseph's iron was ready to bark, With "conical" holes he was reg'lar scored, Whar was Joe? Waal, I reckon he clear'd, He know'd, with men as digs and delves, "Killin' a man was atwixt yerselves," But to go for his pile meant death. When he found that the buoys were dead on "kill," "You'll settle my hash with a leaden pill," Ses he-" DON'T string me up like a pup!" They fired, an' Potiphar's pride lay at rest, Funny Folks. April 29, 1876. This is an imitation of the style of Colonel John Hay's poems, for which see page 246. THE WIFE. HER washing ended with the day, And passed the long, long night away, In darning ragged hose. But when the sun in all its state She passed about the kitchen grate, And went to making pies. From Poems and Parodies by Phoebe Carey, Boston, U.S. 854. The same interesting little volume contains a number of clever parodies, of which those on the best known poets have already been printed in this collection. The remainder refer principally to American authors whose works are not very familiar to British readers. The book is out of print and very scarce, and although there is a copy of it in the Library, British Museum (11687. d), it is difficult to find, as it is improperly catalogued under Cary, instead of Carey. Another curious American book is entitled "Strange Visitors, by the spirits of Irving, Willis, Thackeray, Bronté, Richter, Byron, Humboldt, Hawthorne, Wesley, Browning, and others, now dwelling in the Spirit World.' Dictated through a Clairvoyant while in an abnormal or Trance State. New York. G. W. Carleton, publisher, 1869. Most of the papers in this volume are in prose, the following only are in verse: ... ... To his Accusers The Lost Soul To her Husband Hold Me Not, A Spirit Revisiting Earth Alone The Spirit Bride after Lord Byron. E. A. Poe. Mrs. E. B. Browning. Adah Isaacs Menken. N. P. Willis. Allan Cunningham. Adelaide A. Procter. All these imitations are serious, and even sombre, not to be styled parodies, although of little merit, except, perhaps, the imitation of Mrs. E. B. Browning. Her spirit speaks thus : TO HER HUSBAND. DEAD! dead! You call her dead! You cannot see her in her glad surprise, Kissing the tear drops from your weeping eyes; Moving about you through the ambient air, Smoothing the whitening ripples of your hair. Dead! dead! You call her dead! Lift up your eyes! she is no longer dead! In your lone path the unseen angels tread ! And when your weary night of earth shall close, She'll lead you where eternal summer blows. |