O statue, us Philistines loathing, We are wise--and we make ourselves hazy, (Vile Discipline! lend me thy birch); He dreams of no life save the present, His virtue is but when it suits; Sometimes, which is not quite so pleasant, I miss coat or boots. The low light trembled on languid lashes, And brake his crowne, and Jille came tumblynge after. But paused a moment, to watch with wonder While the blood burns bright on our bruised brows, I have set you free, and I stand forgiven- From a scarce little pamphlet entitled "Poems and Parodies, by Two Undergrads." Oxford. B. H. Blackwell, 1880. Price one shilling. HOW JACK HARRIS BECAME ÆSTHETIC. COME down to me, cling to me, lay thy red lips on me, love, Let me drown in thy bountiful beauty, O glorious consecrate dove, Made fit for the vigil of Venus, made fair by the Cyprian dame, Made fair in the form of a maiden, a medley of music and flame; For the world grows giddy around us, and swoons, and the pale souls preach Poor fables of sorrow and virtue, and all that the grey gods teach, But we clasp and we bite and we madden, and I worship your throat and your hair. We have strayed in the cold sea places, we have laughed on the altar stair, We have eaten and drunken of love, and the lesson of living is this, That the high sky bends above us, and life is a curse and a kiss. Make me glad, O thou rare hand-maiden, with the sound of thy passionate sighs, While I sing of thy body's white beauty and live in the light of thine eyes, For save me there's no man living made worthy to utter thy praise, Who art come as new moon to our night-tide, new sun to our days. Jack Harris after his Conversion. From an article by Mr. Justin H. McCarthy, which appeared in Belgravia (London). March, 1880. -:0: THE LAY OF MACARONI. As a wave that steals when the winds are stormy Scattered and spread to its sunlit core: I bathe in thine beauty, by thee embayed. What is it ails me that I should sing of her? The queen of the flashes and flames that were ! The flower-sweet throat and the hands of her! I have hallowed mine hair to the horns of her altars, Blow of the trumpets thine children once blew for thee? Nay, as sweet as the songs of Leone Leoni, And gay as her garments of gem-sprinkled gold, She gives me mellifluous, mild macaroni, The choice of her children when cheeses are old! I wait in vain for the charm that encloses The green land of dreams in sleep's mystical chart, Erewhile in hope I had chosen my part, A BALLAD OF DREAMLAND. THE sorest stress of the Season's over; My face to the sky, and my back in the clover. Is a cheery change from St. Stephen's drone; And ah! that whiff from the wind-swept brine! With nought to do but absorb ozoneShould there be ballad more blythe than mine? Song of a haven-welcoming lover! Rare rose-scents from our garden blown Reach me here, and my eyes discover, Shimmering there, in a tangle thrown, Sunny locks. "She is coming, my own!" The green bowers sever, her blue eyes shine. Sweet love nearing, sore labour flown,Should there be ballad more blythe than mine? What to me though weariness hover Still o'er Town where the toilers groan? Lazy lounger, leisurely lover, What care I for the Members' moan At the Irish incubus, heavy as stone? For Biggar's bullying, Whalley's whine? Peace unchequered, and care unknown, Should there be ballad more blithe than mine? ENVOI. Eh! What! Drowsing? A dream? Ochone! Punch. August 11, 1877. :0: The following parody appeared in The Tomahawk (London) on the occasion of a visit paid by Ada Isaacs Menken to M. Alexandre Dumas, in Paris. "Miss Menken," who was really the wife of John C. Heenan the pugilist, will be best remembered for her appearance (in very scanty attire) as "Mazeppa," at Astley's Theatre. She had a fine stage appearance, but was a very indifferent actress. She published small volume of poems, entitled Infelicia, which is now eagerly sought after by collectors, because it contains an introduction written by Charles Dickens. TO ADA. So must the sinewy Centaur snort and rear, As some sweet maiden-mare trots wickedly Across his pagan path, burning his very heart; She spreads her cunning heels and whisks her tail; On my bed I rolled and rioted in frenzied fret, Why, the younger. For the topic-as 'tis tropic But there must be no single metre, please "O COOL in the summer is salad, My Muse has a marvellous wing, Take endive-like love it is bitter; BEARD. (Browning.) " WAITRESS, with eyes so marvellous black, And the blackest possible lustrous gay tress, This is the month of the Zodiac When I want a pretty deft-handed waitress. Bring a china-bowl, you merry young soul; Bring anything green, from worsted to celery; Bring pure olive-oil from Italy's soil Then your china-bowl we'll well array. When the time arrives chip choicest chives, And administer quietly chili and capsicum KING Arthur, growing very tired indeed But woke, and had a bath, and felt refreshed) : ་་ The first edition of The British Birds soon went out of print, and became very scarce. But in December, 1885, Mrs. Mortimer Collins wrote a letter to the editor of Parodies, which has now a melancholy interest :-"I believe copies of British Birds can still be had at Mr. Bentley's, as I brought out a second edition there some eight years ago. Yes, there are some parodies of Swinburne, Tennyson and Browning. But the best known bits of the book are not parodies, unless you call the whole book a parody of Aristophanes. "The Positivists' is the most famous piece in the book, containing the lines : "There was an APE in the days that were earlier ; "and Skymaking' is another oft quoted bit. I thought, perhaps, that you had written parodies on these; though it seemed unlikely, because satiric verse does not lend itself to parody. I am always interested in anything connected with my husband's works, because I truly believe in his genius. I may perhaps be somewhat partial in my judgment, for Mortimer was a more brilliant talker than writer. Day after day I enjoyed his wit, and I used to be so sorry there were not more to hear it: but he was quite content with his audience of one. 66 My husband has written many parodies. If you would like to quote them I can refer you to them." But this kind offer of assistance was not to be fulfilled, for Mrs. Collins complained at the end of the letter of her failing strength, and in less than three months she passed away. :0: A MATCH. (Matched.) IF I were Anglo-Saxon, And you were Japanese, We'd study storks together, Pluck out the peacock's feather If you were Della-Cruscan, If I were mock Pompeian, And you Belgravian Greek, We'd glide 'mid gaping Vandals In shapeless sheets and sandals, Like shades in Tartarean Dim ways remote and bleak; If I were mock Pompeian, And you Belgravian Greek. If you were Culture's scarecrow, If I'd a Botticelli, And you'd a new Burne-Jones, And you'd a new Burne-Jones. Of coarsest crass, at times; If you were skilled at crewels, And I, a dab at rhymes. If I were what's "consummate," And you were quite "too too,' 'Twould be our Eldorado To have a yellow dado, A teapot tinted blue; If I were what's "consummate," If you were what "intense " is, If you were wan, my lady, And I, your lover, weird, We'd sit and wink for hours At languid lily-flowers. |