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From the same work is taken this parody on a well-known passage in Southey's “Kehama :"

Midnight, yet not a nose
From Tower Hill to Piccadilly snored;

Midnight, yet not a nose
From Indra drew the essence of repose.

See with what crimson fury,
By Indra fanned, the god of fire ascends the walls of Drury !

The tops of houses, blue with lead.

Bend beneath the landlord's tread:
Master and 'prentice, serving-man and lord,

Nailer and tailor,

Grazier and brazier,
Through streets and alleys poured,

All, all abroad to gaze

And wonder at the blaze.
Thick calf, fat foot, and slim knee
Mounted on roof and chimney,
The mighty roast, the mighty stew

To see,

As if the dismal view

Were but to them a mighty jubilee.
This stanza from the parody of Byron is especially famous :

For what is Hamlet but a hare in March?
And what is Brutus but a croaking owl ?
And what is Rolla? Cupid steep'd in starch,
Orlando's helmet in Augustine's cowl.
Shakespeare, how true thine adage, "fair is foul !"
To him whose soul is with fruition fraught,
The song of Braham is an Irish howl.

Thinking is but an idle waste of thought,

And nought is everything, and everything is nought. The imitation of Moore, too, is good :

The apples that grew on the fruit-tree of knowledge

By woman were plucked, and she still wears the prize,
To tempt us in theatre, senate, or college, -

I mean the love-apples that bloom in the eyes.

There, too, is the lash which, all statutes controlling,

Still governs the slaves that are made by the fair;
For man is the pupil who, while her eye's rolling.

Is lifted to rapture or sunk in despair. The “Bon Gaultier Ballads,” by William Edmonstoune Aytoun and Theo. dore Martin, contain some equally good parodies. “The Laureate's Tourney, by the Hon. T— B— M'A— ,” is the best travesty of Macaulay ever written :

"He's dead, he's dead, the Laureate's dead!" 'twas 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.
“Now by St. Giles of Netherby, my patron saint, I swear,
I'd rather by a thousand crowns Lord Palmerston were here!
What is't ye seek, ye rebel knaves? what make you there beneath ?"
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 !" and so on. Are there not here the very lilt and spirit of the “ Battle of Ivry" and other noble ballads ? But even better is the "Lay of the Lovelorn," a burlesque of “Locksley Hall.” It is too long to quote entire, but here is the

travesty of that famous passage where the hero threatens to go off and marry a savage :

There the passions, cramped no longer, shall have space to breathe, my cousin !
I will take some savage woman,-nay, I'll take at least a dozen.
There I'll 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, leopards' blood will daily quaff,
Ride a tiger-hunting, mounted on a thoroughbred giraffe.
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.

1, the swell,--the city dandy! I to seek such horrid places,-
• I'to haunt with squalid negroes, blubber-lips, and monkey-faces.

I to wed with Coromantes !-1, 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 another maiden may. Barham's “ Ingoldsby Legends” has this admirable imitation of “The Burial of Sir John Moore :"

Not a sou had he got.-not a guinea or note,

And he looked most confoundedly flurried,
As he bolted away without paying his shot,

And the landlady after him hurrie
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 burning.
All bare, and exposed to the midnight dews,

Reclined in the gutter we found him,
And he looked like a gentleman taking a snooze,

With his Marshall cloak around him.
« The Doctor's as drunk as the d-1,' we said,

And we managed a shutter to borrow.
We raised him, and sighed at the thought that his head

Would confoundedly ache on the morrow,
We bore him home and we put him to bed,

And we told his wife and daughter
To 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 recked, 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

Or a watchman“ One o'clock" bawling.
Slowly and sadly we all walked down

From his room on the uppermost story,
A rushlight we placed on the cold hearth-stone,

And we left him alone in his glory.
This parody of one of Wordsworth's famous poems appeared in Henry S.
Leigh's "Carols of Cockayne :"

ONLY Seven.
I marvelled why a simpla child

That lightly draws its breath,
Should utter groans so very wild

And look as pale as death.

Adopting a parental tone,

I asked her why she cried ;
The damsel answered, with a groan,

I've got a pain inside.
I thought it would have sent me mad,

Last night about eleven."
Said I. "What is it makes you bad?
How many apples have you had ?"

She answered, “Only seven !"
And are you sure you took no more,

My little maid?" quoth I.
“Oh, please, sir, mother gave me four,

But they were in a pie."
“ If that's the case," I stammered out,

"Of course you've had eleven."
The maiden answered, with a pout,

I ain't had more nor seven!"
I wondered hugely what she meant,

And said, “I'm bad at riddles,
But I know where little girls are sent

For telling taradiddles.
Now, if you don't reform," said I,

"You'll never go to heaven!"
But all in vain ; each time I try,
The little idiot makes reply,
I ain't had more nor seven!”

To borrow Wordsworth's name was wrong.

Or slightly misapplied ;
And so I'd better call my song

“Lines from Ache-inside." From the same author we take the following burlesque of a weli-known passage in “Lalla Rookh :"

I never reared 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 till the present hour,
And yet he will go living on.-

I would he were a tree or flower! This passage has always proved a tempting mark for the parodist. Here are two more attempts, the first by C. S. Calverley, the second from an anonymous source :


I never nursed a dear gazelle :

But I was given a paroquet,
(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 never had a piece of toast

Particularly long and wide,
But fell upon the sanded floor,

And always on the buttered side. Perhaps the best of all English parodists was C. S. Calverley. His "Story of a Cock and Bull” is an admirable rifacimento of Browning ; but it is too long to quote here entire. Let us take this travesty of Tennyson's “ Brook :"

I loiter down by thorp and town;

For any job I'm willing :
Take here and there a dusty brown,

And here and there a shilling.

I deal in every ware in turn :

I've rings for buddin' Sally,
That sparkle like those eyes of her'n;

I've liquor for the valet.

The things I've done 'neath moon and stars

Have got me into messes;
I've seen the sky through prison bars,

I've torn up prison dresses.

But out again I come, and show

My face, nor care a stiver ;
For trades are brisk and trades are slow,

But mine goes on forever ; and this evident skit at Jean Ingelow:

In 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,
Through God's own heather we wonned together,

I and my Willie (O love, my love !):
I need hardly remark it was glorious weather,

And Aitter: bats wavered alow, above.
Boats were curtsying, rising, bowing

(Boats in that climate are so polite),
And sands were a ribbon of green endowing,

And O the sun-dazzle on bark and bight!
Through the rare red heather we danced together

(O love, my Willie!) and smelt for flowers ;
I must mention again it was glorious weather,

Rhymes are so scarce in this world of ours. The “Heptalogia, or the Seven against Sense,” has already been mentioned. It is attributed to Swinburne, and the evidence is sufficient to convict him. But he has never acknowledged it. Indeed, he attempted to throw the detective off the track by a parody of his own manner and style, which we have quoted under ALLITERATION. A portion of his parody on Owen Meredith appears in our article on PLAGIARISM. Here is a clever take-off on “ The New Pantheism” of Tennyson :


One, who is not, we see; but one whom we see not, is :
Surely this is not that ; but that is assuredly this.
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, shows you a clean 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.
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 common 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 cock 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. Swinburne has been parodied by others besides himself. Here is an effort by Mortimer Collins :


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,
And life's swift stream goes 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. Another very good parody is contained in the “Shotover Papers,” contributed to by members of the University of Cambridge. The procuratores, it should be explained, are a sort of university police :

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