I'd be a bottle-fly, buzzing and blue,
With a Chuny proboscis, and nothing to do,
But to dirty white dimity curtains, and blow
The choicest of meats when the summer days glow!
From Blackwood's Magazine. May, 1828.

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PARODY.

As sung by Robson, in "Masaniello," a burlesque by Robert Brough.

I'm a shrimp! I'm a shrimp of diminutive size;
Inspect my antennæ and look at my eyes;
I'm a natural syphon when dipped in a cup,
For I drain the contents to the latest drop up;
I care not for craw fish, I heed not the prawn ;
From a flavour especial my fame has been drawn.

Nor e'en to the crab or the lobster I'll yield,
When I'm properly cooked and efficiently peeled.
Quick, quick! pile your coals, let your saucepan be deep,
For the weather is warm, and I'm not sure to keep.
Off, off with my head! split my shell into three!
I'm a shrimp, I'm a shrimp, to be eaten with tea!

Another parody of the same original was sung by the late comedian, Edward Wright, as Mr. Chatterton Chopkins, in "This House to be Sold (the property of the late William Shakespeare); Enquire Within." This was written by J Sterling Coyne, and produced at the Adelphi Theatre,. London, September 9, 1847.

I'M A GENT! I'M A GENT!

I'M a gent! I'm a gent! I'm a gent ready made;
I rove through the Quadrant and Lowther Arcade ;

I'm a register'd swell from the head to the toe;

I wear a moustache and a light paletôt.

I've a cane in my hand, and a glass in my eye;
And I wink at the girls as I pass them by.
Then, la! how they giggle, to win my regards,

And I hear them all say, "He's a gent in the Guards!"

I can sing a flash song, I can blow on the horn,

I like sherry cobblers-am fond of Cremorne;

I love the Cellarius, the Polka I dance,

And I'm rather attached to a party from France.

This gal I adore, is a creature divine,
Though deucedly partial to lobsters and wine;

She was struck with my figure, and caught with a hook,
For I took her to visit "my uncle the Duke."

I'm a gent! I'm a gent! in the Regent Street style;
Examine my waistcoat, and look at my tile.
There are gents, I dare say, who are handsomer far,
But none who can puff with such ease a cigar.
From Sharp's Vauxhall Comic Song Book.
Thomas Allman.

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THE OLD ENGLISH CONSTABLE.

London :

I'LL sing you of a good old boy, whom all must now revere, Of a fine old English constable, who lived for many a year; Who, though his natural looks were kind, could oft be most severe,

And could whene'er he had a mind strike every one with fear

Like a fine old English constable, one of the olden time.

His office was to keep the peace and order of the town,
To take the roaming spirits up, and knock the rising down.
They wanted then no new police, with hats glazed round
the crown,

To strut about, for he did all, in rare old rusty gown-
Like a grand old English constable, one of
the olden time.

He often had to ring a bell, that every one might hear, When goods were stolen, strayed, or lost, in accents loud and clear.

So maidens when their reticules were miss'd, did never cry, For love letters were found before they reached the parent's eye

By the good old English constable, one of the olden time.

WHEN and where shall I earliest meet him?
What are the clothes he then will wear?
Will he still use the same big eye-glass
Which gives his eyes such a vacant glare?
Will he still walk like a hen rheumatic,
Or like a goose by a boy pursued ?
He whom I look for with longing ecstatic,
He whom I worship-My Dude, My Dude.
Will his small moustache be with wax anointed?
Will his hair in the middle be parted neat?
Will he still wear those boots so pointed,
Pinching his dear little tender feet?
Will his legs be thin and his hat be curly?
Will he suck his cane as a child its food?
Will he still call me his girly, girly?

He whom I worship-My Dude, My Dude.
ANONYMOUS.

How VERY GREEN!

OH! a cunning plant doth the Jew, I ween,

Oft make of both young and old;

The younger the better, for then the more green,
And so much the more readily sold.

He'll lend him cash, or sell him jewels,

Or horses; he'll pleasure each whim

Of such arrant young fool; for he knows by-and-bye
There's a merry meal for him!

So teaching the youth how life should be seen,
He plucketh the feathers of Verdant Green.

Fast he leadeth him on at a terrible pace
(Yet how staunch doth his false heart seem);
How closely he twineth, how tight he clings
To his friend "Mishter Verdant Green!"
All the while slily weaving around his path,
A net that very soon will

Put a stop to his game; then no longer the Jew
Will discount, but sue on each bill;

Having shown the way that life should be seen,
By emptying the pockets of Verdant Green.

Whole ages have fled, and their works decay'd,
And nations have scatter'd been ;

But the cunning old Jew will ne'er cease to drain
The life-blood of each Verdant Green.
And old "Shent per shent," in his lonely days,
Will e'er chuckle o'er the past,

As he crones of the fortunes that Christians raise
But to come to the Jews at last.

And thus to the end of time, I ween,
The Jew will thrive on each Verdant Green.

And I feel all choked with something Longing, struggling to be free;

It were best to leave me thus, dear, Best for you, and best for me.

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TEN LIBERAL UNIONISTS.

(By Sir Wilfrid Lawson.)

TEN Liberal Unionists, kicking up a shine,
One went to Burnley, and then there were but nine.

Nine little Unionists, weeping o'er his fate,
Another went to Ilkeston, and then there were eight.

Eight little Unionists, trusting still in Heaven,
Fought a fight in Cornwall, and then there were seven.

Seven little Unionists, still up to tricks,

Had a fling at Spalding, and then there were six.

Six little Unionists, fresh and all alive,

Sent a man to Coventry, and then there were five.

Five little Unionists, valiant as before,.

Tried their luck at Glasgow, and then there were four.

Four little Unionists, bumptious as could be,
Had a shot at Northwich, and then there were three.
Three little Unionists, looking rather blue,
Thomas Russell left them, and then there were two.

Two little Unionists, feeling rather done,

Joe cut a summersault, and then there was one.

One little Hartington, sitting all alone,

He joined the Tories, and then there were none. Pall Mall Gazette. 1887.

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THR LOST DISCORD.

STANDING one day at his organ,
The grinder seemed quite at ease,
With his monkey idly chasing

The far too-industrious fleas

I know not what he was playing
(For I was composing then),

But I heard someone curse that organ,
And I murmured a great "Amen!

That discord, it filled the silence
With a sound as of tom-cats lorn;
It racked my brain like a nightmare,
It was worse than an oil-cloth torn.
It was like inharmonious yelling;
It made all the street-dogs whine,
It seems that the soul of that organ
Had spitefully gone for mine.

So I made for that organ-grinder,

And swore that I'd break each limb;
And his monkey his fleas ceased chasing,
When he saw I meant chasing him
It may be in some other quarter
He's playing that air-and then,
If someone is smashing his organ,
I fervently say, "Amen!"

Judy. May 26, 1886.

YE BICYCLISTS OF ENGLAND.

YE Bicyclists of England

Who stride your wheels with ease, How little do you think upon

What Mr. Sturmey* sees.

The Wheelman's standard rises high
With every year that goes,
Wheels sweep, fast and cheap,

Whereof Sturmey's trumpet blowsOur cycles range more swift and strong, And Sturmey's trumpet blows

The "meteor" wheels of England
Shall yet terrific turn;

'Tis true that France gave us a start-
Now she has much to learn.
To you, our brave wheel-warriors,
Our song and glass shall flow;
To the fame of your name

Mr. Sturmey's trumpets blow-
Cycles or Cyclists, ours are best,
So why should we not blow?

Punch. October 1, 1887

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THE SONG OF BILLIAWATHA.†

SHOULD you ask me whence these Indians?
Whence these cowboys, whence these riders,
Whence these Red Shirts and these shootists,
With their tomahawks and war-paint,
With their mustangs and buck jumpers,
With their lassoes, with their rifles,
With the savour of the prairies,
With a smack of Reid and Cooper,
And of melodrama on them?

I should answer-I should tell you
Buffalo, the great Bill, found them,

Brought them from their camps and wigwams,
From their lodges on the prairies
In the great Show land of Barnum,
In the clime of Minnie Palmer ;

Brought them here to Earl's Court, Brompton,
Where the Lohndahner, the Cochneh,
Will throughout the Lohndahn season
Flock in troops to gaze and wonder
At their prowess with the bronchoes,
At their dextrous use of lasso,
At their deadly skill with rifle ;
Wonder how the deuce they do it,
Wonder what the men are made of,
How on earth they learned such dodges.
If still further you should ask me
What's the use of all these cowboys?
What's the good of these wild Red men?
What's to us this coach of Deadwood,
Or this railroad, the Switchback?

I should answer your conundrums

In the straitest tips as follow:

In the wilds of Kensingtonia,

In the land of Exhibitions,

Where the Fisheries, the Health'ries,

The Invent'ries, the Colindries

* Mr. Sturmey has recently written a Handbook of Bicycling.

+ in the American Exhibition held at Earl's Court in 1887, Colonel W. F. Cody, better known as Buffalo Bill, with a troupe of cowboys and Indians, gave daily performances entitled The Wild West.

Drew their thousands, drew the masses,
Drew the town for four past seasons,
Something new to-day is wanted,
Something to revive the glories

Of those sights and shows now played out;
Something fresh must be provided,
So the Lohndahner, the Cochneh,
The Prohvinshial, the Yohkehl
Still may find congenial pastime,
Still may revel through the summer
Nights, and puff the penny Piquewique;
Feast his eyes with coloured lanterns,
And his inner man with "cocktails,"
Soothe his soul with "corpse revivers,"
Steep himself in "maiden's blushes,'
List the strains of martial music,
Mash the merry maids of Bertram.
Hence these Yank'ries, these Cowboyries,
Hence these Westeries, these Wigwamries,
With the customs of the prairies,
With their buffaloes and mustangs,

With their skilful shooting maidens,
With the squaws and their papooses,
With the plundered coach of Deadwood,
And the toboggin and Switchback,
And the drinks of Yankee Doodle.

Judy. June 1, 1887.

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W. S. GILBERT'S SONGS.

A CRACKSMAN'S CAROL.

[A burglar, who was recently arrested, was proved to have a yacht of his own, on which he went sailing when not on burgling bent. Doubtless, in the fulness of time, the noble army of cracksmen will thus carol in a Gilbertian strain.]

AIR-Policemen's Chorus (" Pirates of Penzance.”) WHEN the window "prising" burglar's not a-burglingnot a-burgling,

He doesn't rush to some mere rural spot, And listen to the rivulet a-gurgling-'let a-gurgling, But skims along the ocean in his yacht. When his "lay" has been of "Ooftish most productive— most productive,

And he finds the land is getting rather "hot,"

Then he tries a pastime soothing and instructive-and instructive,

For he bounds across the billows in his yacht. When no "swag" is for the present to be got to be got, He loves to go and navigate his yacht-'gate his yacht.

When the cracksman rests awhile from his employment-his employment,

With his "jemmy" and his skeletonian key,

Then he feels as how he ought to seek enjoyment-seek enjoyment,

By inhaling of the breezes of the sea. When officious " slops " and

him-dare pursue him,

"'tecs" would dare pursue

And his whereabouts they're likely for to "spot,"

Then in search of recreation you may view him-yes, you'll

If I were not so deeply pledged to mingle with the Tories,
I should like once more to join in my former leader's glories;
For I'm very much afraid that I have got into a mire,
And lowered my position, sirs, instead of rising higher;
My brain is getting weaker, I was once considered clever,
I have voted for Coercion that's to linger on for ever;
To act like this I must have been as mad as any hatter,
But as I can't retrace my steps, it really doesn't matter!

Trev.-It really doesn't matter !

It really doesn't matter, matter, matter, matter, matter!

Pall Mall Gazette. August 15, 1887.

THE MODEL AMERICAN GIRL.

A PRACTICAL, plain young girl;
Not afraid-of-the-rain young girl;
A poetical posy,

A ruddy and rosy,
A helper-of-self young girl.

At home-in-her-place young girl;
A never-will-lace young girl;
A toiler serene,

A life pure and clean.
A princess-of-peace young girl.

A wear-her-own-hair young girl;
A free-from-a-stare young girl;
Improves every hour,

No sickly sunflower,
A wealth-of-rare-sense young girl;
Plenty-room-in-her-shoes young girl;
No indulger-in-blues young girl;

Not a bang on her brow,
To fraud not a bow,

She's a just-what-she-seems young girl.

Not a reader-of-trash young girl;
Not a cheap-jewelled-flash young girl;
Not a sipper of rum
Nor a chewer of gum,
A marvel-of-sense young girl.

An early-retiring young girl;
An active, aspiring young girl;
A morning ariser,
A dandy-despiser,

A progressive, American girl.

The new special pleaders, the writers of leaders,
Come down on my faults like a hammer,
To teach me the beauty of doing my duty,
Yet I falter, and struggle, and stammer.
Oh, Balfour and Goschen! you have not a notion,
What a terrible life I am leading;

For my faults blazoned get in the Pall Mall Gazette,
While they mock at my manners and breeding.
To give me a place was exceedingly nice,
But I fear I shall cost you a terrible price.

Each day when I rise, lo, another surprise
I feel will o'erwhelm me with wonder;

If I walk through the street, I am certain to meet
With placards denouncing some blunder;

The position I've got is uncomfort'bly hot,
For the public is getting so touchy,

Next time there's a race for the prize of a place

I shall try to jump into the Duchy ;

For to be in the Cabinet's awfully nice,
But the honour is rather too much for the price.

Pall Mall Gazette. September 13, 1887.

CUMBERLAND, KING!

The Mélange, published in Liverpool in 1834, contained a number of songs of "High Tory and No Popery "sentiments, such as "Up, Protestants, Up!" in which the Pope and the Devil were ranged side by side, and a parody entitled "Rouse, Britons! Arouse." Also the following verses to the tune of "God Save the King."

THY choicest curse in store, On George be pleased to pour, The traitor King!

He has abused the laws,
Slighted the Brunswick cause,
Then hail with loud applause,
Cumberland, King!

Oh, may the Duke of Wel-
Lington and Peel to Hell

Go hand in hand;

While Clarence and his crew, Popish O'Connell too,

Homage are forced to do

To Cumberland!

This was evidently written before the death of George IV. in 1830; he was succeeded by William, the Clarence alluded to in the song. King William was suspected of having Liberal leanings, and an Orange plot existed to displace him and put his brother Ernest, Duke of Cumberland, on the throne, thus entirely excluding the Princess Victoria from the succession. This plot was exposed by Joseph Hume; but it never had any chance of success, for the Duke of Cumberland, profligate, brutal, and overbearing, was thoroughly hated by the English people. On the death of William IV. Cumberland became King of Hanover, and this country was finally relieved of his presence, and his plots. In the time of the Georges the following additional verse was sometimes sung:

GOD save great George our King,
Long live our noble King,

God save the King.

Send us roast beef a store,

If it's gone send us more,
And the key of the cellar door,
That we may drink.

"CORN LAW RHYMES, and other Poems" by Ebenezer Elliott, London. B. Steill, 1844, contained parodies of "Robin Adair,' "Scots wha hae,' 29 "Rule Britannnia," &c., all relating to the scarcity of food, and the protective duties.

"SONGS OF THE PRESS, and other Poems," original and selected, by C. H. Timperley. London. Fisher, Son and Co 1845.-This amusing work contains a number of songs adapted to popular airs; they are very technical in their language, and only those already quoted can be styled Parodies.

"MOTLEY," by Cuthbert Bede, B. A., published in 1855 by James Blackwood, London, contained a number of imitations of the popular songs of the day. Most of them related to incidents in the Crimean War.

PROFESSOR BROWNE, of Fenchurch Street, London, hair-dresser and wig maker, has for more than twenty-five years issued small almanacs to his customers. These have contained a number of curious parodies relating to the Professor's business, and praising his skill and enterprise. In some cases the humour of these productions was very quaint and grotesque.

Numerous short parodies of popular songs are to be found in the theatrical burlesques and extravaganzas produced during the last fifty years. As a rule they consist of a few couplets only, and possess no interest apart from their context. Hundreds of these ephemeral jeux d'esprit have been produced, and the following are the names of the most prolific authors of dramatic burlesques :-Vincent Amcotts; Captain Arbuthnot; William and R. B. Brough; Leicester Buckingham; F. C. Burnand; H. J. Byron; Gilbert A. A'Beckett; C. Dance; Maurice G. Dowling W. S. Gilbert; H. Such Granville; A. Halliday; W. H. Oxberry; J. R. Planché; R. Reece; William Rogers; Francis Talfourd, and Charles Selby.

A more detailed account of dramatic burlesques will be given in a future volume.

Amongst collections of songs written for societies, such as the Freemasons, Druids, Anglers, Cricket and Football Clubs, Conservative, Liberal, and Radical Associations, many are to be found written to the airs of popular songs. As a rule these are not parodies.

There are numerous advertisement parodies of songs, some of considerable merit; the best of these have been quotedA

Some purely unintentional travesties of songs are really the most laughable and amusing, as, for instance, the absurd translations given in the English libretti of the Italian operas. Those who can appreciate comic songs should certainly also read Messrs. Augner's edition of Schubert's songs with English and German words. The song "Alinde commences thus in the English version: "The sun sinks down into the meer, forth hast she not ridden?" This is intended to be a translation of "Die Sonne sinkt in's tiefe meer, da wollte sie nicht kommen." What is a meer? In several other cases the German word meer (sea) is translated meer. As a second example take "The Fisher." "The water rushed, the water swelled, A fisher there bestow'd, With lazy angle, felt the hush, His heart with coolness load!" How could any man with his wits about him write such arrant nonsense? It certainly seems like an attempt to translate literally, but in the "Nachtstück " (night piece) an unpardonable deviation is made from the original. "Luna mit gewölken kämpft " we are told means 'Luna camped upon the clouds!" Last, but not least, in that exquisite little song "Der Tod und das Mädchen," which is unpoetically called "Death and the Girl," the German runs thus: "Vor über ach vor über, geh wilder knochenmann." Surely the translator struck the summit of absurdity in rendering it, "Pass onward, pass onward, wild man with skinless bone!" It is not a matter for surprise that we seldom hear any of Schubert's works, except perhaps "Ave Maria," in an English drawing-room, when the translations offered are hardly fit for nigger minstrels. There is much room for improvement in the poetry of our modern popular sentimental songs, whether intended for the stage, or the concert room. Yet ridiculous as these often are, they do not approach the nonsense, called translations from Italian, French, or German songs, where the effort required to render the sense in a metre suitable to the melody seems too much for any ordinary translator to to cope with.