A Parody Anthology

AFTER W. S. GILBERT

ODE TO A LONDON FOG

ROLL on, thick haze, roll on!Through each familiar wayRoll on!What though I must go out to-day?What though my lungs are rather queer?What though asthmatic ills I fear?What though my wheeziness is clear?Never you mind!Roll on!Roll on, thick haze, roll on!Through street and square and laneRoll on!It's true I cough and cough again;It's true I gasp and puff and blow;It's true my trip may lay me low —But that's not your affair, you know.Never you mind!Roll on!Anonymous.

PRESIDENT GARFIELD

WHEN he was a lad he served a termOn a big canal with a boatman's firm;With a heart so free and a will so strong,On the towpath drove two mules along.And he drove those mules so carefulleeHe's a candidate now for the Presidencee.As a driver boy he made such a markHe came to the deck of the inland barqueAnd all of the perils to boat and crew.He stood at the helm and guided thro'.He stood at the helm so manfulleeHe's a candidate now for the Presidencee.He did so well with the helm and mules,They made him a teacher of district schools;And when from college in a bran new suit,A Greek Professor at the Institute,Where Greek and Latin he taught so freeHe's a candidate now for the Presidencee.Now boys who cherish ambitious schemes,Though now you may be but drivers of teams,Look well to the work you may chance to do,And do it with a hand that is kind and true.Whatever you do, do it faithfullee,And you may aspire to the Presidencee.Anonymous.

PROPINQUITY NEEDED

CELESTINE Silvousplait Justine de Mouton Rosalie,A coryphée who lived and danced in naughty, gay Paree,Was every bit as pretty as a French girl e'er can be(Which isn't saying much).Maurice Boulanger (there's a name that would adorn a king),But Morris Baker was the name they called the man I sing.He lived in New York City in the Street that's labeled Spring(Chosen because it rhymed).Now Baker was a lonesome youth and wanted to be wed,And for a wife, all over town he hunted, it is said;And up and down Fifth Avenue he ofttimes wanderéd(He was a peripatetic Baker, he was).And had he met Celestine, not a doubt but Cupid's dartsWould in a trice have wounded both of their fond, loving hearts;But he has never left New York to stray in foreign parts(Because he hasn't the price).And she has never left Paree and so, of course, you seeThere's not the slightest chance at all she'll marry Morris B.For love to get well started, really needs propinquity(Hence my title).Charles Battell Loomis.

AFTER R. H. STODDARD

THE CANTELOPE

SIDE by side in the crowded streets,Amid its ebb and flow,We walked together one autumn morn;('Twas many years ago!)The markets blushed with fruits and flowers;(Both Memory and Hope!)You stopped and bought me at the stall,A spicy cantelope.We drained together its honeyed wine,We cast the seeds away;I slipped and fell on the moony rinds,And you took me home on a dray!The honeyed wine of your love is drained;I limp from the fall I had;The snow-flakes muffle the empty stall,And everything is sad.The sky is an inkstand, upside down,It splashes the world with gloom;The earth is full of skeleton bones,And the sea is a wobbling tomb!Bayard Taylor.

AFTER A. A. PROCTOR

THE LOST VOICE

SEATED at Church in the winterI was frozen in every limb;And the village choir shrieked wildlyOver a noisy hymn.I do not know what they were singing,For while I was watching themOur Curate began his sermonWith the sound of a slight "Ahem!"It frightened the female portion,Like the storm which succeeds a calm,Both maidens and matrons heard itWith a touch of inane alarm.It told them of pain and sorrow,Cold, cough, and neuralgic strife,Bronchitis, and influenzaAll aimed at our Curate's life.It linked all perplex'd diseasesInto one precious frame;They trembled with rage if a scepticAttempted to ask its name.They have wrapped him in mustard plasters,Stuffed him with food and wine,They have fondled, caressed, and nursed him,With sympathy divine.It may be that other CuratesWill preach in that Church to them,Will there be every time, Good Heavens!Such a fuss for a slight – Ahem!A. H. S.

THE LOST APE

SEATED one day on an organ,A monkey was ill at ease,When his fingers wandered idly,In search of the busy fleas.I knew not what he was slaying,Or what he was dreaming then,But a sound burst forth from that organ,Not at all like a grand Amen.It came through the evening twilightLike the close of the feline psalm,But the melody raised by their voicesCompared to this noise was balm!It was worse than Salvation's Sorrow,With their band of drum and fife,And cut, like an evening "Echo,"The Tit-Bits out of "Life."I upset my table and tea things,And left not one perfect piece;I gazed at the wreck in silence,Not loth, but unable to speak!Then I sought him, alas! all vainly,The source of that terrible whine,With his cracked and tuneless organ,And its melodies undivine.Of course there was no policemanTo move him away, – and menWho grind organs smile demurelyAt your curses, and smile again.It may be that I could choke him —Could kill him – but organ men,If you kill a dozen to-day,To-morrow will come again!J. W. G. W.

THE LOST WORD

SEATED one day at the typewriter,I was weary of a's and e's,And my fingers wandered wildlyOver the consonant keys.I know not what I was writing,With that thing so like a pen;But I struck one word astounding —Unknown to the speech of men.It flooded the sense of my verses,Like the break of a tinker's dam,And I felt as one feels when the printerOf your "infinite calm" makes clam.It mixed up s's and x'sLike an alphabet coming to strife.It seemed the discordant echoOf a row between husband and wife.It brought a perplexed meaningInto my perfect piece,And set the machinery creakingAs though it were scant of grease.I have tried, but I try it vainly,The one last word to divineWhich came from the keys of my typewriterAnd so would pass as mine.It may be some other typewriterWill produce that word again,It may be, but only for others —I shall write henceforth with a pen.C. H. Webb.

AFTER GEORGE MEREDITH

AT THE SIGN OF THE COCK

(FRENCH STYLE, 1898)

(Being an Ode in further "Contribution to the Song of French History," dedicated, without malice or permission, to Mr. George Meredith)

IROOSTER her sign,Rooster her pugnant note, she strutsEvocative, amazon spurs aprick at heel;Nid-nod the authentic stumpOf the once ensanguined comb vermeil as wine;With conspuent doodle-dooHails breach o' the hectic dawn of yon New Year,Last issue up to dateOf quiverful FateEvolved spontaneous; hails with tonant trumpThe spiriting prime o' the clashed carillon-peal;Ruffling her caudal plumes derisive of scuts;Inconscient how she stalks an immarcessibly absurd Bird.IIMark where her Equatorial PioneerDelirant on the tramp goes littoralwise.His Flag at furl, portmanteaued; drains to the dregsThe penultimate brandy-bottle, coal-on-the-headpiece giftOf who avenged the Old Sea-Rover's smirch.Marchant he treads the all-along of inarable driftOn dubiously connivent legs,The facile prey of predatory flies;Panting for further; sworn to lurchEmpirical on to the Menelik-buffered, enhavened blue,Rhyming – see Cantique I. – with doodle-doo.IIIInfuriate she kicked against Imperial fact;Vulnant she feltWhat pin-stab should have stained Another's peltPuncture her own Colonial lung-balloon,Volant to nigh meridian. Whence rebuffed,The perjured Scythian she lackedAt need's pinch, sick with spleen of the rudely cuffedBelow her breath she cursed; she cursed the hourWhen on her spring for him the young Tyrannical brokeAmid the unhallowed wedlock's vodka-shower,She passionate, he dispassionate; trickedHer wits to eye-blind; borrowed the ready as for dower;Till from the trance of that Hymettus-moonShe woke,A nuptial-knotted derelict;Pensioned with Rescripts other aid declinedBy the plumped leech saturate urging PeaceIn guise of heavy-armed Gospeller to men,Tyrannical unto fraternal equal liberal, her. Not she;Not till Alsace her consanguineous findWhat red deteutonising artilleryShall shatter her beer-reek alien policeThe just-now pluripollent; not till then.IVMore pungent yet the esoteric painSqueezing her pliable vitals nourishes feudInsanely grumous, grumously insane.For lo!Past common balmly on the Bordereau,Churns she the skim o' the gutter's crustWith Anti-Judaic various carmagnole,Whooped praise of the Anti-Just;Her boulevard broodGyratory in convolvements militant-mad;Theatrical of faith in the Belliform,Her Og,Her Monstrous. Fled what force she hadTo buckle the jaw-gape, wide agogFor the Preconcerted One,The Anticipated, ripe to clinch the whole;Queen-bee to hive the hither and thither volant swarm.Bides she his coming; adumbrates the newExpurgatorial Divine,Her final effulgent Avatar,Postured outside a trampling mastodonBlack as her Baker's charger; towering; visibly gorgedWith blood of traitors. Knee-grip stiff,Spine straightened, on he rides;Embossed the Patriot's brow with hieroglyphOf martial dossiers, nothing forgedAbout him save his armour. So she bidesVoicing his advent indeterminably far,Rooster her sign,Rooster her conspuent doodle-doo.VBehold her, pranked with spurs for bloody sport,How she acclaims,A crapulous chanticleer,Breach of the hectic dawn of yon New Year.Not yet her fill of rumours sucked;Inebriate of honour; blushfully wroth;Tireless to play her old primeval games;Her plumage preened the yet unpluckedLike sails of a galleon, rudder hard amortWith crepitant mastFronting the hazard to dare of a dual blastThe intern and the extern, blizzards both.Owen Seaman.

AFTER DANTE GABRIEL

ROSSETTI

A CHRISTMAS WAIL

(Not by Dante Gabriel Rossetti)ON Christmas day I dined with Brown.(Oh the dinner was fine to see!)I drove to his house, right merrily down,To a western square of London town.(And I moan and I cry, Woe's me!)We dined off turkey and Christmas beef:(Oh the dinner was fine to see!)My anguish is sore and my comfort's brief,And nought but blue pills can ease my grief,(As I moan and I cry, Woe's me!)We gorged plum-pudding and hot mince pies,(Oh the dinner was fine to see!)And other nameless atrocities,The weight of which on my – bosom lies.(And I moan and I cry, Woe's me!)We drank dry Clicquot and rare old port,(Oh the dinner was fine to see!)And I pledged my host for a right good sortIn bumpers of both, for I never thought(I should moan and cry, Woe's me!)But I woke next day with a fearful head,(Oh that dinner was fine to see!)And on my chest is a weight like lead,And I frequently wish that I were dead,(And I moan and I cry, Woe's me!)And as for Brown – why the truth to tell —(Oh that dinner was fine to see!)I hate him now with the hate of hell,Though before I loved him passing well,(And I moan and I cry, Woe's me!)Anonymous.

BALLAD

THE auld wife sat at her ivied door(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese),A thing she had frequently done before,And her spectacles lay on her apron'd knees.The piper he piped on the hill-top high(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese),Till the cow said "I die," and the goose ask'd "Why?"And the dog said nothing, but search'd for fleas.The farmer he strode through the square farmyard(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese);His last brew of ale was a trifle hard —The connection of which with the plot one sees.The farmer's daughter had frank blue eyes(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese);She hears the rooks caw in the windy skies,As she sits at her lattice and shells her peas.The farmer's daughter hath ripe red lips(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese);If you try to approach her, away she skipsOver tables and chairs with apparent ease.The farmer's daughter hath soft brown hair(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese),And I met with a ballad, I can't say where,Which wholly consisted of lines like these.Part IIShe sat with her hands 'neath her dimpled cheeks(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese),And spake not a word. While a lady speaksThere is hope, but she didn't even sneeze.She sat, with her hands 'neath her crimson cheeks(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese);She gave up mending her father's breeks,And let the cat roll in her new chemise.She sat, with her hands 'neath her burning cheeks(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese),And gazed at the piper for thirteen weeks;Then she follow'd him out o'er the misty leas.Her sheep follow'd her, as their tails did them(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese),And this song is consider'd a perfect gem,And as to the meaning, it's what you please.Charles S. Calverley.

CIMABUELLA

FAIR-TINTED cheeks, clear eyelids drawnIn crescent curves above the lightOf eyes, whose dim, uncertain dawnBecomes not day: a forehead whiteBeneath long yellow heaps of hair:She is so strange she must be fair.Had she sharp, slant-wise wings outspread,She were an angel; but she standsWith flat dead gold behind her head,And lilies in her long thin hands:Her folded mantle, gathered in,Falls to her feet as it were tin.Her nose is keen as pointed flame;Her crimson lips no thing express;And never dread of saintly blameHeld down her heavy eyelashes:To guess what she were thinking ofPrecludeth any meaner love.An azure carpet, fringed with gold,Sprinkled with scarlet spots, I laidBefore her straight, cool feet unrolled;But she nor sound nor movement made(Albeit I heard a soft, shy smile,Printing her neck a moment's while).And I was shamed through all my mindFor that she spake not, neither kissed,But stared right past me. Lo! behindMe stood, in pink and amethyst,Sword-girt and velvet-doubleted,A tall, gaunt youth, with frowzy head.Wide nostrils in the air, dull eyes,Thick lips that simpered, but, ah me!I saw, with most forlorn surprise,He was the Thirteenth Century,I but the Nineteenth; then despairCurdled beneath my curling hair.O Love and Fate! How could she chooseMy rounded outlines, broader brain,And my resuscitated Muse?Some tears she shed, but whether painOr joy in him unlocked their source,I could not fathom which, of course.But I from missals quaintly bound,With cither and with clavichord,Will sing her songs of sovran sound:Belike her pity will affordSuch fain return as suits a saintSo sweetly done in verse and paint.Bayard Taylor.

THE POSTER GIRL

THE blessed Poster girl leaned outFrom a pinky-purple heaven.One eye was red and one was green;Her bang was cut uneven;She had three fingers on her hand,And the hairs on her head were seven.Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem,No sunflowers did adorn,But a heavy Turkish portièreWas very neatly worn;And the hat that lay along her backWas yellow, like canned corn.It was a kind of wobbly waveThat she was standing on,And high aloft she flung a scarfThat must have weighed a ton;And she was rather tall – at leastShe reached up to the sun.She curved and writhed, and then she saidLess green of speech than blue:"Perhaps I am absurd – perhapsI don't appeal to you;But my artistic worth dependsUpon the point of view."I saw her smile, although her eyesWere only smudgy smears;And then she swished her swirling arms,And wagged her gorgeous ears.She sobbed a blue-and-green-checked sob,And wept some purple tears.Carolyn Wells.

AFTER JEAN INGELOW

LOVERS, AND A REFLECTION

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;Thro' God's own heather we wonn'd together,I and my Willie (O love my love):I need hardly remark it was glorious weather,And flitterbats waver'd alow, above:Boats were curtseying, rising, bowing,(Boats in that climate are so polite),And sands were a ribbon of green endowing,And oh, the sundazzle on bark and bight!Thro' the rare red heather we danced together,(O love my Willie!) and smelt for flowers:I must mention again it was gorgeous weather,Rhymes are so scarce in this world of ours:By rises that flush'd with their purple favors,Thro' becks that brattled o'er grasses sheen,We walked and waded, we two young shavers,Thanking our stars we were both so green.We journeyed in parallels, I and Willie,In fortunate parallels! Butterflies,Hid in weltering shadows of daffodillyOr marjoram, kept making peacock eyes:Songbirds darted about, some inkyAs coal, some snowy (I ween) as curds;Or rosy as pinks, or as roses pinky —They reck of no eerie To-come, those birds!But they skim over bents which the millstream washes,Or hang in the lift 'neath a white cloud's hem;They need no parasols, no goloshes;And good Mrs. Trimmer she feedeth them.Then we thrid God's cowslips (as erst His heather)That endowed the wan grass with their golden blooms;And snapt – (it was perfectly charming weather) —Our fingers at Fate and her goodness-glooms:And Willie 'gan sing (oh, his notes were fluty;Wafts fluttered them out to the white-winged sea) —Something made up of rhymes that have done much duty,Rhymes (better to put it) of "ancientry:"Bowers of flowers encounter'd showersIn William's carol – (O love my Willie!)Then he bade sorrow borrow from blithe to-morrowI quite forget what – say a daffodilly:A nest in a hollow, "with buds to follow,"I think occurred next in his nimble strain;And clay that was "kneaden" of course in Eden —A rhyme most novel, I do maintain:Mists, bones, the singer himself, love-stories,And all least furlable things got "furled;"Not with any design to conceal their "glories,"But simply and solely to rhyme with "world."********O if billows and pillows and hours and flowers,And all the brave rhymes of an elder day,Could be furled together, this genial weather,And carted or carried on "wafts" away,Nor ever again trotted out – ah me!How much fewer volumes of verse there'd be!Charles S. Calverley.

THE SHRIMP-GATHERERS

SCARLET spaces of sand and ocean,Gulls that circle and winds that blow;Baskets and boats and men in motion,Sailing and scattering to and fro.Girls are waiting, their wimples adorningWith crimson sprinkles the broad gray flood;And down the beach the blush of the morningShines reflected from moisture and mud.Broad from the yard the sail hangs limpy;Lightly the steersman whistles a lay;Pull with a will, for the nets are shrimpy,Pull with a whistle, our hearts are gay!Tuppence a quart; there are more than fifty!Coffee is certain, and beer galore;Coats are corduroy, minds are thrifty,Won't we go it on sea and shore!See, behind, how the hills are freckledWith low white huts, where the lasses bideSee, before, how the sea is speckledWith sloops and schooners that wait the tideYarmouth fishers may rail and roister,Tyne-side boys may shout, "Give way!"Let them dredge for the lobster and oyster,Pink and sweet are our shrimps to-day!Shrimps and the delicate periwinkle,Such are the sea-fruits lasses love;Ho! to your nets till the blue stars twinkle,And the shutterless cottages gleam above!Bayard Taylor.

AFTER CHRISTINA ROSSETTI

REMEMBER

REMEMBER it, although you're far away —Too far away more fivers yet to land,When you no more can proffer notes of hand,Nor I half yearn to change my yea to nay.Remember, when no more in airy way,You tell me of repayment sagely planned:Only remember it, you understand!It's rather late to counsel you to pay;Yet if you should remember for awhile,And then forget it wholly, I should grieve;For, though your light procrastinations leaveSmall remnants of the hope that once I had,Than that you should forget your debt and smile,I'd rather you'd remember and be sad.Judy.

AFTER LEWIS CARROLL

WAGGAWOCKY

'TWAS Maytime, and the lawyer covesDid jibe and jabber in the wabe,All menaced were the Tichborne groves,And their true lord, the Babe."Beware the Waggawock, my son,The eyelid twitch, the knees' incline,Beware the Baignet network, spunFor gallant Ballantine."He took his ton-weight brief in hand,Long time the hidden clue he sought,Then rested he by the Hawkins tree,And sat awhile in thought.And as in toughish thought he rocks,The Waggawock, sans truth or shame,Came lumbering to the witness box,And perjured out his Claim."Untrue! untrue!" Then, through and throughThe weary weeks he worked the rack;But March had youth, ere with the TruthHe dealt the final whack."And hast thou slain the WaggawockCome to my arms, my Beamish Boy!O Coleridge, J.! Hoorah! hooray!"Punch chortled in his joy.Shirley Brooks.

THE VULTURE AND THE HUSBANDMAN

(By Louisa Caroline)THE rain was raining cheerfullyAs if it had been May,The Senate House appeared insideUnusually gay;And this was strange, because it wasA Viva-Voce day.The men were sitting sulkily,Their paper work was done,They wanted much to go awayTo ride or row or run;"It's very rude," they said, "to keepUs here and spoil our fun."The papers they had finished layIn piles of blue and white,They answered everything they could,And wrote with all their might,But though they wrote it all by rote,They did not write it right.The Vulture and the HusbandmanBesides these piles did stand;They wept like anything to seeThe work they had in hand:"If this were only finished up,"Said they, "it would be grand!""If seven D's or seven C'sWe give to all the crowd,Do you suppose," the Vulture said,"That we could get them ploughed?""I think so," said the Husbandman,"But pray don't talk so loud.""O Undergraduates, come up,"The Vulture did beseech,"And let us see if you can learnAs well as we can teach;We cannot do with more than two,To have a word with each."Two Undergraduates came up,And slowly took a seat;They knit their brows and bit their thumbs,As if they found them sweet;And this is odd, because, you know,Thumbs are not good to eat."The time has come," the Vulture said,"To talk of many things,Of Accidence and Adjectives,And names of Jewish kings;How many notes a sackbut has,And whether shawms have strings.""Please, Sir," the Undergraduates said,Turning a little blue,"We did not know that was the sortOf thing we had to do.""We thank you much," the Vulture said;"Send up another two."Two more came up, and then two more,And more, and more, and more,And some looked upwards at the roof,And some down upon the floor,But none were any wiser thanThe pair that went before."I weep for you," the Vulture said;"I deeply sympathize!"With sobs and tears he gave them allD's of the largest size,While at the Husbandman he winkedOne of his streaming eyes."I think," observed the Husbandman,"We're getting on too quick;Are we not putting down the D'sA little bit too thick?"The Vulture said with much disgust,"Their answers make me sick.""Now, Undergraduates," he cried,"Our fun is nearly done;Will anybody else come up?"But answer came there none;But this was scarcely odd, becauseThey'd ploughed them every one!A. C. Hilton.

AFTER A. C. SWINBURNE

GILLIAN

JACK and JilleI have made me an end of the moods of maidens,I have loosed me, and leapt from the links of love;From the kiss that cloys and desire that deadens,The woes that madden, the words that move.In the dim last days of a spent September,When fruits are fallen, and flies are fain;Before you forget, and while I remember,I cry as I shall cry never again.Went up a hylleWhere the strong fell faints in the lazy levelsOf misty meadows, and streams that stray;We raised us at eve from our rosy revels,With the faces aflame for the death of the day;With pale lips parted, and sighs that shiver,Low lids that cling to the last of love:We left the levels, we left the river,And turned us and toiled to the air above.To fetch a paile of water,By the sad sweet springs that have salved our sorrow,The fates that haunt us, the grief that grips —Where we walk not to-day nor shall walk not to-morrow —The wells of Lethe for wearied lips.With souls nor shaken with tears nor laughter,With limp knees loosed as of priests that pray,We bowed us and bent to the white well-water,We dipped and we drank it and bore away.Jack felle downeThe low light trembled on languid lashes,The haze of your hair on my mouth was blown,Our love flashed fierce from its fading ashes,As night's dim net on the day was thrown.What was it meant for, or made for, that minute,But that our lives in delight should be dipt?Was it yours, or my fault, or fate's, that in itOur frail feet faltered, our steep steps slipt.And brake his crowne, and Jille came tumblynge after.Our linked hands loosened and lapsed in sunder,Love from our limbs as a shift was shed,But paused a moment, to watch with wonderThe pale pained body, the bursten head.While our sad souls still with regrets are riven,While the blood burns bright on our bruised brows,I have set you free, and I stand forgiven —And now I had better go call my cows.Anonymous.