Thy spoils he gave to deck the Dutch;

Thy noblest pride, most pure, most brave, To death forlorn and sure he gave; Nor now requires he overmuch

Who bids thee dig thy grave.

Dig deep the grave of shame, wherein
Thy fame, thy commonweal, must lie ;
Put thought of aught save terror by,
To strike and slay the slayer is sin;
And Murder must not die.

Bind fast the true man; loose the thief;
Shamed were the land, the laws accursed,
Were guilt, not innocence, amerced;
And dark the wrong and sore the grief,
Were tyrants too coerced.

The fiercest cowards that ever skulked,

The cowardliest hounds that ever lapped Blood, if their horde be tracked and trapped, And justice claimed their lives for mulct,

Gnash teeth that flashed and snapped.

Bow down for fear, then, England: bow,
Lest worse befall thee yet; and swear
That nought save pity, conscience, care
For truth and mercy, moves thee now
To call foul falsehood fair.

So shalt thou live in shame, and hear

The lips of all men laugh thee dead;
The wide world's mockery round thy head
Shriek like a storm-wind; and a bier
Shall be thine honour's bed.

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.

The Daily Telegraph. April 29, 1887.

Our sore no patriot hand must touch
Even for healing: song shall rave
Against the Statesman old, but brave
Who dares--where youth, craven o'ermuch,
Shrinks-the sharp strokes that save.

Beware that grave of shame wherein
His fame, his honour-by a lie
Put with false lyric fervency-

You fain would thrust. His cause shall win,
His glory shall not die.

You voice their virulence-whose sheaf
Of poisoned darts, for blood athirst,
Fall blunt and harmless-you, the first
Of lyric freemen, once the chief
Of patriots? Fate accurst!

Not thus had he, your Hugo, skulked
'Midst the traducer's, limed and trapped
By patriot shams; you jingo-capped,
Whose views of Freedom broadlier bulked
Caste's curs have snarled and snapped

In chorus long; but will you bow

To yelp at Freedom's heels, and tear Her noblest champion? Have a care! The fading laurels round your brow Slander shall not make fair.

At least you have our Answer. Hear!
Not e'en your lips shall laugh Truth dead,
Nor your fierce mockery bow his head
At whom fools shriek in hate and fear,
And despots howl in dread.

From The Daily News. April 30, 1887.

THE

On page 93 a parody of the above song, entitled The Fine Old Standard Tragedy, was inserted, with a note stating that it had first appeared in Albert Smith's Town and Country Miscellany. The author of the parody, the Rev. E. Bradley, has written to point out that it was originally published in The Month for October, 1851, a small maga. zine edited by Albert Smith, and illustrated by John Leech. The Month only ran to six numbers, from July to December, 1851, when it was discontinued. Bradbury and Evans, the publishers, had lost money by it, and the fact was, as stated by poor Albert Smith, The Month was far too good for the public taste of that day. Mr. Bradley kindly sends another parody, of the same original, which was very popular amongst University men about 1845; the author's name is not known.

THE FINE YOUNG ENGLISH GENTLEMAN.

I'LL sing you a fine new song, 'twas made by a mad young pate,

Of a fine young English gentleman, who lives on no estate,

Upon capital good turtle soup, and champagne that's iced so well;

Like a fine young English gentleman, one of the present time.

And, as for the rest of the evening, why I really cannot say, Except that the cold punch was excellent, and the com.

pany very gay;

And he challenged two or three men; but then, they settle it next day;

And he does not quite remember how, or when he came away;

For, he's a fine young English gentleman, one of the present time.

Now, instead of being seen next day at his desk at half past ten,

He doesn't find himself there till one, p'raps not even then ;

And his head aches so, and his hand shakes so, he can scarcely hold his pen;

But, "these little accidents will occur to the steadiest of

THE OLD ENGLISH PUBLICAN.

I'LL sing you a song, a gcod old song, which I have sung before,

About an English publican who lived in days of yore, The bush then served him for a sign, with chequers at the door,

His ale was fine, and choice his wine, of which he had good store,

The fine old English publican, who served in ollen times.

Upon the hearth the fire then blaz'd with logs and roots of trees,

The chimney corner held a score who sat round at their

And poultry which the ale-wife fed, and flour in by the sack:

Mine host then had his gun and dog, the fox or hare could track,

And in his pouch when on the chase had malmsey, ale, or sack. The fine, &c.

You might then play a game at cards, could sing and dance at ease,

Nor heeded an informer's dread, for such vile knaves displease;

And men could enjoy themselves, and might their fancies please,

Nor could the taxman come as now, the landlord's purse to squeeze.

The fine, &c.

THE FINE OLD COMMON COUNCILMAN.

I'LL sing you a fine new song at once, before it is too late, Of a very Common-Councilman who's trembling for his state,

Who guzzling at his hall comes out particularly great,
But whom his friends in early life forgot to educate,

Like a vulgar Common-Councilman, one of the present time.

His wife so fine was hung about with feathers, lace, and bows,

Contrived by city milliners, whose fashions no one knows, And though she dropped her H's, yet she wore expensive clothes,

He never made himself the priest of an exclusive creed;
His house was ever open wide to all that were in need;
And 'twas his joy to cheer the sick, the hungry one to feed ;
And little children by the hand with loving care to lead;
Like a good old English Vicar, one of the olden time!

He did not social honour seek, or church preferment crave,
Nor did he let base lucre's love his kindly soul deprave,
To his dear people his whole life most willingly he gave,
And all the village when he died stood mourning round the
grave

Of this good old English Vicar, one of the olden time!

But look at his successor now, a change most marked you'll

see.

He is a very learned man who's gained a high degree,
And who, expecting in due course that he'll a bishop be,
Cares little for the humble folks who crave his ministry,
Like a learned modern Vicar, one of the present time!

Shut in his study he essays some treatise to complete,
And rarely do you see his form about the village street;
His voice is never heard, alas! the toiling hind to greet,
And at the bedside of the poor you never, never meet

This learned, modern Vicar, one of the present time!
But even he is better than his neighbour, who, we find
Forgetting that his Master was all merciful and kind!
And who when 'mongst the magistrates he proudly sits
enshrined,

To stern and harsh severity's persistently inclined,
Like a modern J. P. Vicar, one of the present time

He preaches charity, and bids all inen forgive their foes, And yet, when on the bench next day, no sign of mercy shows;

But far beyond the lay J.P.'s most eagerly he goes,
To crushing sentences inflict, and cruel fines impose;
Like a modern J. P. Vicar, one of the present time!

The parish next to his as priest an Honourable can claim,
Who that fat living holds because he bears his father's

name;

And who, the simple truth to tell, a clergyman became,
Because too mentally obtuse to otherwise win fame;

Like the high-born modern Vicar, one of the present time!
Lawn-tennis is the only thing on which he seems intent,
And he cach week for half-a-crown from town has sermons
sent-

That is, when at the vicarage, a rather rare event,
For at his father's London house his time is mostly spent,
Like a high-born modern Vicar, one of the present time!

MY NELLIE'S BLUE EYES.

My Nellie's eyes are blue,
Hair of bright and golden hue,
Like her eyes, her heart is true,
My Nellie my own!

Never reigned a queen more fair,
Who with Nellie could compare,
By her side my life I'd share,

My Nellie my own!

Ne'er was culled from nature's bower
Half so sweet or rare a flower-

With my Nellie hour by hour,
My Nellie my own!

Chorus.

My Nellie's blue eyes,

My Nellie's blue eyes,

Bright as the stars that shine above,

My Nellie's blue eyes.

The above is part of the original song which inspired Mr. Charles Coborn with the idea of one of the most popular parodies of modern times, Two Lovely Black Eyes.

Two LOVELY BLACK EYES;

or, No more Politics for me.

STROLLING SO happy down Bethnal Green,
This gay youth you might have seen,
Tompkins and I with his girl between ;
Oh, what a surprise!

I praised the Conservatives frank and free,
Tompkins got angry so speedilee,

All in a moment he handed to me,
Two lovely black eyes.

Chorus.

Two lovely black eyes,

Oh what a surprise!

Only for telling a man he was wrong,
Two lovely black eyes.

Next time I argued I thought it best,
To give the Conservative side a rest,
The merits of Gladstone I freely pressed,
When oh, what a surprise!
The chap I had met was a Tory true,
Nothing the Liberals right could do,
This was my share of that argument too,
Two lovely black eyes!

Chorus.

Two lovely black eyes,

Oh what a surprise!

Only for telling a man he was wrong,

Two lovely black eyes.

The moral you've caught I can hardly doubt, Never on politics rave and shout,

Leave it to others to fight it out,

If you would be wise.

Better, far better, it is to let

Lib'rals and Tories alone, you bet,

Unless you're willing and anxious to get
Two lovely black eyes!

Chorus.

Two lovely black eyes,

Oh, what a surprise!

Only for telling a man he was wrong,

Two lovely black eyes.

The music for this amusing song was arranged by Mr.

Edmund Forman, and it is published by Francis Eros. and Day, of Oxford Street, London.

"Two Lovely Black Eyes" created such a furore at the Trocadero Music Hall (formerly the Argyll Rooms) that it was christened "The Trocadero Anthem," and on February 8, 1887, The Pall Mall Gazette gave an account of the wild enthusiasm with which the singer was nightly received, and reported the following remarks, made by Mr. Coborn, as to the origin of the song.

"OH, WHAT A SURPRISE!"

"It was a fluke; in fact, I may say 'a surprise.' Such things generally are. 'Two Lovely Black Eyes' is a parody of an American song of which the chorus is Nellie's Lovely Blue Eyes.' The air is the same, and had been sung in London by some lady vocalists, even at the Trocadero, lorg before I thought of it. I had an engagement at the Paragon in the Mile-end Road, and had to sing a new song one Saturday night. That was a Tuesday, I think. I hummed 'Nellie's Blue Eyes,' and thought the tune would catch them; but I doubted about the 'blue' eyes. I thought they would appreciate black more. So I got my chorus- Two Lovely Black Eyes.' That is always my starting point. had now to find my words. I was walking down Bethnal Green, thinking about it; the elections were on at the time, and I turned it over. So I got the first line :'Strolling so happy down Bethnal Green,' Who? Why,

'This gay youth you might have seen.?

I

You see, 'seen,' 'green?' Then you would naturally meet some one. I met Tompkins. I wanted a word to rhime with 'seen' and 'green,' so I gave Tompkins a young lady :—

'Tompkins and I with his girl between."

I had written 'Harry' at first, but it was too prosaic, so I changed it to Tompkins, which sounded funnier. Then I thought of the elections, and the rest followed easily. What more natural than that we should fall out, and that Tompkins should hand me 'two lovely black eyes'? That is how it grew. Here is the original which I wrote coming home in the train." And Mr. Coborn produced a little black-covered note-book, every page of which was covered with writing. Songs and scraps of dialogue and bits of street conversation which Mr. Coborn will introduce into his patter. "I have sung it about one thousand times in English, French, and German," and the popular comic gave me some samples. He is not a polyglottist, but he has a quick ear, and his accert is pronounced to be marvellous. Here are the French and German renderings:

"Deux beaux yeux noirs,

Oh ciel! quel horreur,

Seulement pour dire à quelqu'un qu'il a tort

Deux beaux yeux noirs."

"Zwei Augen so schwartz,

Ach, ist dass ein Spass?

Gesagt hab' ich nur das er Unrecht gehabt,

Zwei Augen so schwartz!"

Put

"I propose to sing it in Hebrew and modern Greek. the song has been a fluke right through its career. I thought it would suit the Paragon audiences (we must consider our public). I thought they would like the chorus. But when I came to the Trocadero' I was a little doubtful, thinking it might be too coarse. So I asked the conductor, and if he had said 'yes' I should have changed it at once. It is my principle rather to sacrifice a laugh, than to offend a prejudice."

OH, WHAT A SURPRISE!

The popular Budget Ballad, sung with general rounds of applause at the St. Stephen's Music Hall, by the new Exchequer Startler, G. J. Goschen.*

Air-"Two Lovely Black Eyes."

Down at the House, in the days that have been,
This grave sage you might often have seen,
Harcourt and I, and the Chief between,

But oh, what a surprise!

I joined the Conservatives frank and free;
Gladstone got angry right speedilee,
All in a jiff to see G. J. G.

Rat to the To-ries.

Chorus. I join the To-ries?

Oh, what a surprise!

Rads were all telling me G, J. was wrong
To join the To-ries.

When to resign Randolph thought it was best,
The Chancellorship upon me was press'd.
A humdrum Budget I feared, I confessed,
When oh, what a surprise!

A surplus I found; it was small, 'tis true,
Less than a million, but what did I do?

By a neat little dodge made it more than two!

That opened their eyes!

Chorus.-Revenue on the rise!

Oh, what a surprise!

Harcourt was dumbfoundered, Churchill was dished; Loud cheered the To-ries!

(Shake with cold ad lib. Rings for the Servants.) Uprouse ye then, my merry merry men,

I'll not get up to-day;

Uprouse ye then, my merry merry men,
I'll not get up to-day.

Beneath the blankets full three deep
All snuggled up I cower,
All snuggled up I cower,
Above the counter-pane I peep
To see what is the hour,

To see what is the hour.

My watch I find says half-past ten,
Then dow-ow-own myself I lay,
Then down myself I lay,
Then down myself I lay.

(To the Footman.)

Bring tea and toast, my merry merry men,

I don't get up to-day;

Bring tea and toast, my merry merry men,

I don't get up to-day.

* On the boot tree. This is a poetical intimation that the singer does not intend going out for a walk.