For thee, who mindful of the yet unwed, Dost in these lines extol the married state, Haply some old associate may say : "Oft have we seen him through the deepest snows, Rushing with hurried strides and features gay To reach the play-house, ere the curtain rose. "There, at the end of yonder circling row That skirts the stage, above the foot-light's glare, "Hard by yon bar, now swearing, as in spite, Now talking awful wild, like one half tight,' "One night we missed him 'mong the accustomed bloods' "The next, with favours white, and strange designs. THE EPIGRAPH. Here lives, retired, with no more to excite, Strange though his fancies, yet his heart was warm ; Was down on Humbug in its wildest form : No farther seek his merits to disclose, Or paint the follies of his single life, For they, alike, quiescently repose Within the bosom of his faithful wife. The Umpire. (Manchester), May 5, 1888. The following imitation of the "Elegy" appeared in The Volunteer Record and Shooting News (London, 33, King William Street, E. C.), August 11, 1888. It was written by a well known shooting man of the London Rifle Brigade as a funeral dirge upon the last of the N. R. A. meetings on Wimbledon Common. The first meeting was held there in July, 1860. WIMBLEDON-AN ELEGY. July 21st, 1888. Round yon trim cottage and the windmill's tower Where stood the umbrella tent, whose welcome shade The cheery call of bugles in the morn, Or thunder rain-drops trickling on their head; Or worse, the shriek of bag-pipes, zephyr horne, No more shall wake them from their palliasse bed. And they no more upon those beds shall turn, Making perchance, in dreams, tall scoring there. No comrades greet them in hot haste to learn What they have made, their joy or sadness share. Oft did the targets to their science yield The welcome "eyes" when they past records broke. And yet, more oft, mocked was ambition's toil, They freedom asked for, from vexatious strife. Full many a budding shot, with vision keen, And waste their sweetness on the desert air! Mr. Hiram Henton, Bandmaster of the London Rifle Brigade. The L. R. B. Band was selected for several years, for Camp duty, by the National Rifle Association. Perhaps, on that neglected range have laid And thou, proud Duke, 'twill be indeed thy fault No storied urn, or marble sculptured bust, And laid thereon the dull cold hand of death. 'Twas thou forbade it—yes, thou, and thou alone Their growing talents crushed; the deed's confined To thee, who, although dwelling near a throne Hast shut the gates that bound thee to thy kind. The gnawing pangs of conscience try to hide, Go, quench the blush caused by thy action's shame, Heap on thyself discredit for thy pride; Thou'st sunk for gain, thy erstwhile honour'd name. That name, thy years, thy choice to power misuse, THE EPITAPH. THERE now lies dead upon this spot of earth Of that Common, so long by marksmen trod, E. B. ANSTEE. Another parody on Gray's "Elegy " appeared in a scarce old Scotch volume, entitled "The Court of Session Garland" which has recently been re-issued by Messrs. Hamilton, Adams & Co., London. The parody was written by Colin Maclaurin, Esquire, advocate, and was first privately printed at Edinburgh in 1814. It relates the cares and anxieties incident to the legal profession: THE bell now tolls, soon after dawn of day, Beneath yon fretted roof that rafters shade, Whare lie huge deeds in many mouldering heads, Each, in its narrow cell, far too long laid, The dreadful call of macer, like a horn, The agent, tottering from some humble shed, The lawyer's claron, like the cock's, at morn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the agent's lamp shall burn, Or busy clerk oft' ply his evening care, No counsel run to hail their quick return, Or long their client's envied fees to share. Oft' did the harvest to their wishes yield, And knotty points their stubborn souls oft' broke. How keenly did they, then, their clients shield! How bow'd the laws beneath their sturdy stroke. Let not derision mock their useful toils, Forensic broils, and origin obscure, Nor judges hear, with a disdainful smile, The short and simple causes of the poor. The boast of sov'reignty, the rod of power, And all the sway that judges ever have, Await alike the inevitable hour When all must yield to some designing knave. Nor you, ye vain, impute to such the fault, For thee, who mindful of each agent's deeds, Nor at the bar nor in the court he sate. The next, with dirges due, in sad array, Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne : Approach and read, for thou canst read the lay Grav'd on his stone, beneath yon aged thorn. EPITAPH. Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, A youth to Business and to Law well known; Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, And Litigation marked him as her own. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, No further seek his merits to disclose, A scarce little pamphlet, published by J. Crocker, London, 1838, entitled "The Modern Gilpin, or the Adventures of John Oldstock, in an Excursion by Steam from London to Rochester Bridge, containing a passing glance at the principal places on the Thames and Medway" was, as its name implies, a parody of Cowper's "John Gilpin": JOHN Oldstock was a store-keeper, In far-famed Seven-Dials; An ebon nymph grac'd his shop-door- Den vonce I cried mid all my mide, "I vant to vare mine pants to-night, A penny pamphlet, in a blood red cover, has been recently published in Poppin's Court, Fleet Street, entitled "The Whitechapel Murders, A vision of the Murderer as seen from Dreamland, by Marcus.” It is written in imitation of Poe's Raven, to call attention to the wretched inefficiency of our present system of police, and the supineness of the Home Office in everything relating to the unfashionable quarters of London. But as both Sir Charles Warren and Mr. Matthews are already sufficiently unpopular, it is needless to quote this parody, dealing, as it does, with topics of a most unpleasant description. The following parody refers to the Fisheries dispute between Canada and the United States, which, but for Mr. Chamberlain's unfortunate want of tact and temper during his mission, might have been amicably settled : CANADA, MY CANADA. THE haddock's feet are on thy shore, Canada, my Canada; The halibut is at the door, Canada, my Canada; For smelt and gudgeon, chub and eel, For codfish, hake and mackareel, Arise and meet the Yankee steal. Canada, my Canada. Thou wilt not cower in the brine, Thou wilt not drop thy fishing line, Deal gently with a herring race Put up your swordfish in its place, If for reprisal you would sue, Just turn your other cheek-please do, The Brooklyn Eagle, U.S. -:0: THE BEAUTIFUL SNOW. A correspondent in Chicago writes in reference to this poem (see page 268) "there seems little doubt but that it was written by Mr. James M. Watson. Mr. Bryant in his Library of Poetry and Song, and Mr. Coates in his Fire-side Cyclopedia both name him as the author. The last verse, however, which you qucte is not a part of the original poem, but added later, and by another hand. Mr. W. F. Fox, of this city, wrote an additional verse to supply the idea of final hope of forgiveness and happiness. It is as follows: How strange it should be that the beautiful snow I'll plead for admission through pardoning love, The authorship of this poem has been very much discussed over here in the United States. The following verses, which went the rounds a few years ago, were keenly enjoyed by the reading world": The Gallant Three Hundred. THREE hundred brave warriors with pistols and rifles, Too long has he lived on this suffering earth, If they find him-and surely we hope that they will- Then fearlessly charging the terrible foe, Accomplish their purpose they can and they must, They'll return with their banner star spangled and bright, And high on their flagstaff plainly in sight DER GOOD-LOOKIN SHNOW. OH! dot shnow, dot goot-lookin shnow, Goot-lookin shnow, you dond cood done wrong. |