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'll come, and cut and come again."To hungry wolves that on him leerMutton 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 assuresThat 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.

AFTER MARY HOWITT

THE LOBSTER QUADRILLE

"WILL you walk a little faster?" said a 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?"You can really have no notion how delightful it will beWhen they take us up and throw us, with the lobsters, out to sea!"But the snail replied "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, would not join the dance.Would not, could not, would not, could not, could not join the dance."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.

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 endeavorTo discover – but whatever were the hour, it would be sweet."To their feet," I say, for Leech's sketch indisputably teachesThat 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, Nærea, 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.Sweet to haste, a licensed lover, to Miss Pinkerton, the glover;Having managed to discover what is dear Nærea'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 "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'll wear one, and a heap of things beside;And serenely bending o'er her, to inquire if it would bore herTo say when her own adorer may aspire to call her bride!Then, the days of courtship over, with your WIFE to start for DoverOr Dieppe – and live in clover evermore, what e'er befalls;For I've read in many a novel that, unless they've souls that grovelFolks prefer in fact a hovel to your dreary marble halls.To sit, happy married lovers; Phillis trifling with a plover'sEgg, 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

'TWAS not the brown of chestnut boughsThat 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 mossAnd on the daisies patted,As, querulous with sense of loss,It tore the herbage matted."And come he early, come he late,"She saith, "it will undo me;The sharp fore-speeded shaft of fateAlready 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'lenceYet o'er me crashed the summer sky,In thunders of blue silence."His hoof-prints crumbled down the dale,But left behind their lava;What should have been my woman's mailGrew jellied as guava.I looked him proud, but 'neath my prideI felt a boneless tremor;He was the Beér, I descried,And I was but the Seemer!"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 I'll be cold and haughty!"Bayard Taylor.

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.Anonymous.

HIGHER

THE shadows of night were a-comin' down 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!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' upperA number of families sittin' at supper,But he eyes the slippery rocks very keenAnd fled as he cried, and cried while a fleein' —"Higher!""Take care you there!" said an old woman; "stop!It's blowing gales up there on top —You'll tumble off on t'other side!"But the hurryin' stranger loud replied,"Higher!""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!""Look out for the branch of that sycamore-tree!Dodge rolling stones, if any you see!"Sayin' which the farmer went home to bedAnd the singular voice replied overhead,"Higher!"About quarter past six the next afternoon,A man accidentally goin' up soon,Heard spoken above him as often as twiceThe 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!

THAT 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 eyeLookee sharp – so fashion – alla same mi;He talkee largee, talkee stlong,To muchee culio; alla same gong —Topside Galah!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;"Bimeby lain come, no can see;Hab got water welly wide!"Maskee, mi must go topside —Topside Galah!"Man-man," one galo talkee he,"What for you go topside look see?""Nother teem," he makee plenty cly,Maskee, alla teem walkee plenty high —Topside Galah!"Take care that spilum tlee, young man;Take care that icee!" he no man-manThat 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!Young man makee die; one largee dog seeToo muchee bobbery, findee he.Hand too muchee colo, inside can stopAlla same piecee flag, got culio chop —Topside Galah!Anonymous.

EXCELSIOR

THE swampy State of IllinoisContained 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 fainWith 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!"And everybody thought the ladWithin an ace of being mad,Who cried in accents stern and sad —"Excelsior!""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 highAnd shouts (nor gives a reason why)"Excelsior!"And ere he gains the topmost cragHis 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.

"THE DAY IS DONE"

THE day is done, and darknessFrom the wing 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 longingThat is not like being sick,And resembles sorrow onlyAs 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 wouldn't give a farthingFor all that they can make.For, like the soup at dinner,Such things would but suggestSome dishes more substantial,And to-night I want the best.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 powerTo aid and reinforce,And come like the "finally, brethren,"That follows a long discourse.Then get me a tender sirloinFrom off the bench or hook.And lend to its sterling goodnessThe science of the cook.And the night shall be filled with comfort,And the cares with which it begunShall fold up their blankets like Indians,And silently cut and run.Phœbe Cary.

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.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-morrowNearer brings the wedding-day.Life is long, and youth is fleeting,And our hearts, if there we search,Still like steady drums are beatingAnxious 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 usWe can live our lives as well,And, departing, leave behind us; —Such examples as will tell; —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 pursùing,Learn to labor, and to win!Phœbe Cary.

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 didn't sit down.The moon rose o'er the city,Behind the dark church spire;The moon rose o'er the cityAnd kept on rising higher.How often, oh, how often!They whispered words so soft;How often, oh, how often;How often, oh, how oft!Ben King.

DESOLATION

SOMEWHAT back from the village streetStands the old fashioned country seat.Across its antique porticoTall 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 birthShe plays as if she owned the earth.Through every swift vicissitudeShe drums as if it did her good,And still she sits from morn till nightAnd plunks away with main and mightDo, re, mi,Mi, re, do.In that mansion used to beFree-hearted hospitality;But that was many years beforeJemima 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 aliveUntil 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.

THE BIRDS AND THE PHEASANT

I   SHOT a partridge in the air,It fell in turnips, "Don" knew where;For just as it dropped, with my rightI 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.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.

AFTER WHITTIER

HIRAM HOVER

(A Ballad of New England life)WHERE the MoosatockmagunticPours its waters in the Skuntic,Met, along the forest sideHiram Hover, Huldah Hyde.She, a maiden fair and dapper,He, a red-haired, stalwart trapper,Hunting beaver, mink, and skunkIn the woodlands of Squeedunk.She, Pentucket's pensive daughter,Walked beside the Skuntic waterGathering, in her apron wet,Snake-root, mint, and bouncing-bet."Why," he murmured, loth to leave her,"Gather yarbs for chills and fever,When a lovyer bold and true,Only waits to gather you?""Go," she answered, "I'm not hasty,I prefer a man more tasty;Leastways, one to please me wellShould not have a beasty smell.""Haughty Huldah!" Hiram answered,"Mind and heart alike are cancered;Jest look here! these peltries giveCash, 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 mind."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.""Well," said she, "we will not quarrel,Hiram; I accept the moral,Now the fashion's so I guessI can't hardly do no less."Thus the trouble all was overOf the love of Hiram Hover.Thus he made sweet Huldah HydeHuldah 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.

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 ('twere 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;I'll 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'll 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 mainThe asphalt! Ha! who stops thee now may have thee for his gain.Philip F. Allen.

THE NEW VERSION

A SOLDIER of the RussiansLay japanned at Tschrtzvkjskivitch,There was lack of woman's nursingAnd other comforts whichMight add to his last momentsAnd smooth the final way; —But a comrade stood beside himTo hear what he might say.The japanned Russian falteredAs he took that comrade's hand,And he said: "I never more shall seeMy own, my native land;Take a message and a tokenTo some distant friends of mine,For I was born at Smnlxzrskgqrxzski,Fair Smnlxzrskgqrxzski on the Irkztrvzkimnov."W. J. Lampton.

AFTER POE

WHAT TROUBLED POE'S RAVEN

COULD Poe walk again to-morrow, heavy with dyspeptic sorrow,While the darkness seemed to borrow darkness 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,"Never, never, nevermore!"And, too angry to be civil, "Raven," Poe would cry "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."Forty-eight long years I've pondered, forty-eight long years I've wondered,How a poet ever blundered into a mistake so sore.How could lamp-light from your table ever in the world be able,From below, to throw my sable shadow '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 recollections drown,And in tearful tones replying, he would groan "There's no denyingEither 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

HEAR the fluter with his flute, Silver flute!Oh, what a world of wailing is awakened by its toot!How it demi-semi quaversOn the maddened air of night!And defieth all endeavorsTo escape the sound or sighOf the flute, flute, flute,With its tootle, tootle, toot;With reiterated tooteling of exasperating toots,The long protracted tootelings of agonizing tootsOf 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'll stop us on our waysWith its praise!And the people – oh, the people,That don't live up in the steeple,But inhabit Christian parlorsWhere he visiteth and plays,Where he plays, plays, playsIn the cruellest of ways,And thinks we ought to listen,And expects us to be mute,Who would rather have the earacheThan 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.Anonymous.

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 thoughtThan 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, courtingMy 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.But our love is more artful by far than the loveOf 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 soulOf 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 parkWith 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.Phœbe Cary.

THE PROMISSORY NOTE

IN the lonesome latter years(Fatal years!)To the dropping of my tearsDanced the mad and mystic spheresIn a rounded, reeling rune,'Neath the moon,To the dripping and the dropping of my tears.Ah, my soul is swathed in gloom,(Ulalume!)In a dim Titanic tomb,For my gaunt and gloomy soulPonders 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!'Twas the random runes I wroteAt the bottom of the note,(Wrote and freelyGave 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 faysO'er the ruins of my days,O'er the dimeless, timeless days,When the fifty, drawn at thirty,Seeming thrifty, yet the dirtyLucre of the market, was the most that I could raise!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, "Nevermore!"Bayard Taylor.

THE CANNIBAL FLEA

IT was many and many a year agoIn a District called E. C.,That a Monster dwelt whom I came to knowBy the name of Cannibal Flea,And the brute was possessed with no other thoughtThan to live – and to live on me!I was in bed, and he was in bedIn the District named E. C.,When first in his thirst so accurst he burstUpon me, the Cannibal Flea,With a bite that felt as if some one had drivenA bayonet into me.And this was the reason why long agoIn that District named E. C.I tumbled out of my bed, willingTo capture the Cannibal Flea,Who all the night until morning cameKept boring into me!It wore me down to a skeletonIn 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 knowIn that District named E. C.)I so often jumped out of my bed by nightWilling the killing of Cannibal Flea.But his hops they were longer by far than the hopsOf 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 hopOf the terrible Cannibal Flea.For at night with a scream, I am waked from my dreamBy the terrible Cannibal Flea;And at morn I ne'er rise without bites – of such size! —From the terrible Cannibal Flea.So I'm forced to decide I'll no longer resideIn the District – the District – where he doth abide,The locality known as E. C.That is postally known as E. C.Tom Hood, Jr.