A Parody Anthology

ANNABEL LEE

'TWAS more than a million years ago,Or so it seems to me,That I used to prance around and beauThe beautiful Annabel Lee.There were other girls in the neighborhoodBut none was a patch to she.And this was the reason that long ago,My love fell out of a tree,And busted herself on a cruel rock;A solemn sight to see,For it spoiled the hat and gown and looksOf the beautiful Annabel Lee.We loved with a love that was lovely love,I and my Annabel Lee,And we went one day to gather the nutsThat men call hickoree.And I stayed below in the rosy glowWhile she shinned up the tree,But no sooner up than down kerslupCame the beautiful Annabel Lee.And the pallid moon and the hectic noonBring gleams of dreams for me,Of the desolate and desperate fateOf the beautiful Annabel Lee.And I often think as I sink on the brinkOf slumber's sea, of the warm pink linkThat bound my soul to Annabel Lee;And it wasn't just best for her interestTo climb that hickory tree,For had she stayed below with me,We'd had no hickory nuts maybe,But I should have had my Annabel Lee.Stanley Huntley.

THE BELLS

HEAR a voice announcing Irving in The Bells – sledge's bells!What a scene of wild excitement the advertisement foretells!See the rush upon the pay-hole —People stand a night and day wholeTo secure a little corner for The Bells!To look ghastly pale and shudder, every man and "every brudder"Feels that nothing can be equal to The Bells!Bells! Bells! Bells! Bells!Too horrified to cheer,Folk will testify by fearHow appalled they are by Irving in The Bells;While great beads of perspiration will appear,For in conscience-stricken terrors he excels!Gloomy Bells!Pit and gallery will glory in the weird and frightful story,Which may even thrill the bosom of the swells,For every Yankee "dude"Unquestionably shouldHave nightmare after witnessing The Bells!Will our cousins all go frantic from Pacific to Atlantic, or condemn as childish anticIrving's dancing, and his gasping, and his yells!There's a certain admiration which the strange impersonationStill compels,E'en from those who can't see beauty in The Bells —In the play that Mr. Lewis calls The Bells!Wondrous Bells!You first made Henry famous, so the stage historian tells.Will the scene be now repeated which in London always greetedHis performance of Mathias in The Bells?Or will every sneering Yankee,In his nasal tones, say "Thankee,I guess this is just another of your mighty British 'sells'"?Let the thought for ever perish, that the actor whom we cherishCould fail to lick creation in The Bells!But if there are detractorsOf this foremost of our actors,Of the gentlemanly Irving – friend of Toole's —"They are neither man nor woman, they are neither brute nor human,"They are fools!Judy.

THE GOBLIN GOOSE

ONCE it happened I'd been dining, on my couch I slept reclining,And awoke with moonlight shining brightly on my bedroom floor,It was in the bleak December, Christmas night as I remember,But I had no dying ember, as Poe had, when near the door,Like a gastronomic goblin just beside my chamber doorStood a bird, – and nothing more.And I said, for I'm no craven, "Are you Edgar's famous raven,Seeking as with him a haven – were you mixed up with Lenore?"Then the bird uprose and fluttered, and this sentence strange he uttered,"Hang Lenore," he mildly muttered; "you have seen me once before,Seen me on this festive Christmas, seen me surely once before,I'm the Goose – and nothing more."Then he murmured, "Are you ready?" and with motion slow and steady,Straight he leapt upon my bed; he simply gave a stifled roar;And I cried, "As I'm a sinner, at a Goose-Club I was winner,'Tis a memory of my dinner, which I ate at half-past four,Goose well-stuffed with sage and onions, which I ate at half-past four."Quoth he hoarsely, "Eat no more!"Said I, "I've enjoyed your juices, breast and back; but tell me, Goose, isThis revenge, and what the use is of your being such a bore?For Goose-flesh I will no more ax, if you'll not sit on my thorax,Go try honey mixed with borax, for I hear your throat is sore,You speak gruffly, though too plainly, and I'm sure your throat is sore."Quoth the nightmare, "Eat no more!""Goose!" I shrieked out, "leave, oh, leave me, surely you don't mean to grieve me,You are heavy, pray reprieve me, now my penance must be o'er;Though to-night you've brought me sorrow, comfort surely comes to-morrow,Some relief from those I'd borrow at my doctor's ample store."Quoth the goblin, "Eat no more!"And that fat Goose, never flitting, like a nightmare still is sittingWith me all the night emitting words that thrill my bosom's core,Now throughout the Christmas season, while I lie and gasp and wheeze, onMe he sits until my reason nothing surely can restore,While that Goose says, "Eat no more!"Punch.

AFTER LORD HOUGHTON

LOVE AND SCIENCE

(The Sphygmophon is an apparatus connected with the telephone, by the help of which the movements of the pulse and heart may be rendered audible)I   WANDERED by the brookside,I wandered by the mill;The Sphygmophon was fixed there,Its wires ran past the hill.I heeded not the grasshopper,Nor chirp of any bird,For the beating of my own heartWas all the sound I heard.To test his apparatus,One end I closely press'd,The other at a distance,I hoped was next his chest.I listened for his footfall,I listened for his word,Still the bumping of my own heartWas all the sound I heard.He came not, no he came not,The night came on alone;And thinking he had tricked me,I loosed the Sphygmophon.The evening air passed by my cheek,The leaves above were stirred,When – the thumping of his own heartWas all the sound I heard.With joy I grasped the magnet,When some one stood behind,His hand was on my shoulder(But that I did not mind).Each spoke then – nearer – nearer,We shouted every word;But the booming of our own heartsWas all the sound we heard.Anonymous.

AFTER TENNYSON

THE BATHER'S DIRGE

BREAK, break, break,On thy cold, hard stones, O sea!And I hope that my tongue won't utterThe curses that rise in me.Oh, well for the fisherman's boy,If he likes to be soused with the spray!Oh, well for the sailor lad,As he paddles about in the bay!And the ships swim happily on,To their haven under the hill;But O for a clutch of that vanished hand,And a kick – for I'm catching a chill!Break, break, break,At my poor bare feet, O sea!But the artful scamp who has collar'd my clothesWill never come back to me.Tennyson Minor.

LITTLE MISS MUFFET

(Reset as an Arthurian Idyl)UPON a tuffet of most soft and verdant moss,Beneath the spreading branches of an ancient oak,Miss Muffet sat, and upward gazed,To where a linnet perched and sung,And rocked him gently, to and fro.Soft blew the breezeAnd mildly swayed the bough,Loud sung the bird,And sweetly dreamed the maid;Dreamed brightly of the days to come —The golden days, with her fair future blent.When one – some wondrous stately knight —Of our great Arthur's "Table Round;"One, brave as Launcelot, andSpotless as the pure Sir Galahad,Should come, and coming, choose herFor his love, and in her name,And for the sake of her fair eyes,Should do most knightly deeds.And as she dreamed and softly sighed,She pensively began to stir,With a tiny golden spoonWithin an antique dish upon her lap,Some snow-white milky curds;Soft were they, full of cream and rich,And floated in translucent whey;And as she stirred, she smiled,Then gently tasted them.And smiling, ate, nor sighed no more.Lo! as she ate – nor harbored thought of ill —Near and nearer yet, there to her crept,A monster great and terrible,With huge, misshapen body – leaden eyes —Full many a long and hairy leg,And soft and stealthy footstep.Nearer still he came – Miss Muffet yet,All unwitting his dread neighborhood,Did eat her curds and dream.Blithe, on the bough, the linnet sung —All terrestrial natures, sleeping, wraptIn a most sweet tranquillity.Closer still the spider drew, and —Paused beside her – lifted up his headAnd gazed into her face.Miss Muffet then, her consciousness aliveTo his dread eyes upon her fixed,Turned and beheld him.Loud screamed she, frightened and amazed,And straightway sprung upon her feet,And, letting fall her dish and spoon,She – shrieking – turned and fled.Anonymous.

THE MUSICAL PITCH

BREAK, break, break,O voice! – let me urge thy plea!Oh, lower the Pitch, lest utterDespair be the end of me!'Tis well for the fiddles to squeak,The bassoon to grunt in its play;'Twere well had I lungs of brass,Or that nothing but strings give way!Break, break, break,O voice! I must urge thy plea,For the tender skin of my larynx is torn,And I fail in my upper G!Anonymous.

TO AN IMPORTUNATE HOST

(During dinner and after Tennyson)ASK me no more: I've had enough Chablis;The wine may come again and take the shapeFrom glass to glass of "Mountain" or of "Cape,"But my dear boy, when I have answered thee,Ask me no more.Ask me no more: what answer should I give,I love not pickled pork, nor partridge pie;I feel if I took whiskey I should die!Ask me no more – for I prefer to live:Ask me no more.Ask me no more: unless my fate is sealed,And I have striven against you all in vain.Let your good butler bring me "Hock" again;Then rest, dear boy. If for this once I yield,Ask me no more.Anonymous.

THE VILLAGE CHOIR

HALF a bar, half a bar,Half a bar onward!Into an awful ditchChoir and precentor hitch,Into a mess of pitch,They led the Old Hundred.Trebles to right of them,Tenors to left of them,Basses in front of them,Bellowed and thundered.Oh, that precentor's look,When the sopranos tookTheir own time and hookFrom the Old Hundred!Screeched all the trebles here,Boggled the tenors there,Raising the parson's hair,While his mind wandered;Theirs not to reason whyThis psalm was pitched too high:Theirs but to gasp and cryOut the Old Hundred.Trebles to right of them,Tenors to left of them,Basses in front of them,Bellowed and thundered.Stormed they with shout and yell,Not wise they sang nor well,Drowning the sexton's bell,While all the church wondered.Dire the precentor's glare,Flashed his pitchfork in airSounding fresh keys to bearOut the Old Hundred.Swiftly he turned his back,Reached he his hat from rack,Then from the screaming pack,Himself he sundered.Tenors to right of him,Tenors to left of him,Discords behind him,Bellowed and thundered.Oh, the wild howls they wrought:Right to the end they fought!Some tune they sang, but not,Not the Old Hundred.Anonymous.

THE BITER BIT

THE sun is in the sky, mother, the flowers are springing fair;And the melody of woodland birds is stirring in the air;The river, smiling to the sky, glides onward to the sea,And happiness is everywhere, oh, mother, but with me!They are going to the church, mother – I hear the marriage bellIt booms along the upland – Oh! it haunts me like a knell;He leads her on his arm, mother, he cheers her faltering step,And closely to his side she clings – she does, the demirep!They are crossing by the stile, mother, where we so oft have stood,The stile beside the shady thorn, at the corner of the wood;And the boughs, that wont to murmur back the words that won my ear,Wave their silver branches o'er him, as he leads his bridal fere.He will pass beside the stream, mother, where first my hand he pressed,By the meadow where, with quivering lip, his passion he confessed;And down the hedgerows where we've strayed again and yet again;But he will not think of me, mother, his broken-hearted Jane!He said that I was proud, mother, that I looked for rank and gold,He said I did not love him – he said my words were cold;He said I kept him off and on, in hopes of higher game —And it may be that I did, mother; who hasn't done the same?I did not know my heart, mother – I know it now too late;I thought that I without a pang could wed some nobler mate;But no nobler suitor sought me – and he has taken wing,And my heart is gone, and I am left a lone and blighted thing.You may lay me in my bed, mother – my head is throbbing sore;And, mother, prithee, let the sheets be duly aired before;And, if you'd please, my mother dear, your poor desponding child,Draw me a pot of beer, mother, and mother, draw it mild!William Aytoun.

THE LAUREATE

WHO would not beThe Laureate bold,With his butt of sherryTo keep him merry,And nothing to do but to pocket his gold?'Tis I would be the Laureate bold!When the days are hot, and the sun is strong,I'd lounge in the gateway all the day longWith her Majesty's footmen in crimson and gold.I'd care not a pin for the waiting-lord,But I'd lie on my back on the smooth greenswardWith a straw in my mouth, and an open vest,And the cool wind blowing upon my breast,And I'd vacantly stare at the clear blue sky,And watch the clouds that are listless as I,Lazily, lazily!And I'd pick the moss and the daisies white,And chew their stalks with a nibbling bite;And I'd let my fancies roam abroadIn search of a hint for a birthday ode,Crazily, crazily!Oh, that would be the life for me,With plenty to get and nothing to do,But to deck a pet poodle with ribbons of blue,And whistle all day to the Queen's cockatoo,Trance-somely, trance-somely!Then the chambermaids, that clean the rooms,Would come to the windows and rest on their brooms,With their saucy caps and their crispéd hair,And they'd toss their heads in the fragrant air,And say to each other – "Just look down there,At the nice young man, so tidy and small,Who is paid for writing on nothing at all,Handsomely, handsomely!"They would pelt me with matches and sweet pastilles,And crumpled-up balls of the royal bills,Giggling and laughing, and screaming with fun,As they'd see me start, with a leap and a run,From the broad of my back to the points of my toes,When a pellet of paper hit my nose,Teasingly, sneezingly!Then I'd fling them bunches of garden flowers,And hyacinths plucked from the Castle bowers;And I'd challenge them all to come down to me,And I'd kiss them all till they kissed me,Laughingly, laughingly.Oh, would not that be a merry life,Apart from care and apart from strife,With the Laureate's wine, and the Laureate's pay,And no deductions at quarter-day?Oh, that would be the post for me!With plenty to get and nothing to do,But to deck a pet poodle with ribbons of blue,And whistle a tune to the Queen's cockatoo,And scribble of verses remarkably few,And empty at evening a bottle or two,Quaffingly, quaffingly!'Tis I would beThe Laureate bold,With my butt of sherryTo keep me merry,And nothing to do but to pocket my gold!William Aytoun.

THE LAY OF THE LOVELORN

COMRADES, you may pass the rosy. With permission of the chair,I shall leave you for a little, for I'd like to take the air.Whether 'twas the sauce at dinner, or that glass of ginger-beer,Or these strong cheroots, I know not, but I feel a little queer.Let me go. Nay, Chuckster, blow me, 'pon my soul, this is too bad!When you want me, ask the waiter; he knows where I'm to be had.Whew! This is a great relief now! Let me but undo my stock;Resting here beneath the porch, my nerves will steady like a rock.In my ears I hear the singing of a lot of favourite tunes —Bless my heart, how very odd! Why surely there's a brace of moons!See! the stars! how bright they twinkle, winking with a frosty glare,Like my faithless cousin Amy when she drove me to despair.Oh, my cousin, spider-hearted! Oh, my Amy! No, confound it,I must wear the mournful willow, – all around my heart I've bound it!Falser than the bank of fancy, frailer than a shining glove,Puppet to a father's anger, minion to a nabob's love!Is it well to wish thee happy? Having known me, could you everStoop to marry half a heart, and a little more than half a liver?Happy! Damme! Thou shalt lower to his level day by day,Changing from the best of china to the commonest of clay.As the husband is, the wife is, – he is stomach-plagued and old;And his curry soups will make thy cheek the color of his gold.When his feeble love is sated, he will hold thee surely thenSomething lower than his hookah, – something less than his cayenne.What is this? His eyes are pinky. Was 't the claret? Oh, no, no, —Bless your soul! it was the salmon, – salmon always makes him so.Take him to thy dainty chamber – soothe him with thy lightest fancies;He will understand thee, won't he? – pay thee with a lover's glances?Louder than the loudest trumpet, harsh as harshest ophicleide,Nasal respirations answer the endearments of his bride.Sweet repose, delightful music! Gaze upon thy noble charge,Till the spirit fill thy bosom that inspired the meek Laffarge.Better thou wert dead before me, – better, better that I stood,Looking on thy murdered body, like the injured Daniel Good!Better thou and I were lying, cold and timber-stiff and dead,With a pan of burning charcoal underneath our nuptial bed!Cursed be the Bank of England's notes, that tempt the soul to sin!Cursed be the wants of acres, – doubly cursed the want of tin!Cursed be the marriage-contract, that enslaved thy soul to greed!Cursed be the sallow lawyer that prepared and drew the deed!Cursed be his foul apprentice, who the loathsome fees did earn!Cursed be the clerk and parson, – cursed be the whole concern!Oh, 'tis well that I should bluster, – much I'm like to make of that;Better comfort have I found in singing "All Around my Hat."But that song, so wildly plaintive, palls upon my British ears.'Twill not do to pine for ever, – I am getting up in years.Can't I turn the honest penny, scribbling for the weekly press,And in writing Sunday libels drown my private wretchedness?Oh, to feel the wild pulsation that in manhood's dawn I knew,When my days were all before me, and my years were twenty-two!When I smoked my independent pipe along the Quadrant wide,With the many larks of London flaring up on every side;When I went the pace so wildly, caring little what might come;Coffee-milling care and sorrow with a nose-adapted thumb;Felt the exquisite enjoyment, tossing nightly off, oh, heavens!Brandies at the Cider Cellars, kidneys smoking hot at Evans'!Or in the Adelphi sitting, half in rapture, half in tears,Saw the glorious melodrama conjure up the shades of years!Saw Jack Sheppard, noble stripling, act his wondrous feats again,Snapping Newgate's bars of iron, like an infant's daisy chain.Might was right, and all the terrors, which had held the world in awe,Were despised, and priggings prospered, spite of Laurie, spite of law.In such scenes as these I triumphed, ere my passion's edge was rusted,And my cousin's cold refusal left me very much disgusted!Since, my heart is sere and withered, and I do not care a curseWhether worse shall be the better, or the better be the worse.Hark! my merry comrades call me, bawling for another jorum;They would mock me in derision, should I thus appear before 'em.Womankind shall no more vex me, such at least as go arrayedIn the most expensive satins and the newest silk brocade.I'll to Afric, lion-haunted, where the giant forest yieldsRarer robes and finer tissue than are sold at Spitalfields.Or to burst all chains of habit, flinging habit's self asideI shall walk the tangled jungle in mankind's primeval pride;Feeding on the luscious berries and the rich cassava root,Lots of dates and lots of guavas, clusters of forbidden fruit.Never comes the trader thither, never o'er the purple mainSounds the oath of British commerce, or the accent of Cockaigne.There, methinks, would be enjoyment, where no envious rule prevents;Sink the Steamboats! cuss the railways! rot, oh, rot the Three per Cents!There the passions, cramped no longer, shall have space to breathe, my cousin!I will wed some savage woman – nay, I'll wed 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, leopard's blood will daily quaff,Ride a tiger-hunting, mounted on a thorough-bred 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.I 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 Coromantees! I, 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.Morning Post (The Times won't trust me) help me, as I know you can;I will pen an advertisement, – that's a never failing plan."Wanted – by a bard, in wedlock, some young interesting woman;Looks are not so much an object, if the shiners be forthcoming!"Hymen's chains the advertiser vows shall be but silken fetters;Please address to A. T., Chelsea. N. B. – You must pay the letters."That's the sort of thing to do it. Now I'll go and taste the balmy, —Rest thee with thy yellow nabob, spider-hearted Cousin Amy!William Aytoun.

IN IMMEMORIAM

WE seek to know, and knowing seek;We seek, we know, and every senseIs trembling with the great IntenseAnd vibrating to what we speak.We ask too much, we seek too oft,We know enough, and should no more;And yet we skim through Fancy's loreAnd look to earth and not aloft.A something comes from out the gloom;I know it not, nor seek to know;I only see it swell and grow,And more than this world would presume.Meseems, a circling void I fill,And I, unchanged where all is changed;It seems unreal; I own it strange,Yet nurse the thoughts I cannot kill.I hear the ocean's surging tide,Raise quiring on its carol-tune;I watch the golden-sickled moon,And clearer voices call besides.O Sea! whose ancient ripples lieOn red-ribbed sands where seaweeds shone;O Moon! whose golden sickle's gone;O Voices all! like ye I die!Cuthbert Bede.

SIR EGGNOGG

FORTH from the purple battlements he fared,Sir Eggnogg of the Rampant Lily, namedFrom that embrasure of his argent shieldGiven by a thousand leagues of heraldryOn snuffy parchments drawn. So forth he fared,By bosky boles and autumn leaves he fared,Where grew the juniper with berries black,The sphery mansions of the future gin.But naught of this decoyed his mind, so bentOn fair Miasma, Saxon-blooded girl,Who laughed his loving lullabies to scorn,And would have snatched his hero-sword to deckHer haughty brow, or warm her hands withal,So scornful she; and thence Sir Eggnogg cursedBetween his teeth, and chewed his iron bootsIn spleen of love. But ere the morn was highIn the robustious heaven, the postern-towerClang to the harsh, discordant, slivering screamOf the tire-woman, at the window bentTo dress her crispéd hair. She saw, ah, woe!The fair Miasma, overbalanced, hurledO'er the flamboyant parapet which ridgedThe muffled coping of the castle's peak,Prone on the ivory pavement of the court,Which caught and cleft her fairest skull, and sentHer rosy brains to fleck the Orient floor.This saw Sir Eggnogg, in his stirrups poised.Saw he and cursed, with many a deep-mouthed oath,And, finding nothing more could reuniteThe splintered form of fair Miasma, rodeOn his careering palfrey to the wars,And there found death, another death than hers.Bayard Taylor.

GODIVA

"I   WAITED for the Train at Coventry,"The Train was several hundred years too late(It had not been invented yet, you see);Such is the Cold Cast Irony of Fate.At last the Train arrived, and with it tooYour Book – a Precious Package marked "collect."Raptured I read it through and through, and through,And then I paused in sadness to reflect —How that same Book had been a priceless boon,But for a little accident of Date;If only I had not been born so soon,Or if you had not gone to press so late.O Book, if only you had come to meEre I rode forth upon that morning sad!In naught but Faith and Hope and Charity,And other Vague Abstractions thinly clad;In whole Editions I would have invested(I hope you get good Royalties therefrom),To keep the naughty townfolk interestedAnd most Particularly, Peeping Tom.Oliver Herford.

A LAUREATE'S LOG

(Rough-weather notes from the New Birthday-Book)MONDAYIF you're waking, please don't call me, please don't call me, Currie dear,For they tell me that to-morrow toward the open we're to steer!No doubt, for you and those aloft, the maddest merriest way, —But I always feel best in a bay, Currie,I always feel best in a bay.TUESDAYTake, take, take?What will I take for tea?The thinnest slice – no butter,And that's quite enough for me.WEDNESDAYIt is the little roll within the berthThat, by and by, will put an end to mirth,And, never ceasing, slowly prostrate all.THURSDAYLet me alone! What pleasure can you haveIn chaffing evil? Tell me what's the funOf ever climbing up the climbing wave?All you, the rest, you know how to behaveIn roughish weather! I, for oneAsk for the shore – or death, dark death, —I am so done.FRIDAYTwelve knots an hour! But what am I?A poet with no land in sight,Insisting that he feels "all right,"With half a smile and half a sigh.SATURDAYComfort? Comfort scorned of lubbers! Hear this truth the Poet roar,That a sorrow's crown of sorrows is remembering days on shore.Drug his soda lest he learn it when the foreland gleams a speckIn the dead unhappy night, when he can't sit up on deck!SUNDAYAh! you've called me nice and early, nice and early, Currie dear!What? Really in? Well, come, the news I'm precious glad to hear;For though in such good company I willingly would stay —I'm glad to be back in the bay, Currie,I'm glad to be back in the bay.Punch.