A Parody Anthology
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A MAUDLE-IN BALLAD
(To his Lily)MY lank limp lily, my long lithe lily,My languid lily-love fragile and thin,With dank leaves dangling and flower-flap chilly,That shines like the shin of a Highland gilly!Mottled and moist as a cold toad's skin!Lustrous and leper-white, splendid and splay!Art thou not Utter and wholly akinTo my own wan soul and my own wan chin,And my own wan nose-tip, tilted to swayThe peacock's feather, sweeter than sin,That I bought for a halfpenny yesterday?My long lithe lily, my languid lily,My lank limp lily-love, how shall I win —Woo thee to wink at me? Silver lily,How shall I sing to thee, softly or shrilly?What shall I weave for thee – what shall I spin —Rondel, or rondeau, or virelai?Shall I buzz like a bee with my face thrust inThy choice, chaste chalice, or choose me a tinTrumpet, or touchingly, tenderly playOn the weird bird-whistle, sweeter than sin,That I bought for a halfpenny yesterday.My languid lily, my lank limp lily,My long lithe lily-love, men may grin —Say that I'm soft and supremely silly —What care I while you whisper stilly;What care I while you smile? Not a pin!While you smile, you whisper – 'Tis sweet to decay?I have watered with chlorodine, tears of chagrin,The churchyard mould I have planted thee in,Upside down in an intense way,In a rough red flower-pot, sweeter than sin,That I bought for a halfpenny yesterday.Punch.QUITE THE CHEESE
(By a Wilde Æsthete)THERE was once a maiden who loved a cheese;Sing, hey! potatoes and paint!She could eat a pound and a half with easeOh, the odorous air was faint!What was the cheese that she loved the best?Sing, hey, red pepper and rags!You will find it out if you read the rest;Oh, the horrors of frowning crags!Came lovers to woo her from every land —Sing, hey! fried bacon and files!They asked for her heart, but they meant her hand,Oh, the joy of the Happy Isles.A haughty old Don from Oporto came;Sing, hey! new carrots and nails!The Duke of Gorgonzola, his famous name,Oh, the lusciously-scented gales!Lord Stilton belonged to a mighty line!Sing, hey! salt herrings and stones!He was "Blue" as chine – his taste divine!Oh, the sweetness of dulcet tones.Came stout Double Glo'ster – a man and wife,Sing, hey! post pillars and pies!And the son was Single, and fair as fate;Oh, the purple of sunset skies!De Camembert came from his sunny France,Sing, hey! pork cutlets and pearls!He would talk sweet nothings, and sing and dance,Oh, the sighs of the soft sweet girls.Came Gruyère so pale! a most hole-y man!Sing, hey! red sandstone and rice!But the world saw through him as worldings can,Oh, the breezes from Isles of Spice.But the maiden fair loved no cheese but one!Sing, hey! acrostics and ale!Save for Single Glo'ster she love had none!Oh, the roses on fair cheeks pale!He was fair and single – and so was she!Sing, hey! tomatoes and tar!And so now you know which it is to be!Oh, the aid of a lucky star!They toasted the couple the livelong night,Sing, hey! cast iron and carp!And engaged a poet this song to write.Oh, the breathing Æolian harp!So he wrote this ballad at vast expense!Sing, hey! pump-handles and peas!And, though you may think it devoid of sense,Oh, he fancies it QUITE THE CHEESE!H. C. Waring.AFTER WILLIAM WATSON
THE THREE MICE
THREE mice – three sightless mice – averse from strife,Peaceful descendants of the Armenian race,Intent on finding some secluded placeWherein to pass their inoffensive life;How little dreamt they of that farmer's wife —The Porte's malicious minion – giving chase,And in a moment – ah, the foul disgrace! —Shearing their tails off with a carving-knife!And oh, my unemotional countrymen,Who choose to dally and to temporize,When once before with vitriolic penI told the tale of Turkish infamies,Once more I call to vengeance, – now as then,Shouting the magic word "Atrocities!"Anthony C. Deane.AFTER KIPLING
FUZZY WUZZY LEAVES US
WE'VE been visited by men across the seas,And some of them could write, and some could not;The English, French, and German – whom you please,But Kipling was the finest of the lot.In sooth, we're loath to lose him from our list;Though he's not been wholly kind in all his dealings;Indeed from first to last I must insist,He has played the cat and banjo with our feelings.But here's to you, Mr. Kipling, with your comments and your slurs;You're a poor, benighted Briton, but the Prince of Raconteurs!We'll give you your certificate, and if you want it signed,Come back and have a fling at us whenever you're inclined!You harrowed us with murder and with blood;You dipped us deep in Simla's petty guile;Yet we have found ourselves misunderstoodWhen we served you a sensation in our style;And though you saw some grewsome pictures throughThe Windy City's magnifying lens,Yet we took it just a little hard of you,A-objecting to the slaughter of our pens!But here's to you, Mr. Kipling, and the boys of Lung-tung-pen,And all we have to ask you is, make 'em kill again!For though we're crude in some things here, which fact I much deplore,We know genius when we see it, and we're not afraid of gore.And yet we love you best on Greenough Hill,By Bisesa and her sisters dark perplext;In your sermons, which have power to lift and thrillJust because they have the heart of man as text;And when you bend, the little ones to please,With Bagheera and Baloo at hide and seek,Oh! a happy hour with Mowgli in the treesSets a little chap a-dreaming for a week.So, here's to you, Mr. Kipling, and to Mowgli and Old Kaa,And to her who loved and waited where the Gates of Sorrow are;For where is brush more potent to paint since Art beganThe white love of a Woman and the red blood of a Man.So, since to us you've given such delight,We hope that you won't think us quite so bad.You're all hot sand and ginger, when you write,But we're sure you're only shamming when you're mad.Yet so you leave us Gunga Din's salaam,So you incarnate Mulvaney on a spree;Mr. Kipling, sir, we do not "care a damn"For the comments you may make on such as we!Then here's to you, Mr. Kipling, and Columbia aversYou're a poor, benighted Briton, but the Prince of Raconteurs.You may scathe us, and may leave us; still in our hearts will stayThe man who made Mulvaney and the road to Mandalay.E. P. C.A BALLAD
(In the manner of R-dy-rd K-pl-ng)AS I was walkin' the jungle round, a-killin' of tigers an' time;I seed a kind of an author man a writin' a rousin' rhyme;'E was writin' a mile a minute an' more, an' I sez to 'im, "'Oo are you?"Sez 'e, "I'm a poet – 'er majesty's poet – soldier an' sailor, too!"An 'is poem began in Ispahan an' ended in Kalamazoo,It 'ad army in it, an' navy in it, an' jungle sprinkled through,For 'e was a poet – 'er majesty's poet – soldier an' sailor, too!An' after, I met 'im all over the world, a doin' of things a host;'E 'ad one foot planted in Burmah, an' one on the Gloucester coast;'E's 'alf a sailor an' 'alf a whaler, 'e's captain, cook, and crew,But most a poet – 'er majesty's poet – soldier an' sailor too!'E's often Scot an' 'e's often not, but 'is work is never through,For 'e laughs at blame, an' 'e writes for fame, an' a bit for revenoo, —Bein' a poet – 'er majesty's poet – soldier an' sailor too!'E'll take you up to the Ar'tic zone, 'e'll take you down to the Nile,'E'll give you a barrack ballad in the Tommy Atkins style,Or 'e'll sing you a Dipsy Chantey, as the bloomin' bo'suns do,For 'e is a poet – 'er majesty's poet – soldier an' sailor too.An' there isn't no room for others, an' there's nothin' left to do;'E 'as sailed the main from the 'Orn to Spain, 'e 'as tramped the jungle through,An' written up all there is to write – soldier an' sailor, too!There are manners an' manners of writin', but 'is is the proper way,An' it ain't so hard to be a bard if you'll imitate Rudyard K.;But sea an' shore an' peace an' war, an' everything else in view —'E 'as gobbled the lot! – 'er majesty's poet – soldier a'n sailor, too.'E's not content with 'is Indian 'ome, 'e's looking for regions new,In another year 'e'll 'ave swept 'em clear, an' what'll the rest of us do?'E's crowdin' us out! – 'er majesty's poet – soldier an' sailor too!Guy Wetmore Carryl.JACK AND JILL
H ERE is the tale – and you must make the most of it!Here is the rhyme – ah, listen and attend!Backwards – forwards – read it all and boast of itIf you are anything the wiser at the end!Now Jack looked up – it was time to sup, and the bucket was yet to fill;And Jack looked round for a space and frowned, then beckoned his sister Jill,And twice he pulled his sister's hair, and thrice he smote her side;"Ha' done, ha' done with your impudent fun – ha' done, with your games!" she cried;"You have made mud-pies of a marvellous size – finger and face are black,You have trodden the Way of the Mire and Clay – now up and wash you, Jack!Or else, or ever we reach our home, there waiteth an angry dame —Well you know the weight of her blow – the supperless open shame!Wash, if you will, on yonder hill – wash if you will, at the spring, —Or keep your dirt, to your certain hurt, and an imminent walloping!""You must wash – you must scrub – you must scrape!" growled Jack, "you must traffic with can and pails,Nor keep the spoil of the good brown soil in the rim of your fingernails!The morning path you must tread to your bath – you must wash ere the night descends,And all for the cause of conventional laws and the soapmaker's dividends!But if 't is sooth that our meal in truth depends on our washing, Jill,By the sacred right of our appetite – haste – haste to the top of the hill!"They have trodden the Way of the Mire and Clay, they have toiled and travelled far,They have climbed to the brow of the hill-top now, where the bubbling fountains are,They have taken the bucket and filled it up – yea, filled it up to the brim;But Jack he sneered at his sister Jill, and Jill she jeered at him:"What, blown already!" Jack cried out (and his was a biting mirth!)"You boast indeed of your wonderful speed – but what is the boasting worth?Now, if you can run as the antelope runs, and if you can turn like a hare,Come, race me, Jill, to the foot of the hill – and prove your boasting fair!""Race? What is a race?" (and a mocking face had Jill as she spake the word)"Unless for a prize the runner tries? The truth indeed ye heard,For I can run as the antelope runs, and I can turn like a hare: —The first one down wins half a crown – and I will race you there!""Yea, if for the lesson that you will learn (the lesson of humbled pride),The price you fix at two-and-six, it shall not be denied;Come, take your stand at my right hand, for here is the mark we toe:Now, are you ready, and are you steady? Gird up your petticoats? Go!"And Jill she ran like a winging bolt, a bolt from the bow released,But Jack like a stream of the lightning gleam, with its pathway duly greased;He ran down hill in front of Jill like a summer lightning flash —Till he suddenly tripped on a stone, or slipped, and fell to the earth with a crash.Then straight did rise on his wondering eyes the constellations fair,Arcturus and the Pleiades, the Greater and Lesser Bear,The swirling rain of a comet's train he saw, as he swiftly fell —And Jill came tumbling after him with a loud, triumphant yell:"You have won, you have won, the race is done! And as for the wager laid —You have fallen down with a broken crown – the half-crown debt is paid!"They have taken Jack to the room at the back where the family medicines are,And he lies in bed with a broken head in a halo of vinegar;While, in that Jill had laughed her fill as her brother fell to earthShe had felt the sting of a walloping – she hath paid the price of her mirth!Here is the tale – and now you have the whole of it!Here is the story, well and wisely planned;Beauty – Duty – these make up the soul of it —But, ah, my little readers, will you mark and understand?Anthony C. Deane.THE LEGEND OF REALISM
THIS is the sorrowful story,Told when the twilight fails,And the authors sit togetherReading each other's tales."Our fathers lived in the cloudland,They were Romanticists,They went down to the valleyTo play with the Scientists."Our fathers murmured of moonshine,Our fathers sang to the stars,Our fathers were playfully prolix,Our fathers knew nothing of 'pars.'"Then came the terrible savants,Nothing of play they knew,Only – they caught our fathers,And set them to burrow too."Set them to work in the workshop,With crucible, test, and scales,Put them in mud-walled prisons,And – cut up their beautiful tales."Now we can read our fathers,Trenchant, and terse, and cold,Stooping to dig in dust-heaps,Sharing the common mold."Driving a quill quotidian,Mending a muddy plot,Sitting in mud-walled prisons,Steeping their souls in rot."Thus and so do our fathers,Thus and so must we do,For we are the slaves of science,And we are Realists too."This is the horrible story,Told as the twilight fails,And the authors sit togetherReading each other's tales.Hilda Johnson.AFTER STEPHEN PHILLIPS
LITTLE JACK HORNER
Littlé Jack Horner sát in án anglé Meditating.Before we go farther,Please clearly understand this is blank verse.If it reads strangely, and the accent fallsIn unexpected places, do not dareTo criticise. Remember once for all,That I and Milton judge questións like that —Vide my letters to the daily press.As for my critics – wholesale ignoranceWere a term far too mild to paint their grossUnintellectuality. So much said,I start again.In a cornér he sat,Remote from comrades. Resolutely his handClutched a delicious pie. Anon his thumbFrom thé pasty depth próduced á curránt.(Excuse another interruption, butObserve the beauty of that ultimate line!With equal ease I might have written it"Produced a currant from the pasty depth,"But I – and Milton in his better moments —Prefer to be original.) In his soulThe obsession of his own superior virtueGrew and prevailed, till at the last he cried:"I am a Paragon of Excellence!"Happy Jack Horner, thus fully convincedOf his remarkable superiority!And happy readers, who peruse his taleRetold in such magnificent blank verse!Anthony C. Deane.AFTER FIONA McLEOD, W. B. YEATS, AND OTHERS
THE CULT OF THE CELTIC
WHEN the eager squadrons of day are faint and disbanded,And under the wind-swept stars the reaper gleansThe petulant passion flowers – although, to be candid,I haven't the faintest notion what that means —Surely the Snow-White Bird makes melody sweeterHigh in the air than skimming the clogging dust.(Yes, there's certainly something queer about this metre,But, as it's Celtic, you and I must take it on trust.)And oh, the smile of the Slave as he shakes his fetters!And oh, the Purple Pig as it roams afar!And oh, the – something or other in capital letters —As it yields to the magic spell of a wind-swept star!And look at the tricksy Elves, how they leap and frolic,Ducking the Bad Banshee in the moonlit pool,Celtic, yet fully content to be "symbolic,"Never a thought in their heads about Home Rule!But the wind-swept star – you notice it has to figure,Taking an average merely, in each alternate verseOf every Celtic poem – smiles with a palpable snigger,While the Yellow Wolf-Hound bays his blighting curse,And the voices of dead desires in sufferers waken,And the voice of the limitless lake is harsh and rough,And the voice of the reader, too, unless I'm mistaken,Is heard to remark that he's had about enough.But since the critics have stated with some decisionThat stanzas very like these are simply grand,Showing "a sense of beauty and intimate vision,"Proving a "Celtic Renaissance" close at hand;Then, although I admit it's a terrible tax onPowers like mine, yet I sincerely feltMy task, as an unintelligent Saxon,Was, at all hazards, to try to copy the Celt!Anthony C. Deane.AFTER VARIOUS WRITERS OF VERS DE SOCIÉTÉ
BEHOLD THE DEEDS!
(Chant Royal)(Being the Plaint of Adolphe Culpepper Ferguson, Salesman of Fancy Notions, held in durance of his Landlady for a failure to connect on Saturday night)
II WOULD that all men my hard case might know;How grievously I suffer for no sin:I, Adolphe Culpepper Ferguson, for lo!I, of my landlady am locked in.For being short on this sad Saturday,Nor having shekels of silver wherewith to pay,She has turned and is departed with my key;Wherefore, not even as other boarders free,I sing (as prisoners to their dungeon stonesWhen for ten days they expiate a spree):Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!IIOne night and one day have I wept my woe;Nor wot I when the morrow doth begin,If I shall have to write to Briggs & Co.,To pray them to advance the requisite tinFor ransom of their salesman, that he mayGo forth as other boarders go alway —As those I hear now flocking from their tea,Led by the daughter of my landladyPianoward. This day for all my moans,Dry bread and water have been servèd me.Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!IIIMiss Amabel Jones is musical, and soThe heart of the young he-boarder doth win,Playing "The Maiden's Prayer," adagio —That fetcheth him, as fetcheth the banco skinThe innocent rustic. For my part, I pray:That Badarjewska maid may wait for ayeEre sits she with a lover, as did weOnce sit together, Amabel! Can it beThat all of that arduous wooing not atonesFor Saturday shortness of trade dollars three?Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!IVYea! she forgets the arm was wont to goAround her waist. She wears a buckle whose pinGalleth the crook of the young man's elbow;I forget not, for I that youth have been.Smith was aforetime the Lothario gay.Yet once, I mind me, Smith was forced to stayClose in his room. Not calm, as I, was he;But his noise brought no pleasaunce, verily.Small ease he gat of playing on the bones,Or hammering on his stove-pipe, that I see.Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!VThou, for whose fear the figurative crowI eat, accursed be thou and all thy kin!Thee will I show up – yea, up will I showThy too thick buckwheats, and thy tea too thinAy! here I dare thee, ready for the fray!Thou dost not keep a first-class house, I say!It does not with the advertisements agree.Thou lodgest a Briton with a pugaree,And thou hast harbored Jacobses and Cohns,Also a Mulligan. Thus denounce I thee!Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!ENVOYBoarders! the worst I have not told to ye:She hath stole my trousers, that I may not fleePrivily by the window. Hence these groans,There is no fleeing in a robe de nuit.Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!H. C. Bunner.CULTURE IN THE SLUMS
(Inscribed to an Intense Poet)"O CRIKEY Bill!" she ses to me, she ses,"Look sharp," ses she, "with them there sossiges.Yea! sharp with them there bags of mysteree!For lo!" she ses, "for lo! old pal," ses she,"I'm blooming peckish, neither more or less."Was it not prime – I leave you all to guessHow prime – to have a Jude in love's distressCome spooning round, and murmuring balmilee,"O crikey, Bill!"For in such rorty wise doth Love expressHis blooming views, and asks for your address,And makes it right, and does the gay and free.I kissed her – I did so! And her and meWas pals. And if that ain't good business,O crikey, Bill!W. E. Henley.A BALLADE OF BALLADE-MONGERS
(After the manner of Master François Villon of Paris)IN Ballades things always contrive to get lost,And Echo is constantly asking whereAre last year's roses and last year's frost?And where are the fashions we used to wear?And what is a "gentleman," and what is a "player"?Irrelevant questions I like to ask:Can you reap the tret as well as the tare?And who was the Man in the Iron Mask?What has become of the ring I tossedIn the lap of my mistress false and fair?Her grave is green and her tombstone mossed;But who is to be the next Lord Mayor?And where is King William, of Leicester Square?And who has emptied my hunting flask?And who is possessed of Stella's hair?And who was the Man in the Iron Mask?And what became of the knee I crossed,And the rod and the child they would not spare?And what will a dozen herring costWhen herring are sold at three halfpence a pair?And what in the world is the Golden Stair?Did Diogenes die in a tub or cask,Like Clarence, for love of liquor there?And who was the Man in the Iron Mask?ENVOYPoets, your readers have much to bear,For Ballade-making is no great task,If you do not remember, I don't much careWho was the man in the Iron Mask.Augustus M. MooreAFTER VARIOUS POPULAR SONGS
BEAUTIFUL SNOW
(With a drift)OH! the snow, the beautiful snow(This is a parody, please, you know;Over and over again you may meetParodies writ on this poem so sweet;Rhyming, chiming, skipping along,Comical bards think they do nothing wrong;Striving to follow what others have done,One to the number may keep up the fun).Beautiful snow, so gently you scud,Pure for a minute, then dirty as mud!Oh! the snow, the beautiful snow!Here's a fine mess you have left us below;Chilling our feet to the tips of our toes;Cheekily landing full pert on our nose;Jinking, slinking, ever you try'Neath our umbrella to flop in our eye;Gamins await us at every new street,Watching us carefully, guiding our feet,Joking, mocking, ready to throwA hard-compressed ball of this beautiful snow.Anonymous.THE NEWEST THING IN CHRISTMAS CAROLS
GOD rest you, merry gentlemen!May nothing you dismay;Not even the dyspeptic platsThrough which you'll eat your way;Nor yet the heavy Christmas billsThe season bids you pay;No, nor the ever tiresome needOf being to order gay;Nor yet the shocking cold you'll catchIf fog and slush hold sway;Nor yet the tumbles you must bearIf frost should win the day;Nor sleepless nights – they're sure to come —When "waits" attune their lay;Nor pantomimes, whose drearinessMight turn macassar gray;Nor boisterous children, home in heaps,And ravenous of play;Nor yet – in fact, the host of illsWhich Christmases array.God rest you, merry gentlemen,May none of these dismay!Anonymous.THE TALE OF LORD LOVELL
LORD LOVELL he stood at his own front door,Seeking the hole for the key;His hat was wrecked, and his trousers boreA rent across either knee,When down came the beauteous Lady JaneIn fair white draperie."Oh, where have you been, Lord Lovell?" she said,"Oh, where have you been?" said she;"I have not closed an eye in bed,And the clock has just struck three.Who has been standing you on your headIn the ash-barrel, pardie?""I am not drunk, Lad' Shane," he said:"And so late it cannot be;The clock struck one as I enteréd —I heard it two times or three;It must be the salmon on which I fedHas been too many for me.""Go tell your tale, Lord Lovell," she said,"To the maritime cavalree,To your grandmother of the hoary head —To any one but me:The door is not used to be openédWith a cigarette for a key."Anonymous."SONGS WITHOUT WORDS"
I CANNOT sing the old songs,Though well I know the tune,Familiar as a cradle-songWith sleep-compelling croon;Yet though I'm filled with musicAs choirs of summer birds,"I cannot sing the old songs" —I do not know the words.I start on "Hail Columbia,"And get to "heav'n-born band,"And there I strike an up-gradeWith neither steam nor sand;"Star-Spangled Banner" downs meRight in my wildest screaming,I start all right, but dumbly comeTo voiceless wreck at "streaming."So when I sing the old songs,Don't murmur or complainIf "Ti, diddy ah da, tum dum"Should fill the sweetest strain.I love "Tolly um dum di do,"And the "Trilla-la yeep da" birds,But "I cannot sing the old songs" —I do not know the words.Robert J. Burdette.THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN
BY the side of a murmuring stream, an elderly gentleman sat,On the top of his head was his wig, and a-top of his wig was his hat.The wind it blew high and blew strong, as the elderly gentleman sat;And bore from his head in a trice, and plunged in the river his hat.The gentleman then took his cane, which lay by his side as he sat;And he dropped in the river his wig, in attempting to get out his hat.His breast it grew cold with despair, and full in his eye madness sat;So he flung in the river his cane to swim with his wig and his hat.Cool reflection at last came across, while this elderly gentleman sat;So he thought he would follow the stream, and look for his cane, wig, and hat.His head, being thicker than common, o'erbalanced the rest of his fat,And in plumpt this son of a woman, to follow his wig, cane, and hat.George Canning.