A Parody Anthology

THE RECOGNITION

HOME they brought her sailor son,Grown a man across the sea,Tall and broad and black of beard,And hoarse of voice as man may be.Hand to shake and mouth to kiss,Both he offered ere he spoke;But she said – "What man is thisComes to play a sorry joke?"Then they praised him – call'd him "smart,""Tightest lad that ever stept;"But her son she did not know,And she neither smiled nor wept.Rose, a nurse of ninety years,Set a pigeon-pie in sight;She saw him eat – "'Tis he! 'tis he!"She knew him – by his appetite!William Sawyer.

THE HIGHER PANTHEISM IN A NUTSHELL

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, shews you a fair 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 rock 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.Algernon Charles Swinburne.

TIMBUCTOO. – PART I

The situationIN Africa (a Quarter of the World),Men's skins are black, their hair is crisp and curl'd,And somewhere there, unknown to public view,A mighty city lies, called Timbuctoo.The natural historyThere stalks the tiger, – there the lion roars,Who sometimes eats the luckless blackamoors;All that he leaves of them the monster throwsTo jackals, vultures, dogs, cats, kites, and crows;His hunger thus the forest monster gluts,And then lies down 'neath trees called cocoa-nuts.The lion huntQuick issue out, with musket, torch, and brand,The sturdy blackamoors, a dusky band!The beast is found – pop goes the musketoons —The lion falls covered with horrid wounds.Their lives at homeAt home their lives in pleasure always flow,But many have a different lot to know!AbroadThey're often caught and sold as slaves, alas!Reflections on the foregoingThus men from highest joy to sorrow pass;Yet though thy monarch and thy nobles boilRack and molasses in Jamaica's isle,Desolate Africa! thou art lovely yet!One heart yet beats which ne'er thee shall forget.What though thy maidens are a blackish brown,Does virtue dwell in whiter breasts alone?Oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no!It shall not, must not, cannot, e'er be so.The day shall come when Albion's self shall feelStern Afric's wrath, and writhe 'neath Afric's steel.I see her tribes the hill of glory mount,And sell their sugars on their own account;While round her throne the prostrate nations come,Sue for her rice, and barter for her rum!

Notes. – Lines 1 and 2. – See Guthrie's Geography. The site of Timbuctoo is doubtful; the author has neatly expressed this in the poem, at the same time giving us some slight hints relative to its situation.

Line 5. – So Horace: leonum arida nutrix.

Line 13. – "Pop goes the musketoons." A learned friend suggested "Bang" as a stronger expression, but as African gunpowder is notoriously bad, the author thought "Pop" the better word.

Lines 15-18. – A concise but affecting description is here given of the domestic habits of the people. The infamous manner in which they are entrapped and sold as slaves is described, and the whole ends with an appropriate moral sentiment. The enthusiasm the author feels is beautifully expressed in lines 25 and 26.

W. M. Thackeray.

AFTER TUPPER

OF FRIENDSHIP

CHOOSE judiciously thy friends; for to discard them is undesirable,Yet it is better to drop thy friends, O my daughter, than to drop thy H's.Dost thou know a wise woman? yea, wiser than the children of light?Hath she a position? and a title? and are her parties in the Morning Post?If thou dost, cleave unto her, and give up unto her thy body and mind;Think with her ideas, and distribute thy smiles at her bidding:So shalt thou become like unto her; and thy manners shall be "formed,"And thy name shall be a Sesame, at which the doors of the great shall fly open:Thou shalt know every Peer, his arms, and the date of his creation,His pedigree and their intermarriages, and cousins to the sixth remove:Thou shalt kiss the hand of Royalty, and lo! in next morning's papers,Side by side with rumors of wars, and stories of shipwrecks and sieges,Shall appear thy name, and the minutiæ of thy head-dress and petticoat,For an enraptured public to muse upon over their matutinal muffin.Charles S. Calverley.

OF READING

READ not Milton, for he is dry; nor Shakespeare, for he wrote of common life;Nor Scott, for his romances, though fascinating, are yet intelligible;Nor Thackeray, for he is a Hogarth, a photographer who flattereth not;Nor Kingsley, for he shall teach thee that thou shouldest not dream, but do.Read incessantly thy Burke; that Burke who, nobler than he of old,Treateth of the Peer and Peeress, the truly Sublime and Beautiful;Likewise study the "creations" of "the Prince of modern Romance;"Sigh over Leonard the Martyr, and smile on Pelham the puppy;Learn how "love is the dram-drinking of existence;"And how we "invoke, in the Gadara of our still closets,The beautiful ghost of the Ideal, with the simple wand of the pen."Listen how Maltravers and the orphan "forgot all but love,"And how Devereux's family chaplain "made and unmade kings;"How Eugene Aram, though a thief, a liar, and a murderer,Yet, being intellectual, was amongst the noblest of mankind;So shalt thou live in a world peopled with heroes and master spiritsAnd if thou canst not realize the Ideal, thou shalt at least idealize the Real.Charles S. Calverley.

AFTER THACKERAY

THE WILLOW-TREE

(Another version)LONG by the willow-treesVainly they sought her,Wild rang the mother's screamsO'er the gray water:"Where is my lovely one?Where is my daughter?"Rouse thee, Sir Constable —Rouse thee and look;Fisherman, bring your net,Boatman, your hook.Beat in the lily-beds,Dive in the brook!"Vainly the constableShouted and called her;Vainly the fishermanBeat the green alder;Vainly he flung the net,Never it hauled her!Mother beside the fireSat, her nightcap in;Father, in easy chair,Gloomily napping,When at the window-sillCame a light tapping!And a pale countenanceLooked through the casement,Loud beat the mother's heart,Sick with amazement,And at the vision whichCame to surprise her,Shrieked in an agony —"Lor'! it's Elizar!"Yes, 'twas Elizabeth —Yes, 'twas their girl;Pale was her cheek, and herHair out of curl."Mother," the loving one,Blushing exclaimed,"Let not your innocentLizzy be blamed."Yesterday, going to AuntJones's to tea,Mother, dear mother, IForgot the door-key!And as the night was coldAnd the way steep,Mrs. Jones kept me toBreakfast and sleep."Whether her Pa and MaFully believed her,That we shall never know,Stern they received her;And for the work of thatCruel, though short, nightSent her to bed withoutTea for a fortnight.MORALHey diddle diddlety,Cat and the fiddlety,Maidens of England, take caution by she!Let love and suicideNever tempt you aside,And always remember to take the door-key.W. M. Thackeray.

AFTER CHARLES DICKENS

MAN'S PLACE IN NATURE

(Dedicated to Darwin and Huxley)THEY told him gently he was madeOf nicely tempered mud,That man no lengthened part had playedAnterior to the Flood.'Twas all in vain; he heeded not,Referring plant and worm,Fish, reptile, ape, and Hottentot,To one primordial germ.They asked him whether he could bearTo think his kind alliedTo all those brutal forms which wereIn structure Pithecoid;Whether he thought the apes and usHomologous in form;He said, "Homo and PithecusCame from one common germ."They called him "atheistical,""Sceptic," and "infidel."They swore his doctrines without failWould plunge him into hell.But he with proofs in no way lame.Made this deduction firm,That all organic beings cameFrom one primordial germ.That as for the Noachian flood,'Twas long ago disproved,That as for man being made of mud,All by whom truth is lovedAccept as fact what, malgré strife,Research tends to confirm —That man, and everything with life,Came from one common germ.Anonymous.

AFTER ROBERT BROWNING

HOME TRUTHS FROM ABROAD

I"OH! to be in EnglandNow that April's there.And whoever wakes in EnglandSees some morning" in despair;There's a horrible fog i' the heart o' the town,And the greasy pavement is damp and brown,While the rain-drop falls from the laden boughIn England – now!II"And after April when May follows,"How foolish seem the returning swallows.Hark! how the east wind sweeps along the street,And how we give one universal sneeze!The hapless lambs at thought of mint-sauce bleat,And ducks are conscious of the coming peas.Lest you should think the Spring is really present,A biting frost will come to make things pleasant;And though the reckless flowers begin to blow,They'd better far have nestled down below;An English Spring sets men and women frowning,Despite the rhapsodies of Robert Browning.Anonymous.

AFTER BROWNING

NOT that I care for ceremonies – no;But still there are occasions, as you see(Observe the costumes – gallantly they showTo my poor judgment!) which, twixt you and me,Not to come forth, one's few remaining hairs,Or wig, – it matters little, – bravely brushedAnd oiled, dress-coated, sprucely-clad, the tearsAnd tweaks and wrenches, people overflushedWith – well, not wine – oh, no, we'll rather sayAnticipation, the delight of seeingNo matter what! inflict upon you (prayRemove your elbow, friend!) in spite of beingNot quite the man one used to be, and notSo young as once one was, would argue oneChurlish, indifferent, hipped, rheumatic, whatYou please to say.So, not to spoil the fun —Comprenez-vous? – observe that lady there,In native worth! Aha! you see the jest?Not bad, I think. My own, too! Woman's fair.Or not – the odds so long as she is dressed?They're coming! Soh! Ha, Bennett's Barcarole —A poor thing, but mine own! That minor thirdIs not so bad now! Mum, sirs! (Bless my soul,I wonder what her veil cost!) Mum's the word!Anonymous.

THE COCK AND THE BULL

YOU see this pebble-stone? It's a thing I boughtOff a bit of a chit of a boy i' the mid o' the day.I like to dock the smaller parts o' speech,As we curtail the already cur-tail'd cur —(You catch the paronomasia, play 'po' words?)Did, rather, i' the pre-Landseerian days.Well, to my muttons. I purchased the concern,And clapt it i' my poke, having given for sameBy way o' chop, swop, barter or exchange —"Chop" was my snickering dandiprat's own term —One shilling and fourpence, current coin o' the realm.O-n-e one, and f-o-u-r fourPence, one and fourpence – you are with me, sir? —What hour it skills not: ten or eleven o' the clock,One day (and what a roaring day it wasGo shop or sight-see – bar a spit o' rain!)In February, eighteen sixty-nine,Alexandria Victoria, Fidei —Hm – hm – how runs the jargon? being on the throne.Such, sir, are all the facts, succinctly put,The basis or substratum – what you will will —Of the impending eighty thousand lines."Not much in 'em either," quoth perhaps simple Hodge.But there's a superstructure. Wait a bit.Mark first the rationale of the thing:Hear logic rivel and levigate the deed.That shilling – and for matter o' that, the pence —I had o' course upo' me – wi' me say —(Mecum's the Latin, make a note o' that)When I popp'd pen i' stand, scratch'd ear, wiped snout,(Let everybody wipe his own himself)Sniff'd – tch! – at snuff-box; tumbled up, ne-heed,Haw-haw'd (not hee-haw'd, that's another guess thing),Then fumbled at, and stumbled out of, door.I shoved the timber ope wi' my omoplat;And in vestibulo, i' the lobby to wit(Iacobi Facciolati's rendering, sir),Donn'd galligaskins, antigropeloes,And so forth; and, complete with hat and gloves,One on and one a-dangle i' my hand,And ombrifuge (Lord love you!), case o' rain,I flopp'd forth, 'sbuddikins! on my own ten toes(I do assure you there be ten of them),And went clump-clumping up hill and down daleTo find myself o' the sudden i' front o' the boy.But case I hadn't 'em on me, could I ha' boughtThis sort-o'-kind-o'-what-you-might-call toy,This pebble thing, o' the boy-thing? Q. E. D.That's proven without aid from mumping Pope,Sleek porporate or bloated Cardinal.(Isn't it, old Fatchaps? You're in Euclid now.)So, having the shilling – having i' fact a lot —And pence and halfpence, ever so many o' them,I purchased, as I think I said before,The pebble (lapis, lapidis, -di, -dem, -de —What nouns 'crease short i' the genitive, Fatchaps, eh?)O' the boy, a bare-legg'd beggarly son of a gun,for one and fourpence. Here we are again.Now Law steps in, bigwigg'd, voluminous-jaw'd;Investigates and re-investigates.Was the transaction illegal? Law shakes headPerpend, sir, all the bearings of the case.At first the coin was mine, the chattel his.But now (by virtue of the said exchangeAnd barter) vice versa all the coin,Per juris operationem, vestsI' the boy and his assigns till ding o' doom;(In sæcula sæculo-o-o-rum;I think I hear the Abate mouth out that.)To have and hold the same to him and them.Confer some idiot on Conveyancing.Whereas the pebble and every part thereof,And all that appertaineth thereunto,Quodcunque pertinet ad eam rem(I fancy, sir, my Latin's rather pat),Or shall, will, may, might, can, could, would or should(Subaudi cætera – clap we to the close —For what's the good of Law in a case o' the kind),Is mine to all intents and purposes.This settled, I resume the thread o' the tale.Now for a touch o' the vendor's quality.He says a gen'lman bought a pebble of him(This pebble i' sooth, sir, which I hold i' my hand),And paid for't, like a gen'lman, on the nail."Did I o'ercharge him a ha'penny? Devil a bit.Fiddlepin's end! Get out, you blazing ass!Gabble o' the goose. Don't bugaboo-baby me!Go double or quits? Yah! tittup! what's the odds?"There's the transaction view'd i' the vendor's light.Next ask that dumpled hag, stood snuffling by,With her three frowsy blowsy brats o' babes,The scum o' the kennel, cream o' the filth-heap – Faugh!Aie, aie, aie, aie! οτοτοτοτοτοἱ('Stead which we blurt out Hoighty toighty now),And the baker and candlestickmaker, and Jack and Jill,Blear'd Goody this and queasy Gaffer that.Ask the schoolmaster. Take schoolmaster first.He saw a gentleman purchase of a ladA stone, and pay for it rite, on the square,And carry it off per saltum, jauntily,Propria quae maribus, gentleman's property now(Agreeably to the law explain'd above),In proprium usum, for his private ends,The boy he chuck'd a brown i' the air, and bitI' the face the shilling; heaved a thumping stoneAt a lean hen that ran cluck clucking by(And hit her, dead as nail i' post o' door),Then abiit – what's the Ciceronian phrase? —Excessit, evasit, erupit – off slogs boy;Off like bird, avi similis – (you observedThe dative? Pretty i' the Mantuan!) – AngliceOff in three flea skips. Hactenus, so far,So good, tam bene. Bene, satis, male, —Where was I with my trope 'bout one in a quag?I did once hitch the syntax into verse:Verbum personale, a verb personal,Concordat – ay, "agrees," old Fatchaps – cumNominativo, with its nominative,Genere, i' point o' gender, numero,O' number, et persona, and person. Ut,Instance: Sol ruit, down flops sun, et, and,Montes umbrantur, out flounce mountains. Pah!Excuse me, sir, I think I'm going mad.You see the trick on't though, and can yourselfContinue the discourse ad libitum.It takes up about eighty thousand lines,A thing imagination boggles at;And might, odds-bobs, sir! in judicious hands,Extend from here to Mesopotamy.Charles S. Calverley.

A STACCATO TO O LE LUPE

O LE LUPE, Gelett Burgess, this is very sad to find;In the Bookman for September, in a manner most unkind,There appears a half-page picture, makes me thinkI've lost my mind.They have reproduced a window, – Doxey's window (I dare sayIn your rambles you have seen it, passed it twenty times a day), —As "A Novel Exhibition of Examples of Decay."There is Nordau we all sneer at, and Verlaine we all adore,And a little book of verses with its betters by the score,With three faces on the cover I believe I've seen before.Well, here's matter for reflection, makes me wonder where I am.Here is Ibsen the gray lion, linked to Beardsley the black lamb.I was never out of Boston; all that I can say is, "Damn!"Who could think, in two short summers we should cause so much remark,With no purpose but our pastime, and to make the public hark,When I soloed on THE CHAP-BOOK, and you answered with THE LARK!Do young people take much pleasure when they read that sort of thing?"Well, they buy it," answered Doxey, "and I take what it will bring.Publishers may dread extinction – not with such fads on the string."There is always sale for something, and demand for what is new.These young people who are restless, and have nothing else to do,Like to think there is 'a movement,' just to keep themselves in view."There is nothing in Decadence but the magic of a name.People talk and papers drivel, scent a vice, and hint a shame;And all that is good for business, helps to boom my little game."But when I sit down to reason, think to stand upon my nerve,Meditate on portly leisure with a balance in reserve,In he comes with his "Decadence!" like a fly in my preserve.I can see myself, O Burgess, half a century from now,Laid to rest among the ghostly, like a broken toy somehow;All my lovely songs and ballads vanished with your "Purple Cow."But I will return some morning, though I know it will be hard,To Cornhill among the bookstalls, and surprise some minor bard;Turning over their old rubbish for the treasures we discard.I shall warn him like a critic, creeping when his back is turned:"Ink and paper, dead and done with; Doxey spent what Doxey earned;Poems doubtless are immortal where a poem can be discerned!"How his face will go to ashes, when he feels his empty purse!How he'll wish his vogue were greater, – plume himself it is no worse;Then go bother the dear public with his puny little verse!Don't I know how he will pose it, patronize our larger time:"Poor old Browning; little Kipling; what attempts they made to rhyme!"Just let me have half an hour with that nincompoop sublime!I will haunt him like a purpose, I will ghost him like a fear;When he least expects my presence, I'll be mumbling in his ear:"O Le Lupe lived in Frisco, and I lived in Boston here."Never heard of us? Good heavens, can you never have been toldOf the Larks we used to publish, and the Chap-Books that we sold?Where are all our first editions?" I feel damp and full of mould.Bliss Carman.

BY THE SEA

Mutatis MutandisIS it life or is it death?A whiff of the cool salt scum,As the whole sea puffed its breathAgainst you, – blind and dumb:This way it answereth.Nearer the sands it showsSpotted and leprous tints;But stay! yon fisher knowsRock-tokens, which evinceHow high the tide arose.How high? In you and me'Twas falling then, I think;Open your heart's eyes, seeFrom just so slight a chinkThe chasm that now must be.You sighed and shivered then.Blue ecstasies of JuneAround you, shouts of fishermen,Sharp wings of sea gulls, soonTo dip – the clock struck ten!Was it the cup too full,To carry it you grewToo faint, the wine's hue dull(Dulness, misjudged untrue!),Love's flower unfit to cull?You should have held me fastOne moment, stopped my pace.Crushed down the feeble, vastSuggestions of embrace,And so be crowned at last.But now! Bare-legged and brownBait-diggers delve the sand,Tramp i' the sunshine downBurnt-ochre vestured land,And yonder stares the town.A heron screams! I shutThis book of scurf and scum,Its final pages uncut;The sea-beast, blind and dumb,Done with his bellowing? All but!Bayard Taylor.

ANGELO ORDERS HIS DINNER

I,  ANGELO, obese, black-garmented,Respectable, much in demand, well fedWith mine own larder's dainties, where, indeed,Such cakes of myrrh or fine alyssum seed,Thin as a mallow-leaf, embrowned o' the top.Which, cracking, lets the ropy, trickling dropOf sweetness touch your tongue, or potted nestsWhich my recondite recipe investsWith cold conglomerate tidbits – ah, the bill!(You say), but given it were mine to fillMy chests, the case so put were yours, we'll say(This counter, here, your post, as mine to-day),And you've an eye to luxuries, what harmIn smoothing down your palate with the charmYourself concocted? There we issue take;And see! as thus across the rim I breakThis puffy paunch of glazed embroidered cake,So breaks, through use, the lust of watering chapsAnd craveth plainness: do I so? Perhaps;But that's my secret. Find me such a manAs Lippo yonder, built upon the planOf heavy storage, double-navelled, fatFrom his own giblet's oils, an AraratUplift o'er water, sucking rosy draughtsFrom Noah's vineyard, – crisp, enticing waftsYon kitchen now emits, which to your senseSomewhat abate the fear of old events,Qualms to the stomach, – I, you see, am slowUnnecessary duties to forego, —You understand? A venison haunch, haut gout.Ducks that in Cimbrian olives mildly stew.And sprigs of anise, might one's teeth provokeTo taste, and so we wear the complex yokeJust as it suits, – my liking, I confess,More to receive, and to partake no less,Still more obese, while through thick adiposeSensation shoots, from testing tongue to toesFar off, dim-conscious, at the body's verge,Where the froth-whispers of its waves emergeOn the untasting sand. Stay, now! a seatIs bare: I, Angelo, will sit and eat.Bayard Taylor.

THE FLIGHT OF THE BUCKET

PRE-ADMONISHETH the writer:H'm, for a subject it is well enough!Who wrote "Sordello" finds no subject tough.Well, Jack and Jill – God knows the life they led(The poet never told us, more's the pity)Pent up in some damp kennel of their own,Beneath the hillside; but it once befellThat Jack and Jill, niece, cousin, uncle, aunt(Some one of all the brood), would wash and scour,Rinse out a cess-pit, swab the kennel floor,And water (liquor vitae, Lawson calls,But I – I hold by whisky. Never mind;I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, sir,And missed the scrap o' blue at buttonhole),Spring water was the needful at the time,So they must climb the hill for 't. Well and good.We all climb hills, I take it, on some quest,Maybe for less than stinking (I forgot!I mean than wholesome) water… Ferret outThe rotten bucket from the lumber shed,Weave ropes and splice the handle – off they goTo where the cold spring bubbles up i' the cleft,And sink the bucket brimful in the spate.Then downwards – hanging back? (You bet your lifeThe girl's share fell upon Jack's shoulders.) Down,Down to the bottom – all but – trip, slip, squelch!And guggle-guggle goes the bucketfulBack to the earth, and Jack's a broken head,And swears amid the heather does our Jack.(A man would swear who watched both blood and bucket,One dripping down his forehead, t' other fledClinkety-tinkle, to the stones below,A good half-hour's trudge to get it back.)Jack, therefore, as I said, exploded straightIn brimstone-flavored language. You, of course,Maintain he bore it calmly – not a bit.A good bucolic curse that rent the cliffsAnd frightened for a moment quaking JillOut of the limp, unmeaning girl's tee-heeThat womankind delight in… Here we endThe first verse – there's a deal to study in 't.So much for Jack – but here's a fate above,A cosmic force that blunders into right,Just when the strained sense hints at revolutionBecause the world's great fly-wheel runs aslant —And up go Jill's red kibes. (You think I'm wrong;And Fate was napping at the time; perhapsYou're right.) We'll call it Devil's agencyThat sent the shrieking sister on her head,And knocked the tangled locks against the stones.Well, down went Jill, but wasn't hurt. Oh, no!The Devil pads the world to suit his own,And packs the cards according. Down went JillUnhurt. And Jack trots off to bed, poor brute,Fist welted into eyeball, mouth agapeFor yelling, – your bucolic always yells,And out of his domestic pharmacyRips forth the cruet-stand, upsets the cat,And ravages the store-room for his balm.Eureka! – but he didn't use that word —A pound of candles, corpse-like, side by side,Wrapped up in his medicament. Out, knife!Cut string, and strip the shrouding from the lot!Steep swift and jam it on the gaping cut;Then bedward – cursing man and friends alike.Now back to Jill. She wasn't hurt, I said,And all the woman's spite was up in arms.So Jack's abed. She slips, peeks through the door,And sees the split head like a luggage-label,Halved, quartered, on the pillow. "Ee-ki-ree,Tee-hee-hee-hee," she giggles through the crack,Much as the Roman ladies grinned – don't smile —To see the dabbled bodies in the sand,Appealing to their benches for a sign.Down thumbs, and giggle louder – so did Jill.But mark now! Comes the mother round the door,Red-hot from climbing up the hill herself,And caught the graceless giggler. Whack! flack! whack!Here's Nemesis whichever way you like!She didn't stop to argue. Given a headBroken, a woman chuckling at the door,And here's your circumstantial evidence complete.Whack! while Jack sniffs and sniggers from the bed.I like that horny-handed mother o' Jill.The world's best women died, sir, long ago.Well, Jack's avenged; as for the other, gr-r-r-r!Rudyard Kipling.