And in blank terms the characters detailed their loves and woes;

And there the audience sat it out, or took a quiet doze, And roused themselves up vig'rously to see the dismal close

Of this fine old standard tragedy, all of the olden time.

When winter brought the theatres that open'd house to all, Although one score and ten its scenes, through each they yet would bawl:

Nor was the slightest interest e'er given to enthral, And, until five dull acts were o'er, the curtain would not fall.

On this fine old standard tragedy, all of the olden time.

But better taste must come at last, and such plays be put by,

And empty houses soon proclaimed this tragedy must die; They gave it up right grudgingly, and not without a sigh, And found they must at last look round for sterling novelty,

Instead of standard tragedies, all of the olden time.

And surely this is better far when managers are made To shelve these tragedies that have of interest not a shade;

And much more economical-for actors then are paidExchequers filled, and houses cramm'd, to see the dramas play'd,

In place of standard tragedies, all of the olden time.

From Motley, by Cuthbert Bede. London: James Blackwood, 1855. (This Parody had previously appeared in Albert Smith's Town and Country Miscellany.)

Then if outside for air you'd ride, the clambering to your seat Would, if performed at Astley's, be pronounced a "daring feat;" "All

For ere you're half-way up you hear them coolly cry right!"

And then the "knife-board " cramps you so, with pain you can alight

From this height of inconvenience, the subject of my rhyme.

And then the cad who tends the 'bus-his virtues who may tell?

How with his every breath there comes a fragrant beery smell:

How when he's bound for Brompton he'll engage to put you down

Within a "heasy walk" of any part of Camden Town,

By his fine old English Omnibus, one of the present time

Nor should our praises be withheld from him who holds the reins,

Who constantly is pulling up for furtive "little drains :"
And 'specially on muddy days is rarely found to fail
Of stopping in mid street to pick up passengers who hail

This fine old English Omnibus: fun of the present time. Now months have rolled since we were told this fine old 'bus must die,

That another and a cleanlier its place was to supply: Yet for that "good 'bus coming, boys," all vainly still we sigh,

And when we take our walks abroad that nuisance we espyThe fine old English Omnibus: blot on the present time. Punch. November 22, 1856.

THE FINE OLD ENGLISH OMNIBUS.

I'LL sing you a new song at once, before it is too late,
Of a fine old public vehicle, grown sadly out of date,
Which, though a perfect nuisance in more ways than I can
state,

Is suffered in our thoroughfares still to perambulate.

A fine old English Omnibus, one of the present time.

Its windows old let in the cold whene'er the east wind blows, And drip by drip the wet admit, whene'er it rains or snows; But how to get them open without breaking no one knows, When with 12 inside" the atmosphere a little "stuffy" grows,

In this fine old fusty Omnibus, one of the present time.

Its cushions, when inspected in the light of other days,
With the richest (cotton) velvet of a crimson hue did blaze;
But now their threadbare covering's a dingy brickdust red,
And what was horsehair stuffing once now feels like lumps
of lead,

In this rare old English Omnibus one that is past its
prime.

Its seats so close together bring the sitters nose to nose,
And everybody's forced to tread on everybody's toes,
Whence cheerful conversation springs, especially from those
Who've corns or gout, and glare about as though you're
mortal foes,

In this nice old City Omnibus, just to beguile the time.

THE FINE OLD BRITISH SUBALTERN.

I'LL sing you a right good song, made by an honest pate, Of a fine old British Subaltern, whose pay was his estate, And who grumbled at the service at a beautiful rate, Because for his promotion he was made so long to wait, This fine old British Subaltern, born in the olden time.

His room, so small, was hung around with many a inap and plan,

Of sieges, storms, and battles, he had fought both boy and man,

And every regulation sword worn since the world began,
And dresses of the nations of Bengal and Astracan.
This fine old, &c.

His room was open to a few each night when mess was

o'er.

To those who'd laugh at his old jokes he'd never close his door,

And none of his old favourites e'er voted him a bore, But kindly laughed at tales they'd heard a thousand times before,

From this fine old, &c,

And every year to town he went to state his wretched

case,

And to Lord Fitzroy's lévee never failed to show his face; And though he gets some promises, and time wears on арасе,

Still, still his name's reposing in it's old accustomed place, This fine old, &c.

His head so old on shoulders young with knowledge overflows,

Acquaintance with all sciences and arts its stores disclose, All books and in all languages by heart almost he knows, And he's able to write legibly, and what is more, compose: Like a wise young English Officer, the reason of my rhyme.

Italian, French, and Spanish, and Dutch, high or low, he'll speak,

Count Troy-weight like a Trojan, tell the time of day in
Greek;

And if to serve in India he be a chosen man, he
Will astonish all the natives in the choicest Hindostanee;
Like a polyglot young officer, fit for the future

time.

A FYTTE OF THE BLUES.

OF woman's rights and woman's wrongs we've heard much talk of late,

The first seem most extensive, and the latter very great;
And Mrs. Ellis warns men, not themselves to agitate,
For 'neath petticoats and pinafores is hid the future fate
Of this wondrous nineteenth century, the youngest child
of Time!

The Turks they had a notion, fit alone for Turks and fools,
That womankind has no more mind than horses or than mules;
But this idea's exploded quite, as to your cost you'll find,
If you intend to change or bend some stalwart female mind,
In this Amazonian century, precocious child of Time.
If by external signs you seek this strength of mind to trace,
You'll observe a very powerful" expression in her face;
The lady's stockings will be blue, and inky be her hand,
And her head quite full of something hard she doesn't
understand,

Like a puzzle-pated Bluestocking, one of the modern time. And her dress will be peculiar both in fabric and in make, An artistic classic tragic highly-talented mistake; Which is what she calls "effective," though I'd rather not express

The effect produced on thoughtless minds by such a style of dress,

When worn by some awful Bluestocking, one of the
modern time.

She'll talk about statistics, and ask if you're inclined
To join the progress movement for development of mind.
If you enquire what that means, she'll frown and say 'tis best
Such matter should be understood, but never be express'd,
By a stern suggestive Bluestocking in this mystic modern
time.

She'll converse upon æsthetics, and then refer to figures,
And turn from angels bright and fair to sympathise with
niggers,

Whom she'll style "our sable brethren," and pretend are martyrs quite ;

And with Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe, she'll swear that black is white,

Like a trans-Atlantic Bluestocking, one of the modern time.

She never makes a pudding, and she never makes a shirt, And if she's got some little ones, they're black and blue with dirt;

When the wretched man her husband comes, though tired he
may be,
Shell regenerate society instead of making tea,
Like a real strong-minded Bluestocking,
The plague of the modern time.

THE FINE OLD ENGLISH GENTLEMAN OF THE
PRESENT TIME.

I'LL sing you a fine old song, improved by a modern pate,
Of a fine Old English Gentleman, who owns a large estate,
But pays the labourers on it at a very shabby rate.
Some seven shillings each a week for early work and late,

Gives this fine Old English Gentleman, one of the
present time.

His hall so brave is hung around with pictures, all in rows, Of oxen that have gained the prize at agricultural shows, And pigs so fat that they can't see an inch before their nose; For the whole of his attention on his cattle he bestows,

Like a fine Old English Gentleman, one of the present time.

In winter's cold, when poor and old, for some assistance call,

And come to beg a trifle at the portals of his hall,

He refers them to the workhouse, that stands open wide for all;

For this is how the parish great relieve the parish small, Like this fine Old English Gentleman, one of the present time.

When any of his working men are bold enough to press For a trifle more of wages in a season of distress, He answers like a thorough-going man of business :"Must I pay this or that for work which I could get for less?

Says the fine Old English Gentleman, one of the present time.

But rolling years will onwards flow, and Time, alas! will fly,

And one of these fine days this fine Old Gentleman will die! Ah! will he then bethink him as he heaves life's last sigh, That he has done to others quite as he would be done by?

As the true Old Englishman did all in the olden time.

ANONYMOUS.

THE FINE YOUNG LONDON GENTLEMAN.

I'LL sing you a fine new song all about a fine young spark,
Who's a fine Young London Gentleman quite up to any lark;
Who takes supper very early, and breakfasts in the dark;
Who's a real "dear old chappie," as I needn't p'raps
remark,

Of a fine Young London Gentleman,
Quite of the present style.

He'll bet in "monkeys," "ponies," though he has seldom ready cash;

"such a

If his Tailor isn't paid, yet he has rings and pins to flash ;
At his fav'rite burlesque theatre he's known as
Mash,"
When to a fifth-rate Actress he bouquets down will dash,
Like a fine Young London Gentleman,
Quite of the present style.

He round the corner hurries when the sparkling piece is o'er,
To see his favourite Beauties coming out by the stage-door;
He will jostle with his fellows to obtain a smile-nay, more,
To simply stare at her he's seen some hundred times before,
Like a fine Young London Gentleman,
Quite of the present style.

IIe will hie him off to Hurlingham to join the dove battue; He will "plank his pieces" down to join in battle with the Jew;

or

As he quaffs his Pommery "extra sec," his "Giesler;"
"Irroy,"
Like a fine Young London Gentleman,
Quite of the present style.

On a Racecourse he imagines that he knows what he is at, He talks so scornfully of "mugs," and says he knows a "flat;"

So wisely speaks of "roping," and he always "smells a rat,"

But it very often happers that he's put "into a hat,"
Is this fine Young London Gentleman,
Quite of the present style.

But there comes a time when barmaids and when theatres are no go,

When the "Boy" is voted nasty, and burlesques considered slow,

When ev'rything too stale is, and when life has lost its flow,

And the spirits once so high become dull, sluggish, bad, and low,

Of the fine Young London Gentleman,
Quite of the present style.

Then he recognises sadly there are others come, like he, To make merry with the "fizz," and likewise quaff the "S. and B.'

He is growing old and weary, having just turned twentythree,

Existence is so tedious, all "life" a vast ennui
To the fine young London gentlemar,
Quite of the present style,

Punch. February 11, 1882.

A FINE OLD ENGLISH GENERAL,

I'LL sing you a good old song,
That was made by a good old pate,
Of a fine old English General,
Of a very modern date,
Who helped to keep his country
In a fit defensive state,
And every quarter drew his pay
At a bountiful old rate-
Like a fine old English General,
One of the modern time!
How Horatio kept the bridge
In the good old times you've read ;
But this fine old English General
He kept, as a rule, his bed;

For he suffered from obeseness.

And had swimming in his head; Whilst the gout, like an active foeman, About his body fled

This fine old English General, &c.

But like a brave old warrior,
Prepared to do and dare,
This fine old English General,
Kept ready his Bath-chair;
That if the foe should threaten,
He to the front might fare,
And with limbs swathed in flannel,
The victory he might share-

This brave old English General, &c.

He'd never been in actual fight,

But had in fun fought hard;

And right through many a desperate night
At the Bank had he kept guard;
Whilst many a day had he "relieved"
In St. James's Palace Yard;
And once on duty in the streets
Was wounded by a shard-

This brave old English General, &c.

But though in no campaign he's been,
Of medals he's a score;

And every year that he can live

His honours will be more;

And should he reach four score and ten
Still higher he will soar;
For he will be Field-Marshal then,
Before his life is o'er-

This fine old English General, &c.

Nor let the country mourn that she
But one such General owns ;

She has a hundred at the least,

That scarce can move their bones;

A hundred gouty sons of Mars,
Who, gulping down their groans,
May from their beds command their troops
Through patent Telephones-

From Finis.

These fine old English Generals. &c.

THE FINE OLD ATOм-MOLECULE.

(To be sung at all gatherings of advanced Sciolists and
"Scientists").

WE'LL sing you a grand new song, evolved from a 'cute young pate,

Of a fine old Atom-Molecule of pre-historic date,
In size infinitesimal in potencies though great,

And self-formed for developing at a prodigious rate-
Like a fine old Atom-Molecule,

Of the young World's proto-prime !

In it slept all the forces in our cosmos that run rife,
To stir Creation's giants or its microscopic life;
Harmonious in discord, and coöperant in strife,

To this small cell committed, the World lived with his Wife-
In this fine old Atom-Molecule,

Of the young World's proto-prime!

In this autoplastic archetype of Protean protem lay

All the humans Space has room for, or for whom Time makes a day,

From the Sage whose words of wisdom Prince or Parliament obey,

To the Parrots who but prattle, and the asses who but braySo full was this Atom-Molecule,

Of the young World's proto-prime !

All brute-life, from Lamb to Lion, from the Serpent to the Dove,

ON SIR STAFFORD NORTHCOTE.

YES, I'll sing you a good old song that, alas, seems out of date,

Of a fine old English statesman who for long had served the State,

And a sterling reputation had been able to create

For his courtesy and honour and strict fairness ir debate,
Like a fine Old English Gentleman,
One of the good old kind.

He never stooped to treachery, nor can he comprehend,
How politicians can to tricks and throwing mud descend.
Nor will he principle forsake nor sacrifice a friend,
Though he is ready to the last his party to defend,
Like a fine Old English Statesman,
One of the good old times!

Truth Christmas Number, 1885.

THE GRAND OLD MAN.

I'LL sing to you a brave new song, about the Grand Old Man,

Whose tongue and pen are ever found to forward freedom's plan,

Who in the march of liberty has always led the van,

And ever stretched his strong right hand to help his fellow

man.

This brave, true-hearted, Grand Old Man, Who stands up for the right.

This Grand Old Man wears on his brow no coronet of gold, He does not claim a long descent from titled rogues of old, He owns no broad domains for which he hath his country sold,

But looks the whole world in the face, for honour makes him bold

This brave, true-hearted, Grand Old Man,
Plain Gladstone is his name.

In times gone by this Grand Old Man the cause of Free Trade led,

With Bright and Cobden he has helped to give the poor man bread,

And in dark homes of poverty, the light of plenty shed,
And little children bless his name, for he their lips hath
fed-

This brave, true-hearted, Grand Old Man,
Who pleads the people's cause.

The page of knowledge to the poor had never been unrolled, And poor men's papers all were taxed to spare the rich man's gold,

But the Grand Old Man removed the ban with purpose brave and bold,

And now we've schools-and papers too-and what we have we'll hold

Thanks to the brave and Grand Old Man,
Who is he poor man's friend.

The Grand Old Man with tongue of fire St. Stephen's echoes woke,

And wrong and cruelty stood ashamed whenever Gladstone spoke,

And as his strong and brave right hand could fell the noble oak,

So cowards and tyrants toppled down beneath the sturdy
stroke
Of this brave, true-hearted Grand Old Man,
Who fights in Freedom's cause.

With vision clear the Grand Old Man looked on Fair Erin's
Isle,

And saw the land lie desolate for many a barren mile;

He vowed he would our Sister save from force and fraud and guile,

And Ireland's hills and fertile vales should wear their ancient smile

So said the brave and Grand Old Man,
Who is Green Ireland's friend.

Then weeping Ireland dried her tears, and took him at his word,

She knew his cry of JUSTICE ! is far mightier than the sword;

His plan it shall not fade and shrink like Prophet Jonah's gourd,

But triumph still till Briton's sons are all of one accord With the bold and faithful Grand Old Man, Who'll triumph in the end.

Then Britons rally round his flag and aid him in the fight, Though foes and traitors show their teeth he does not fear their bite,

For tyrant lords must hide their heads before the people's might:

Then vote for the good old Liberal cause, for Justice and the right,

And for that brave and Grand Old Man
Who pleads in Ireland's name.

J. F. B.

Published by the National Liberal Printing and Publishing Association, Limited. 1886.

AN OXFORD PARODY.

I'LL sing you a sporting song, for you all love well the chase, Of a gallant pack, and huntsman too, who go the fastest pace, He rides right bravely to his hounds, whatever be his steed

Aud now the pace doth tell a tale: press on, ye happy few; 'Tis forty minutes racing speed-we run him now in view; His tongue hangs out, his brush lies low, whoop! he's down, indeed!

Dismount, ye joyous ones, dismount! and light the soothing weed,

Ye first-rate English fox-hunters,
Men of the present time.

Thus, thus this gallant huntsman keeps up the merry game;
His head, his heart, his hand, my boys, for ever are the same
And a parting toast I'll give you, with a ringing three times
three,

May Jim long hunt "the Heythrop " and we be there to see This first-rate English fox-hunter,

One of the present time.

From Hints to Freshmen in the University of Oxford.

Oxford. J. Vincent. No date.

A contiguous pack; but very inferior.

Jack Goddard, the first whip; and the first of whips.

The name which Jim bestowed on the "little pack," because they could fly and work all day.