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

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Between the seaside and the sea I kissed my love and she kissed me; But rapturous day was grewsome night And what is love but bloom and blight? And what is kiss of mine to thee Between the seaside and the sea.

Between the sunshine and the sun I saw a face that hinted fun; But what is fun and what is face When driven at life's killing pace? I simply say that I have none Between the sunshade and the sun.

Between the bumble and the bee Full many a soul has had to flee; And what is love may I inquire When asked to build the kitchen fire? Or who would not leap in the sea Between the bumble and the bee.

Between the tea store and the tea There is a wide immensity; A dollar twenty five a pound And not a nickel to be found; Then what has fate in store for thee Between the tea store and the tea.

R. W. ANSWELL.

A SONG AFTER SUNSET.

Lo, from my Black Country flung for thee, Raving, red-eyed, scarred and seared; To a bran-new sensation tune sung for thee, With red lips, white teeth, underhung for thee, Beauty begrimed and blood-smeared! Vice-jawed, retractile, snub-snouted-- Tushes for fists swift to smite; Round by round felled but not routed, Rare of bark, bitter of bite!

The following is a parody of another favourite metre of Mr. Swinburne, which has been sent in, unfortunately without any information as to when and where it originally appeared:--

APRIL SHOWERS.

Oh, April showers Are good for flowers, And fill the bowers With perfumes rare; But twinge erratic, And pang rheumatic And not ecstatic Do they prepare!

And though the leanness And arid meanness Of lawns with greenness They hide and clothe; They, past disputing, Set corns a-shooting, Which makes your booting A thing to loathe!

And of the Future Although they suit your Bright dreams, compute you're The Past's sad prey; The while you yell a Vain ritornello For that umbrella That's stolen away!

NEPHELIDIA.

From the depth of the dreamy decline of the dawn through a notable nimbus of nebulous noonshine, Pallid and pink as the palm of the flag-flower that flickers with fear of the flies as they float, Are they looks of our lovers that lustrously lean from a marvel of mystic miraculous moonshine, These that we feel in the blood of our blushes that thicken and threaten with throbs through the throat? Thicken and thrill as a theatre thronged at appeal of an actor's appalled agitation, Fainter with fear of the fires of the future than pale with the promise of pride in the past; Flushed with the famishing fullness of fever that reddens with radiance of rathe recreation, Gaunt as the ghastliest of glimpses that gleam through the gloom of the gloaming when ghosts go aghast? Nay, for the nick of the tick of the time is a tremulous touch on the temples of terror, Strained as the sinews yet strenuous with strife of the dead who is dumb as the dust-heaps of death: Surely no soul is it, sweet as the spasm of erotic emotional exquisite error, Bathed in the balms of beatified bliss, beatific itself by beatitude's breath. Surely no spirit or sense of a soul that was soft to the spirit and soul of our senses Sweetens the stress of suspiring suspicion that sobs in the semblance and sound of a sigh; Only this oracle opens Olympian, in mystical moods and triangular tenses-- 'Life is the lust of a lamp for the light that is dark till the dawn of the day when we die.'

The original poem contained arguments of a most unpleasant and absurd description, these were ably ridiculed in the burlesque, which will be found on page 184, Volume 1, of this collection.

The following parody was also printed with the initials "A. C. S.," but clever as it is, few would venture to assert that it was actually written by Mr. Swinburne.

THE TOPER'S LAMENT.

Oh, my memory lovingly lingers Around the sweet sound of thy name, And the spell of those magical fingers That kindled my heart into flame; But the joy that I think on no more is, And my throat feels an ominous lump, As I muse o'er the wreck of thy glories, Thou Magpie and Stump!

For day after day have I sought thee, As flowers are sought by the gale; And night after night have I brought thee A lip for thine exquisite ale. Thy portals have welcomed me ever, Mine hostess was pleasant and plump, And her handmaids attentive and clever, O Magpie and Stump!

Did I rage with the thirst of a Hector For a cup of thy ravishing nectar, Who drew it as Nancy could draw? While for grilling a steak that was juicy, Or a chop that was chopped from the chump, Had'st thou ever an equal to Lucy, My Magpie and Stump?

Ah! thy votaries flocked beyond number, And worshipped full oft at thy shrine; And we poured forth libations to slumber, And we censed with tobacco divine; And then haply some bibulous fellow Would fall to the floor with a bump-- For thy potions were potently mellow, Our Magpie and Stump.

But I rave--for the past of my pleasure Has left me a little intense, And the lolloping lilt of my measure Is stronger in sound than in sense. Yet an ecstasy must have its morrow, And an ace may succumb to a trump; So my spirit is sunken in sorrow, Dear Magpie and Stump.

Farewell! nevermore shall thy chalice Of barleycorn bubble for me; They have altered thee into a palace Devoted to coffee and tea. Thy courts are now trod by the teacher, Thy fountains the cow and the pump, And thy priest is a temperance preacher, Poor Magpie and Stump!

Farewell! But if e'er in the distance Of time that we cannot foresee, Thou return to thy pristine existence-- For I cannot, alas! come to thee! As the prodigal found from his father Forgiveness, again shalt thou jump To the height of my patronage--rather! Rare Magpie and Stump!

A. C. S.

SONG OF THE SPRINGTIDE.

O Season supposed of all free flowers, Made lovely by light of the sun, Of garden, of field, and of tree-flowers, Thy singers are surely in fun! Or what is it wholly unsettles Thy sequence of shower and shine, And maketh thy pushings and petals To shrivel and pine?

Why is it that o'er the wild waters That beastly North-Easter still blows, Dust-dimming the eyes of our daughters, Blue-nipping each nice little nose? Why is it these sea-skirted islands Are plagued with perpetual chills, Driving men to Italian or Nile-lands From Albion's ills?

Happy he, O Springtide, who hath found thee, All sunlit, in luckier lands, With thy garment of greenery round thee, And belted with blossomy bands. From us by the blast thou art drifted. All brag of thy beauties is bosh; When the songs of thy singers are sifted, They simply won't wash.

What lunatic lune, what vain vision, Thy laureate, Springtide, may move To sing thee--oh, bitter derision!-- As season of laughter and love? You make a man mad beyond measure, O Spring, and thy lauders like thee: Thy flowers, thy pastimes and pleasures, Are fiddlededee!

SWINBURNISM.

I trow, wild friends, God's soul wots well by rote My sweet soft strains and lovely lays of love, And all the white ways of her sweet sharp throat, Which, not right yet, I have waxed weary of.

I never left off kissing her, I well think, But wrapped in rich red raiment of her hair, Kissed her all day, till her lips parch'd for drink As the parch'd often lips of a flute-player.

No maid of a king's blood, but held right high In God's sharp sight, from whom no things are hid. "You must not tell," she sighed and turned to cry. "That I should tell your mother, God forbid!"

Said so I kept my word, I never told her You drink pure water? I, sir, I drink wine! Your cool clear brain must needs yield verse-water, But, sweet strong drunken maniac music, mine.

S. K. COWAN.

A VALENTINE.

J. M. LOWRY.

SWINBURNESE.

Also thine eyes were mild as a lowlit flame of fire, When thou wovest the web whereof wiles were the woof and the warp was my heart. Why left'st thou the fertile field whence thou reapedst the fruit of desire? For the change of the face of thy colour I know thee not whence thou art!

Alas for the going of swiftness, for the feet of the running of thee, When thou wentest among the swords, and the shoutings of Captain's made shrill! Woe is me for the pleasant places! yea, one shall say of thy glee, "It is not," and as for delight the feet of thy dancing are still.

Where are those eyes that were so mild When of my heart you me beguiled? Why did you skedaddle from me and the child? O, Johnnie, I hardly knew you. Where are those legs with which you run When first you went to shoulder the gun? Indeed, your dancing days are done-- O, Johnnie, I hardly knew you.

R. Y. TYRRELL.

THE GOD.

Look in my face, and know me who I am. I smite and save; I bless, and, lo, I damn. Incline thine head, thy browless brow incline; I touch thee, and I tap thee, and proclaim, For ever and for ever thou art mine!

O long as grief, and leaner than desire! O sweet retreating breasts and amorous-kissing knees! O grace and goodliness of strait attire! A robe of them who sport in summer seas.

THE DAMOSEL.

Master and lord, I know thee who thou art; Lo, and with homage of the stricken heart, I hail thee, I adore thee, and obtest: I am thine own, I know no better part; Do with me, master, as thee seemeth best.

O loose as thought and bodiless as dream! O globular grand eyes, a bane of maidenhood! O miracle of tunic-folds, that seem Self-balanced, firm, a glory of carven wood!

THE GOD.

Ay, now the flicker of a nauseate smile Bestirs thy cheek and wan lips imbecile; Thy pale plucked blossom droops; its day is done.

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