Collections and Recollections Part 20

"Mais bientot elle s'a.s.sit Dans la rue Piccadilli, Car il faisait extremement chaud; Et la elle vit s'avancer L'unique objet de ses pensees, Sur le plus magnifique de chevaux!

"Je suis pauvre et sans ressource!

Prete, prete-moi ta bourse, Ou ta montre, pour me montrer confiance.'

'Jeune femme, je ne vous connais, Ainsi il faut me donner Une adresse et quelques references'

"'Mon adresse--c'est Leycesster Sqvare, Et pour reference j'espere Que la statue de Shakespeare vous suffira,'

'Ah! connais-tu ma mie, La fille du sergent?' 'Si; Mais elle est morte comme un rat!'

"'Si defunte est ma belle, Prenez, s'il vous plait, ma selle, Et ma bride, et mon cheval incomparable; Car il ne faut rien dire, Mais vite, vite m'ensevelir Dans un desert sec et desagreable.'

"'Ah! mon brave, arrete-toi.

Je suis ton unique choix; La fille du sergent sans peur!

Pour mon trousseau, c'est modeste, Vous le voyez! Pour le reste, Je t'epouse dans une demi-heure!'

"Mais le jeune homme epouvante Sur son cheval vite remontait, La liberte lui etait trop chere!

Et la pauvre fille degoutee N'avait qu'a reprendre sa route, et Son adresse est encore Leycesster Sqvare."

The chiefs of the Permanent Civil Service are not usually, as Swift said, "blasted with poetic fire," but this delightful ditty is from the pen of Mr. Henry Graham, the Clerk of the Parliaments.

Of the metrical parodists of the present hour two are extremely good.

Mr. Owen Seaman is, beyond and before all his rivals, "up to date," and pokes his lyrical fun at such songsters as Mr. Alfred Austin, Mr.

William Watson, Mr. Rudyard Kipling, and Mr. Richard Le Gallienne. But "Q." is content to try his hand on poets of more ancient standing; and he is not only of the school but of the lineage of "C.S.C." I have said before that I forbear, as a rule, to quote from books as easily accessible as _Green Bays;_ but is there a branch of the famous "Omar Khayyam Club" in Manchester? If there be, to it I offer this delicious morsel, only apologizing to the uninitiated reader for the pregnant allusiveness, which none but a sworn Khayyamite can perfectly apprehend:--

MEASURE FOR MEASURE.

Wake! for the closed Pavilion doors have kept Their silence while the white-eyed Kaffir slept, And wailed the Nightingale with "Jug, jug, jug!"

Whereat, for empty cup, the White Rose wept.

Enter with me where yonder door hangs out Its Red Triangle to a world of drought, Inviting to the Palace of the Djinn, Where death, Aladdin, waits as Chuckerout.

Methought, last night, that one in suit of woe Stood by the Tavern-door and whispered, "Lo!

The Pledge departed, what avails the Cup?

Then take the Pledge and let the Wine-cup go."

But I: "For every thirsty soul that drains This Anodyne of Thought its rim contains-- Freewill the _can_, Necessity the _must;_ Pour off the _must_, and see, the _can_ remains.

"Then, pot or gla.s.s, why label it '_With care?'_ Or why your Sheepskin with my Gourd compare?

Lo! here the Bar and I the only Judge:-- O Dog that bit me, I exact an hair!"

No versifier of the present day lends himself so readily to parody as Mr. Kipling. His "Story of Ung" is an excellent satire on certain methods of contemporary literature:--

"Once on a glittering icefield, ages and ages ago, Ung, a maker of pictures, fas.h.i.+oned an image of snow.

Fas.h.i.+oned the form of a tribesman; gaily he whistled and sung, Working the snow with his fingers, '_Read ye the story of Ung!_'

And the father of Ung gave answer, that was old and wise in the craft, Maker of pictures aforetime, he leaned on his lance and laughed: 'If they could see as thou seest they would do as thou hast done, And each man would make him a picture, and--what would become of my son?'"

So far Mr. Kipling. A parodist writing in _Truth_ applies the same "criticism of life" to commercial production:--

THE STORY OF BUNG.

Once, ere the glittering icefields paid us a tribute of gold, Bung, the son of a brewer, heir to a fortune untold-- Vast was his knowledge of brewing--gaily began his career.

Whispered the voice of ambition, "Perhaps they will make thee a peer."

People who sampled his liquor wunk an incredulous wink, Smelt it, then drank it, and grunted, "Verily _this_ is a drink!"

Even the Clubman admitted, wetting the tip of his tongue, "Lo! it is excellent beer! Glory and honour to Bung!"

Straightway the doubters a.s.sembled, a prying, unsatisfied horde: "It is _said_ the materials used are approved by the Revenue Board; It is claimed that no adjuncts are used, the advertis.e.m.e.nts say it is pure; True, the beer is good--and it may be--but can the consumer be sure?"

Wroth was that brewer of liquor, knowing the doubters were right, User of chemical adjuncts, and methods that bear not the light; Little he recked of disclosures, much of the profits he cleared, So in the ear of his father whispered the thing that he feared.

And the father of Bung gave answer, that was old and wise in the craft, "If they cast suspicion upon thee, it is nought but a random shaft; If others could know what thou knowest, they would do what thou hast done, And men would drink of their brewing, and--what would become of my son?

"So long as thy beer is best, so long shall thy brewing win The praise no money can buy, and the money that praise brings in.

And if the majority's pleased, the majority does not mind The _how_, and the _what_, and the _whence_. Rejoice that the public is blind."

And Bung took his father's counsel, and fell to his brewing of beer, And he gave the Government cheques, and the Government made him a peer, And the doubters ceased from their doubting, loudly his praises they sung, Cursing their previous blindness. _Heed ye the story of Bung!_

But no effort of intentional parody can, I think, surpa.s.s this serious adaptation of the "March of the Men of Harlech" to the ecclesiastical crisis of 1898-9:--

A PROTESTANT BATTLE-SONG;

OR,

PASTORAL ADDRESS TO CHRISTIAN BRETHREN.

Sons of Freedom, rouse the Nation!

Or Britain's glorious Reformation Soon will reach dire consummation!

G.o.d defend the right!

Shall false traitor-bishops lead us, Chained to Rome, and madly speed us, From the Word of G.o.d which freed us, Unto Papal night?

False example setting, Treachery begetting, Temple, Halifax, Maclagan, Now with Rome coquetting.

Mighty House of Convocation Thou art not the British Nation!

Every warrior to your station; Freedom calls for fight!

Cuba, Spain, and Madagascar, Where the Jesuits are master, Shout our shame in their disaster,-- What shall Britain say?

Rome, thy smile is cold as Zero.

Drop the mask, thou crafty Nero!

Britons! rouse ye! Play the Hero!

Right shall win the day!

False example setting, Treachery begetting, Temple, Halifax, Maclagan, Now with Rome coquetting.

Trust in G.o.d! His truth protecting, Prayer and duty ne'er neglecting, Fearless, victory expecting, Prepare you for the fray!

FOOTNOTES:

[32] Born 1851; ordained 1874; died 1877.