THE VICTIMS.

WHEN GLO'STER, humpback'd Prince was young,
While yet on fostering breast he hung,
His mind being, like his body, made ill,
The VICES throng'd around his cradle;
Exulting, sneering, grinning, fighting,
They set his early teeth a biting;
By turns they taught the embrio King,
To roar and cry for everything;

Once, while he slept, and all were fired,
Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspir'd

Each fiend prophetic snatch'd a page;
And, as they oft had shewn apart,
Dark lessons of their forceful art,
Each borrow'd from the future hour,
Some victim of the tyrant's power;
And mutually agreed to pry
Into their darling's destiny.

First CLARENCE came, his taste to try,
(Near him a Malmsey butt they laid
Who back recoil'd, he knew not why,

Even at the choice himself had made. Next HENRY'S SON, his eye on fire, With just reproof the tyrant stings, One savage blow speaks RICHARD'S ire, And the youth soars on seraph wings.

In woeful guise of sad despair,

King HENRY mourns his hopes beguil'd, 'Till GLO'STER'S dagger ends his care, And sends the father to his child.

But thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair,
What was thy delusive measure?
Still it whisper'd royal pleasure

To Edward's son, and promis'd thrones and pow'r.

Still did her voice the cheat prolong,
While their fell uncle in the Tower,

Thought fit to echo the deceitful song,
And where of loyalty the theme she chose
His hypocritic voice was heard at ev'ry close;

And YORK and EDWARD fell into the snare.

And longer had she sung, but with a frown

The Duke impatient rose,

He threw his artful mask in fury down,

And with a withering look,

Of HASTINGS, RIVERS, VAUGHAN and GREY he took

The lives and bid his hellish agents do

A deed so horrible and dread

Ne'er were half-stifled shrieks so full of woe,

As when the fell assassins press'd

Against each struggling infant's breast;

And tho' some time each dreary pause between,
Dejected pity at their side,

Her soul subduing voice applied :

Still on the couch of innocence they lean,

'Till each strained ball of sight announce the victim's dead!

Unsteady BUCKINGHAM, whose friendship fixed

The crown on RICHARD, mourns his fallen state;
His cup of death ungrateful Glo'ster mix'd,
And one he cherish'd sells him to his fate.

With eyes upraised, as one inspired The Wife of RICHARD sat retired; And from her wretched regal seat,

In notes by sorrow render'd sweet,

Pour'd to Prince EDWARD'S shade her plaintive soul;
And deeply grieves that e'er she found,

Like EVE, the soft beguiling sound

Of the keen serpent's voice, which gently stole
Within her heart, her duty to betray;

When after once or twice refusing,

Oh woman's weakness! past excusing,
She on the Crook-back threw herself away!

But oh! how alter'd was the mournful tone,
When HARRY RICHMOND, arm'd with title true,
His Baldrick 'cross his shoulder flung,

And, with enliv'ning trumpet, blew

A call to arms that thro' the island rung!
His claim announcing to the English throne.

ELIZABETH, late EDWARD'S Queen,
With age so gay, and youth so green,
To join his standard soon were seen;
And STANLEY inwardly rejoiced to hear,

And RICE AP THOMAS seized his Cambrian spear.

Last came BoSWORTH'S warlike trial,
RICHARD for his crown advancing;
First to the soldiery some words addressed,
But soon he saw brave HENRY defy all,
(And fighting, far than talking he lov'd best).
They might have thought who heard the fray,
That in dark Pandaemonium's shade,
All Milton's demons were arrayed;

Such clang of arms and coursers prancing.
While, as at sounding shield the falchion rings,
Death, in his ebon car, drove fiercely round;

And RICHARD's corse among the slain was found!
And HENRY on that well fought day,
His worth and valour to repay,

Received a crown upborne on Victory's wings.

Just at this scene young GLO'STER 'woke,
And begg'd, not relishing the joke,

His tutors would so civil be,
As alter the catastrophe.

But that which is decreed by fate,

Must surely happen, soon or late;

And what, as fiction has been stated,

All came to pass, as we've related.

From A Metrical History of England, or Recollections in Rhyme, by Thomas Dibdin. 2 Vols. London. 1813.

The following parody was written by Mr. C. H. Waring, and although it was first printed 46 years ago, it is only a few months since the author kindly sent permission for it to be included in this collection.

THE SESSIONS.

An Ode for Music.

WHEN Parliament was fresh and young,
While yet election squibs were sung,
The M. P.'s throng'd to take their seats,
Through London's country-leading streets,
Exulting, trembling, burning, glowing,
With patriotic zeal o'erflowing,
By turns they felt the teeming mind
To silence forced, to speak inclined;
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired,
Fill'd with speeches, rapt, inspired,
From the surrounding benches nigh

They strove to catch the Speaker's eye;
And as they oft had tried apart
Lessons in the forensic art,

Each, as the Speaker ruled the hour,
Would prove his own expressive power.

First Dizzy rose his skill to try,

Mid wild abuse bewilder'd stray'd, Accusing those in places high

Of making statesmanship a trade!

Next rush'd-his eye's clear fire
Told of power that lurk'd within-
In some few words he squashed the liar,
And stripp'd the falsehoods bare and thin.

With woeful measures, poor Joe Hume!

Low plaintive sounds beguiled his soul, In solemn, strange, and fearful fume,

He summ'd the "tottle of the whole."

But thou, old boy! with tongue so glib,
What was thy expected pleasure?

Still it cried "Repale's the measure!"
And bid the friends of Ireland "agitate!"
Still did his tongue that word prolong,

And now deject, and now elate,

He spoke of Erin's worth, and Erin's wrong; And as his eyes and hands uprose,

Each Tory's finger touch'd the scornful nose, And Dan O'Connell smiled and waved his Irish "sprig !"

Last came Peel's ecstatic trial!

With majority advancing,

First to New Tariff laws his lore address'd, But soon he poured from his wrath-full phial

The Income Tax, whose ease he loved the best,
They would have thought who heard his strain
They saw in ancient Rome her saviour stand,
Amid the lyres of the Imperial band,
To the triumphant notes unwearied dancing,
While, as his pearl-white pinions swept the strings,
Joy pranced with fear a wild fantastic round,
Plain were all profits seen, strong chests unbound;
And he amid his frolic play,

As if he would some part repay,
Shook promises by thousands from his wings!

O Parliament! the people aid!
Friend of debtors! wisdom's shade!
Why now to us, thy worth denied,

Lay'st thou thy ancient strength aside?
As in that old forensic place

You learn'd to body forth with grace!
St. Stephen's now, alas! for these,
Cannot recall old memories!
Is all thy ancient power dead,
And with that chapel echoes fled?
Arise! as in that olden time,
Warm, energetic, true, sublime!
Thy speeches in that golden age
Fill many a glowing, storied page,

'Tis said, and I believe the tale,

Then an humblest speech could more prevailHad more of truth, and patriot rage,

Than all that linger through this age;

E'en all at once together bound,

One inane senseless world of sound!

Oh! bid our modern M. P.'s cease
This war of Party, and in Peace,
Learn to sincerely legislate,

Not for themselves, but for the state.

Punch. November 5, 1842.

ODE TO THE FASHIONS.

When Fancy, heavenly maid, was young,
And roved the hills and dales among,
The Fashions, to produce a swell,
Would throng around her magic cell,
Exulting, strutting, almost fainting,
Possessed beyond e'en Planché's painting,
By turns they showed creative mind
In costumes curiously designed,
When all at once, they all desired,
Each goddess much to be admired.
They from imagination caught,

The wondrous power of Fancy's thought.
And by that aid sought to impart
The lessons of her graceful art,

And each-for Fashions rule the hour-
Would prove its own delusive power.

First Ancient Briton sought to try
His hand upon the tailoring trade,
And back recoiled-pray don't ask why-
E'en at the fright himself had made.

A Templar next with eyes on fire,

Looked through a helmet made of chain,
And Fancy cried she'd ne'er desire,
To see such head-dress worn again.

Then came the elongated toe

And hose that made the legs look taper,
With movement that of course was slow,
The wearer couldn't cut a caper.

But thou, oh hoop, with ruffles grand,
What was thy extended measure,

In which Queen Bess could take her pleasure,
And bade her courtiers keep their distance all?
She scarcely could her train prolong;

It must have awkward been when at a ball,
Especially if there had been a throng.
And when her sweetest dress she chose,

Soft voices from soft men bepraised her clothes, And she enchanted, smiled, and waved her bright red hair.

And long this Fashion reigned, till with a frown,
The Puritan uprose;

He raised his sword, and thundered at the gown,
And, with determined look,
Ruffling the ruffles, took

A sight; and as he did so said,

That such a bauble from the scene must go.

And ever and anon he beat

The Devil's Tattoo" with his feet,

With scarcely any pause whate'er between.
Dejected Cavaliers tried

Their deep vexation all to hide,

As thus the Puritan maintained his mien,

And spoke as though a cold affected his round head.

Then came the Restoration with nought fixed,

Sad proof of what had been the state

Of parties-for then all kinds were mixed

316

And now they courted lace to show their Roundhead
hate.

With curls turned up beneath the tile,
The wig full bottomed showed its style,
The wearing which, when in the street,
Could surely not have been a treat;

The style passed through three reigns, dating from
Anne,

This Brunswick fashion all around,

In circles quite genteel, was found;
Through promenades the hideous head-dress ran,
And e'en the country spots, the histories say,
Found the strange taste diffusing,
Love of wigs 'twas quite amusing;
At length the costume died away.

And now how altered is the Fashion's tone!
When silks and satin of most brilliant hue
Their show across each shoulder flung,
Their flounces gemmed with ribbons, too,
Had a distingué air when seen upon the young,
A charm that's in Belgravia well-known,

In nez retroussé, or in beauty's queen,
So that e'en beardless boys are seen
Looking quite sheepish or quite green,
Till exercise gives them a leer,

As love leaps up where Fashion doth appear.

Last came crinoline into the trial;
She, with mighty hoops advancing,
First with flowing flounces it was dressed,

But soon she saw, for beauty quick doth eye all,
That something yet should her fair form invest.
They would have thought, who saw the train,
That it could scarcely be on English maids,
Here, where decorum oft upraids

Our Mabille mode of dancing,

And modesty looks sheepish at such things.

Love raised up mirth on this fantastic round,

Which looked like a balloon just coming to the ground,

'Neath which the ankles made display,

Which, with Balmoral boots, looked very gay

As military heels displayed their rings.

Oh, Fashion, most fantastic maid!

Friend of pleasure, frailty's aid;
Why, goddess, it can't be denied
That thou dost many a blemish hide.
But where is now the simple art
That did in ages past impart

A grace, which scarcely now is thine,
Unto the human form divine?
Arise, as in the elder time,

When simple grace was quite sublime:
The triumph of that graceful age,
Display once more upon the page

Of Fashion's book, Le Follet named,

Through which new fashions are proclaimed.
'Tis said, and I believe the tale,

The simplest dress did more prevail,
Had much more charm folks to engage
Than the strange guise of modern age!
Then bid your vain displays to cease,

Give the simplicity of Greece,

Return us to that simple boast,

That beauty unadorned's adorned the most.

The Comic News. May 21, 1864.

SAMUEL ROGERS.

BORN, 1763. | DIED, 18 Dec., 1855.

Mr. Rogers's poem The Pleasures of Memory, published in 1792, was imitated in a small volume published in 1812, entitled The Pains of Memory, a Poem, in two books, by Peregrine Bingham. London, W. Anderson, 1812.

Fun.

ON A TEAR.

OH! that the chemist's magic art

Could crystalize this sacred treasure!
Long should it glitter near my heart!
A secret source of pensive pleasure.
The little brilliant, ere it fell,

Its lustre caught ftom Chloe's eye;
Then, trembling left its coral cell-
The spring of Sensibility!
Sweet drop of pure and pearly light!
In thee the rays of Virtue shine;
More calmly clear, more mildly bright,
Than any gem that gilds the mine.
Benign restorer of the soul !

Who ever fly'st to bring relief,
When first we feel the rude controul
Of Love or Pity, Joy or Grief.

The sage's and the poet's theme,

In every clime, in every age; Thou charm'st in Fancy's idle dream, In Reason's philosophic page. That very law which moulds a tear, And bids it trickle from its source, That law preserves the earth a sphere, And guides the planets in their course.

ON A TEAR.

(Suggested by the above Poem.)

OH! that the tailor's modish art

Could fashion trousers to our measure, Secure and strong in every part,

A source of inexpensive pleasure !—

I little thought, mistrustless swell,

Whose garments Snip and Shears supply, That trousers were but made-to sellThe test of gullibility!

Yet, though these hands had scarce arrayed
In tourist suit my ugly body,
The fabric frail my trust betrayed,

thought it cloth, but found it shoddy.
What power malignant sent it here?
Vile rent; my peace of mind it drowns,
It proves these flimsy bags were dear,
That only cost me five half-crowns.
Here must I, sorrowing, wait repairs,
And moralize the mournful scene,
My sad refrain, "Tears, hideous tears,
I know, confound them, what they mean!"
Come, Jane, with silver finger-sheath,

With thread and needle heal my woes; Come, armed like Curtius to the teeth, And bid the yawning chasm close!

ADDENDA.

In order that this Volume may contain as complete a collection as is possible of the Parodies of those Authors who are treated in it, the following poems are here inserted. Although they appear here somewhat irregularly they will all be found in the Index under the respective Authors to whose works they refer.

THOMAS GRAY.

Numerous parodies and imitations of Gray's poems appeared in the early pages of this volume, a few remain still to be quoted.

Musa Berkhamstediensis, or Poetical Prolusions by some Young Gentlemen of Berkhamsted School, 1794. this work contains Latin translations of Gray's Elegy in a Country Churchyard, and of several other standard poems. An Imitation of Gray's Elegy. Written by a Sailor. London. Printed by George Cooke, 1806.

The setting sun now gilds the mountain tops,
The busy shepherd pens his fleecy care,
Domestic fowls now seek their fav'rite props,

And leave the fields, barn-doors, and stack-yards fare.

The following parody was satirically attributed to William Cobbett, M. P., by the Editor of The Satirist, in which paper it appeared in August, 1810. The whole of it is bitterly personal and offensive, but it must be remembered that Cobbett himself never spared the feelings or characters of his adversaries :

ELEGY IN NEWGATE.

THE Curfew tolls the hour of locking up,
The grating bolts turn heavy on the key,
The turnkey hastens on beef-steaks to sup,
And leaves the cell to treason and to me.
Now fades the glittering dram glass from the sight,
And through the gaol a horrid stillness reigns,
Save where the watchman bawls the hour of night,
Or restless felon shakes his clanking chains.
Save that beneath the prison's outward bound,
Some drunken Cyprian wrathfully complains
Of such as, wandering near her nightly round,
Forestal the market of her wanton gains.

THE HANGMAN'S SPEECH. HERE bleeds his head upon the traitor's stage, A wretch to Virtue and to Truth unknown, Foul Faction frown'd not on his lying page, And Infamy had mark'd him for her own. Large was his bounty,-so he would you cram, The law rewarded him beyond his hope, He gave to misery, all he pleased-a damn,

The law bestow'd, 'twas all he feared-a rope.

No further seek his villainies to know,
Ner bid me all his hateful libels tell,
For now with him they burn in fires below
And serve the cause of Faction still, in HELL.

A PARODY.

THE ruin spread by war is wisely o'er,
The grateful mob receive a peace with glee,
The drooping party cease their wonted roar,

And leave these shades to silence and to me.

This is also given in full in The Satirist for May 12, 1812, where it is attributed to Mr. J. Taylor, who had then recently published a volume of poems. Neither of the above is of sufficient interest to reprint in full, the first, indeed, is too coarse to please modern readers.

WRITTEN IN THE TEMPLE GARDENS.

THE gard'ner rings the bell at close of day,
The motley crowd wind slowly home to tea;
Soft on the Thames the daylight fades away,
And leaves the walks to darkness and to me,

Now shine the glimmering gas-lights on the sight,
The warders now the outer portals lock,
And deepest stillness marks th' approach of night,
Save when the watchman calls "Past ten o'clock."

Save, also, when from yonder antique tower*;
With solemn sound, the bell strikes on the ear,
And wand'ring damsels, as they hear the hour,
Trip through the gloomy courts with haste and fear.

In those high rooms, where clients ne'er intrude,
And here and there a light doth dimly peep,
Each in his lonely set of chambers mewed,
The briefless crowd their nightly vigils keep.

The grave attorney, knocking frequently,
The tittering clerk, who hastens to the door,
The bulky brief, and corresponding fee,

Are things unknown to all that lofty floor.

Small comfort theirs when each dull day is o'er :
No gentle wife their joys and griefs to share,
No quiet homeward walk at half-past four
To some snug tenement near Russell Square.
Oft have they read each prosing term report,
Dull treatises, and statutes not a few;
How many a vacant day they've pass'd in court;
How many a barren circuit travell'd through.

Yet let not judges mock their useless toil,
And joke at sapient faces no one knows,
Nor ask, with careless and contemptuous smile,
If no one moves in all the long back rows?

Vain is the coif, the ermined robe, the strife
Of courts, and vain is all success e'er gave;
Say, can the judge, whose word gives death or life,
Reprieve himself when summon'd to the grave?
Nor you, ye leaders, view them with ill-will

If no one sees their speeches in The Times,
Where long-drawn columns oft proclaim your skill
To blacken innocence, and palliate crimes.

Can legal lore or animated speech

Avert that sentence which awaits on all?
Can nisi prius craft and snares o'er reach
That Judge whose look the boldest must appal?

The Middle Temple Hall Tower, a modern antique.

Perhaps, in those neglected rooms abound

Men deeply versed in all the quirks of laws,
Who could with cases right and wrong confound,
And common sense upset, by splitting straws.
But, ah! to them no clerk his golden page,
Rich with retaining-fees, did e'er unroll;
Chill negligence repress'd their legal rage,

And from the quibbling current of the soul,

Full many a barrister who well could plead,

Those dark and unfrequented chambers bear; Full many a pleader, born to draw unfee'd.

And waste his counts upon the desert air! Some Follett, whom no client e'er would trust, Some Wilde, who gain'd no verdict in his life; In den obscure, some Denman there may rust; Some Campbell, with no peeress for his wife.

The wits of wond'ring juries to beguile,

The wrongs of injured clients to redress :
To gain or lose their verdict with a smile,
And read their speeches in the daily press,

Their lot forbad-nor was it theirs, d'ye see?
The wretched in the toils of law to lure;
To prostitute their conscience for a fee,

And shut the gates of justice on the poor.

To try mean tricks to win a paltry cause,

With threadbare jests to catch the laugh of fools, Or puff in court before all human laws, The lofty wisdom of the last New Rules.

Not one rule nisi, even "to compute,'

"

Their gentle voices e'er were heard to pray, Calm and sequester'd, motionless and mute, In the remote back seats they pass'd each day.

Yet e'en their names are sometimes seen in print, For Frail memorials on the outer doors Disclose, in letters large, and dingy tints.

The unknown tenants of the upper floors. Door-posts supply the place of Term Reports, And splendid plates around the painter sticks, To show that he, who never moved the courts, Has moved from number two to number six.

For who, to cold neglect a luckless prey

His unfrequented attic e'er resign'd, E'er moved with better hopes across the way And did not leave a spruce tin-plate behind? Strong is the love of fame in nobler minds,

And he whose bold aspiring fate doth crush, Receives some consolation when he finds

His name recorded by the painter's brush. For thee who, mindful of each briefless wight, Dost in these motley rhymes their tale relate. If, musing in this lonely attic flight

Some youthful students should inquire thy fate,

Haply some usher of the court may say

"At noon I've mark'd him oft, 'tween nine and ten Striding, with hasty step, the Strand away,

At four o'clock to saunter back again.

There in the Bail Court, where yon quaint old judge,
Doth twist his nose, and wreath his wig awry,
Listless for hours he'd sit, and never budge,
And pore upon a book-the Lord knows why.

Oft would he bid me fetch him some report,
And turn from case to case with look forlorn,
Then, bustling, would he run from court to court,
As if some rule of his were coming on.

One morn I miss'd that figure lean and lank,
And that pale face, so often mark'd by me,
Another case-nor yet was he in Banc,

Nor at th' Exchequer, nor the Pleas was he. The next day, as at morn I chanced to see Death's peremptory paper in The Times,

I read his name, which there stood number three, And there I also read these doleful rhymes,"

EPITAPH

"Here rests a youth lamented but by few ;
A barrister, to fame aud courts unknown.
Brief was his life-yet was it briefless, too,
For no attorney mark'd him for his own.
"Deep and correct his knowledge of the laws,
No judge a rule of his could e'er refuse;
He never lost a client or a cause,

Because, forsooth, he ne'er had one to lose.
"E'en as he lived unknown-unknown he dies,
Calm be his rest, from hopeless struggle free,
'Till that dread court, from which no error lies,
Shall final judgment pass on him and thee,"

By the late MR. JUSTICE HAYES.

From Random Recollections of the Midland Circuit. By Robert Walton. Second Series. Chiswick Press,

ELEGY WRITTEN IN A BALL-ROOM. THE beaux are jogging on the pictured floor The belles responsive trip with lightsome heels ; While I, deserted, the cold pangs deplore,

Or breathe the wrath which slighted beauty feels.

1873.

This does not continue in the vein of parody. From Miscellanies: Prose and Verse, by William Maginn. 1885.

THE "ELEGY" TRAVESTIED.

THE shops are closed-the sign of closing day
The sewing-girl glides glibly home to tea;
The drayman homeward drives his noisy dray,

And leaves "down town" to watchmen and to me.

Now fade the lightless lamp-posts on the sight;
O'er all the street a soothing stillness reigns,
Save where the stages wheel their distant flight,
And random sprinklings tap the window panes.

Save that, from yonder "Square," upon the ear

Fall sounds of "Presses," with a buzzing din, Where hordes of "Scribblers" take their "Bitter Beer," And "Midnight Bounders" drink their fighting gin.

Observe, ye chaste, who promenade the way
In spotless satin and unsullied fame,
Where, thro' the crowded streets, in open day,
The painted wanton publishes her shame.