Read Ebook: Parodies of the works of English & American authors vol. II by Hamilton Walter Compiler

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Ebook has 892 lines and 423875 words, and 18 pages

THE BROOK-- The Song of the Flirt 270 The Mont Cenis Train, 1868 270 The Corn, by Jayhay, 1878 271 The River, a Steamboat version 271 The Song of the Steam Launch 272 The Sherbrooke. A Lowe Ballad 272 A Lay of Lawn Tennis 272

HOME THEY BROUGHT HER WARRIOR DEAD-- Home they brought her "Worrier" dead 273 "Let me lie here," by John Cotton 273 Give me no more 140 "The Slander falls in different halls" 273

TEARS, IDLE TEARS-- Tears, maudlin Tears 141

THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE-- The Light Brigade--The University Boat Race 273 The Gas Stoker's Strike, by J. Verey, 1873 274 Clapham Junction, by J. Verey 274 The Charge of the "Light" Brigade, by C. T. Druery 274 The Charge of the Heavy Brigade at Kassassin 275 The Charge of the Fire Brigade 275

A WELCOME TO ALEXANDRA-- Stradella, by Rose Grey, 1863 275 A Welcome to Battenberg, Funny Folks 136 In Tennysoniam, by Albert Smith, 1851 276 A Parody of Tennyson's Prefatory Sonnet for "The Nineteenth Century" 276 Wages, Judy 140

IDYLLS OF THE KING-- A Parody of the Dedication 276 A little rift within the lute 277 "Too soon, too soon" 277 "Little Miss Muffet" as an Arthurian Idyll 277

DESPAIR, 1881-- Never say die 278 Hands all round, by John Phelan 278

THE FLEET , The Times 137 The Bard 137 138 A Laurel. J. Fox Turner 137 "We, we." E. S. Watson 137 Tennyson 137 Tennyson Tackled. Punch 137 Our Fleet. Moonshine 138

LINES TO PRINCESS BEATRICE ON HER MARRIAGE 279 Two Suns of Love make day of human life 279 Two Moons for thee of honey and of strife 279 Two sums of cash will fill a German purse 279 Two tones of love make woe of married life 279 Two things, no doubt, make day of married life 280 Two tricks of trade make bearable my life 280 Two sorts of grants make rich the royal train 280 Two bridal loves make laugh of "You, you's" song 280 Tennyson on General Gordon 141

Isaac Watts, D.D.

HOW DOTH THE LITTLE BUSY BEE 206 How doth the little busy Flea 206 208 How doth the ever busy Wasp 207 How doth the busy Russian Bee, 1875 207 How doth the dizzy Disraeli, 1858 207 How doth the lively Spelling Bee, 1876 207 How doth the little busy Wheeze 207 How doth the busy Parliament, 1876 208 How doth the little Crocodile 208 How doth the little Mosquito 208 How doth the honest Land League man, 1881 208 How doth the little coal-hole top 208 How doth the very Bizzy Bee 209 How doth the gorging, greedy Bee 209 How doth the wobbling, wily wops 209 Buggins's Variations of the Busy Bee 209 A Prose Version 207

LET DOGS DELIGHT TO BARK AND BITE 210 Let Canine Animals, 1847 210 Let Austria delight to bark and bite, 1854 210 Let peaceful Bright in speech delight, 1854 210 Let Lords delight to bark and bite, 1869 210 Let Rads delight to bark and bite 211 Let Bigots write with sneers of spite 211 Let Fools and Bullies brawl and fight 211 Let Cads delight with fists to fight 212 Let Frenchmen fight with kick and bite 215 Whigs in their cosy berths agree, 1849 210 Birds in their little nests agree 211 Oh, Marcus! You should never let 211 On a Fracas at Newmarket, 1883 211 To a Policeman 212 When Bishops, who in wealth abound 216

WHENE'ER I TAKE MY WALKS ABROAD 214 Do. do. in London Streets 214 The Irish Landlord's Song 214 I cannot take my walks abroad 214 Another Version, by Shirley Brooks 215 Whene'er abroad we take our walks 215 Abroad in the Boroughs 215 How sweet a thing it is to dwell 216 Why should I relieve my neighbour 216 A Paraphrase on Dr. Watts' Distich on the Study of Languages, 1792 216

Bret Harte.

DICKENS IN CAMP.

Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting, The river sang below; The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting Their minarets of snow.

The roaring camp-fire, with rude humour, painted The ruddy tints of health On haggard face and form that drooped and fainted In the fierce race for wealth;

Till one arose, and from his pack's scant treasure A hoarded volume drew, And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure To hear the tale anew;

And then, while round them shadows gathered faster, And as the firelight fell, He read aloud the book wherein the Master Had writ of "Little Nell."

Perhaps 'twas boyish fancy,--for the reader Was youngest of them all,-- But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar A silence seemed to fall;

The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows, Listened in every spray, While the whole camp, with "Nell" on English meadows, Wandered and lost their way.

And so in mountain solitudes--o'ertaken As by some spell divine-- Their cares dropped from them like the needles shaken From out the gusty pine.

Lost is that camp, and wasted all its fire: And he who wrought that spell?-- Ah, towering pine and stately Kentish spire, Ye have one tale to tell!

Lost is that camp! but let its fragrant story Blend with the breath that thrills With hop-vines' incense all the pensive glory That fills the Kentish hills.

And on that grave where English oak and holly And laurel wreaths intwine, Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly,-- This spray of Western pine! BRET HARTE. July, 1870.

PARODIES IN PRINT.

Among the books the gloom was darkly drifting, The writer's spirits low; The duller serials, and the weeklies, lifting But melodies of woe.

The older authors, with rude humour, painted The glowing fun of health Now lost in dreary prose, jokes died or fainted In sterner race for wealth;

Till one arose, and from the past's great treasure Of hundred volumes drew, A scheme to tap the hoard untold of pleasure And bid it flow anew;

And so the parodies unearthed grew vaster, Than ever one could tell, All mimicking some mighty poet Master, In many a sprightly "Sell."

While 'mid these gambols of poetic shadows, Listening to bygone play, As each mad parody evokes the glad "Ohs!" .

See Tennyson, in mighty verse--o'ertaken, Mimicked in tripping line-- When jokes from Longfellow, so grave, are shaken Like gush in penny-a-line.

To find in rush of their poetic fire, A comic theme told well, While stately verse, and song, and culture higher, Are used some joke to tell.

Lost be that scamp, who would no funny story Tell in the rhyme that thrills Like farthing rushlight posing as the glory Of sun o'er ancient hills.

If, in the crowd of puppets, some poor dolly Should ape a bard sublime, Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly-- To jest is not a crime. J. W. G. W. November, 1884.

Which some questions he'd brought, And Ben rose--as 'twas planned-- To reply. What was sought He did well understand; But he smiled, as he stood at the table, With a smile that was artfully bland.

How he trifled with sense, You would scarcely believe; And with cunning intense, Fancy statements did weave: Whilst he kept back his facts by the dozen, And the same, with intent to deceive.

Which the war-dance he had Was exciting to watch, Though I feared, lest too mad, His job he might botch, For he whooped, and he raved, and he ranted;-- You see he's so pepp'ry and Scotch.

Which expressions is strong, Yet but feebly imply What I think of the wrong-- Not to call it a lie-- As was worked off by Benjy on Gran-Vil, Which he can't go for it to deny.

THE AGED STRANGER. .

"I was with Grant--" the stranger said, Said the farmer, "Say no more, But rest thee here at my cottage porch, For thy feet are weary and sore."

"I was with Grant--" the stranger said; Said the farmer, "Nay, no more,-- I prithee sit at my frugal board. And eat of my humble store.

"How fares my boy,--my soldier boy, Of the Old Ninth Army Corps? I warrant he bore him gallantly In the smoke and the battle's roar!"

"I know him not," said the aged man, "And, as I remarked before, I was with Grant--" "Nay, nay, I know," Said the farmer, "Say no more;

"He fell in battle,--I see alas! Thou'dst smooth these tidings o'er,-- Nay: speak the truth, whatever it be, Though it rend my bosom's core.

"How fell he,--with his face to the foe, Upholding the flag he bore? O, say not that my boy disgraced The uniform that he wore!"

"I cannot tell," said the aged man, "And should have remarked, before, That I was with Grant,--in Illinois,-- Some three years before the war."

Then the farmer spake him never a word, But beat with his fist full sore That aged man, who had worked for Grant Some three years before the war. BRET HARTE.

"I WAS WITH GRANT."

"What said my Albert--my Baron brave, Of the great financing corps? I warrant he bore him scurvily 'Midst the interruption's roar!"

"He's presented another square!--I see, You'd smooth the tidings o'er-- Or started, perchance, more Water-works On the Mediterranean shore?

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