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Parodies of

TO THE

CTING on the suggestion of numerous friends and subscribers I have determined to devote the Fourth Volume of my Collection to Parodies of Popular Songs and Ballads, which are probably the most amusing and witty of all Parodies.

The Songs of Sheridan, Henry Carey, Dibdin, Thomas Haynes Bayly, Samuel Lover, Eliza Cook, Charles Mackay, Henry Russell, the Hon. Mrs. Norton, Lady Dufferin, Barry Cornwall, and W. S. Gilbert, have been frequently parodied, as well as separate songs, written by the minor poets, such as Rule Britannia; The Roast Beef of Old England; The Bay of Biscay; The British Grenadiers; The Vicar of Bray; The Fine Old English Gentleman; Home, Sweet Home; The Mistletoe Bough; The Ivy Green; In the Gloaming; My Queen; The Message; The Lost Chord; Some Day; Far, far away, etc.

Parodies of many of the best songs written by the earlier poets, such as Sir John Suckling, Sir Charles Sedley, Ben Jonson, Herrick, George Wither, Edmund Waller, and Richard Lovelace, will also be included.

In the previous volumes the songs of Shakespeare, Burns, Campbell, Sir Walter Scott, Byron, Moore, and Alfred Tennyson have already been dealt with in connection with their other poetical works.

Following this Volume of Songs, there will be another containing parodies of the poems of Thomas Gray, William Wordsworth, S. T. Coleridge, William Cowper, Lord Dante Robert Browning, G. Rossetti, Macaulay, A. C. Swinburne, and of some of the minor English and American Poets, Nursery Rhymes, etc.

Another Volume will contain selections from the most of the principal prose writers, amusing Parodies Sterne, Dean Swift, Dr. Johnson, Walter Scott, Charles Dickens, W. M. Thackeray, Lord Macaulay, Thomas Carlyle, Captain Marryat, Benjamin Disraeli, John Ruskin, G. P. R. James, Ouida, and Miss Braddon.

and Imitations.

The last Volume will give full details, historical, bibliographical, and anecdotal, of all the principal works in the English language consisting of, or containing, Parodies A list of all the most important Theatrical Burlesques will be included, with Authors' names, the names of the principal actors and actresses, the date and place of first performance, and much other information useful to the dramatic critic or collector.

It will thus be seen that the scheme of the Work embraces a complete Collection and History of every kind of Parody and Burlesque, British and American, in a form admitting of easy reference, and particularly suitable for Public Entertainments, Readings, and Comic Recitations. The plan of the Collection is such that any one knowing the name of the author of any particular work, either in verse or in prose, or the title of the work itself, will be at once enabled to find all the best parodies or imitations of it, together with an enumeration of such others as are either too long to reprint, or not sufficiently interesting,

A work devoted to the history of English Parody is not

so frivolous as it may appear at first sight. Thackeray wrote many parodies, so did Dickens, Sheridan, Fielding, and Dryden, yet, strange to say, no attempt has yet been made to classify and collect them. A few short occasional articles have appeared in the magazines, but these are of little value for purposes of reference.

It will be seen that the object of a Parody is very seldom to ridicule its original, more often, on the contrary, it does it honour, if only by taking it as worthy of imitation, or burlesque. Poets are parodied in proportion to their popularity, as was pointed out in an interesting article which appeared in The Daily News (London), October 16th, 1886, from which I venture to quote the following paragraphs:

"Why should there be no parodies? The world has come to a pretty pass of virtue if we are to denounce them as a debasing of the moral currency.' Parody has two values. It is an admirably effective form of criticism; and it is often a harmless and legitimate source of amusement. Parody is valuable as criticism, because it is a placing in a bright light of the faults (exaggerated) of a work of art. Clearly some forms of art defy this mode of treatment. No fun could be got out of a parody of 'Adam Bede.' No legitimate fun can be got out of an honest parody of 'Hamlet.' Any fun that is got must be lugged in from without, in the shape of comic songs and music, and antics in general. But a great deal of mirth may be got out of a parody of the Corsican Brothers, especially when the To ridicule mannerisms of the actors are well hit off. mannerisms by slightly exaggerating them is one of the chief functions of parody. Probably any artist might learn more from a good, and not ill-natured, parody of himself than from any other form of criticism. Parody is sometimes so amusing that even the victims must laugh, and it is always more or less of a compliment. Nobody parodies an actor, or a novel, or a poem, or a picture that has not artistic qualities and a considerable share of

success.

"As to literary parody, that seldom gives offence. The vast flock of ravens which follow Edgar Poe's are the bird's courtiers, not his enemies. No man can parody with any effect, a poem which has not striking and original features. "Excelsior' and the Psalm of Life are examples: each of them has scores of parodies. Miss Fanshawe's parody of Wordsworth is an astonishing example of skill in catching a measure only marked by a strained effort at simplicity. Perhaps this is the very best parody in the English language; better even than any in the 'Rejected Addresses.' There, too, the Wordsworth, Scott, and Byron are admirable, and Scott was justly pleased with the success of his imitator. Whether William Wordsworth was pleased is But authors are not so touchy as actors, not so certain.

as the ancients knew, or they would not have feigned that Homer was his own parodist in the Battle of the Frogs and Mice.' Greek parody probably reached its height in Aristophanes, but there is not much fun in jokes that we have to elucidate with a dictionary and German notes. Poets are parodied in proportion to their popularity; if a

bard wishes to know his exact standing in popular repute, let him ask himself 'Am I parodied, and how much?' Lord Tennyson is parodied far and wide, but who ever tries to parody Shelley? Mr. Swinburne's 'Dolores' is the parent of an innumerable flock of parodies. Yes; she is mother of parodies painful, by many a wandering pen; but she frowns on them, dark and disdainful, the mirth and the mockings of men! They alliterate boldly and blindly, but none to her music attain; and she turns from them, cold and unkindly, Our Lady of Pain. Mr. Browning also has been well beparodied, and a shot or two has been taken at Mr. William Morris; but the other contemporary poets have missed the crown, thorny yet desirable, of Parody.

I HAD a message to send her,

To her whom my soul loves best, For I had my task to finish,

And she had gone home to the west, To our pretty suburban villa,

At least five miles from here, And my dear affectionate darling Will be very anxious, I fear.

I wrote a letter to send her,

So tender, and loving, and sweet,

I longed for a seraph to bear it,
And lay it down at her feet.

I gave it the clerk in the morning,
And the post was only next door,

But the stupid, forgetful fellow
Didn't post it till half-past four.

THE MESSAGE.
(Of the Future.)

I HAD a message to send her,

To her whom my soul loves best, But I had some letters to finish,

And it couldn't go out with the rest

With the rest to the first post-office,
Oh, so far away from here;

It was vain to call back the porter,
He was deaf and could not hear.

I had a message to send her :
Some friends I intended to treat,
And I longed for a hansom to bear it,
But there wasn't a cab in the street.

I placed it (that summer noontide)
In the pocket which lay on my breast,
But when I went out for my luncheon
I had on a different vest.

I gave it a boy, with a copper,
And he twirl'd it o'er and o'er,
But his fingers were faint and weary
And it fluttered to earth once more.

And I cried, midst my passionate swearing,
"Have I got no bosom friend
Who will kindly deliver the message,
That I am so anxious to send?"

Then I heard a strain of music,

And I wondered all cats weren't dead, But I found 'twas the wind that was passing Through the telephone wires overhead.

It rose in harmonious rushings

Like a fiddle-bow over the strings,
And I thought I would send my message,
By one of those new-fangled things.

And I heard it float farther and farther,
In sound it resembled my speech,
Farther than I could travel,

Farther than eye could reach.

And I knew that at last my message
Had been telephoned down to my wife,
And my mind was no longer uneasy
For I knew she'd expect us at five.
October 19, 1878.

Funny Folks.

I HAD a message to give her,
But she too early had fled;

I thought of it since we parted,
And she had gone home to bed

To rest in the highest attic,

Far up near the starry sky :
And she never could hear me callng-
Her window was much too high.

I had a message to give her

(A line which I here repeat),

But I thought it would not be proper

To shout it from out the street ;
So I tried to attract attention
By flinging aloft a stone,
But I only broke a window,

And left her-in haste-alone.

I gave it to "milk" next morning,
And I watched if she took it in,
But 'twas somebody else who did it
(I'd to stand the "milk" some gin).
And I cried in my passionate longing,
"Oh! is there no other way
I can get to my love the message,
And say what I have to say?"

Then I heard a sweet voice singing

Up high in the morning air;
She was cleaning the first-floor windows,
And I beckoned her down the stair.
And she came to the front door quickly—
For her mistress was not yet up-
And she said I must come that ev'ning
(For the cook was going out) to sup.

So I hastened home to my breakfast
(I had coffee and salted fish),
And went to my work as happy
As lover who's got his wish;
For I knew I should give my message-
And I felt it was not too late

I should meet her that night at supper,
So I was content to wait.

Fun. October 17, 1883.

:0:

"OH! DON'T YOU REMEMBER SWEET ALICE?"

[According to England, some of the Radicals were very annoyed that Mr. Gladstone should have written a letter of congratulation to Prince Albert Victor Edward on the attainment of his majority.]

OH! don't you remember Sweet William, Ben Bolt,
Sweet William wot chops treeses down?

How you wept with delight wen you gave him your wote
And said he'd soon down with the Crown.
Like an old churchyard of no walley, Ben Bolt,

Or a hactor hobscure and halone,

He have positive shown in a letter so gay
That he still have regard for the Throne.

Oh! don't you remember Sweet William, Ben Bolt?
His tongue it would never keep still;

And its sweet-flavoured clack had a fatherly smack
To the click of the Radical mill.

Them wentursome words wos but words, Ben Bolt
And I looks for their mearing around;
For them lines to a Prince, they only ewince
That he's artful and werry profound!

Oh! don't you remember the school, Ben Bolt,
With its master, the Brummagem screw?

It fled in the golden sunlight
Like the devil away from psalms,
And swiftly, though long-leg fielded,
It slipped like an eel through his palms.
It quieted chaff and chatter

Like loves overcoming dears,
And raised a harmonious echo
Of loud, discordant cheers.

It left the perplexéd fieldmen,
Simple as perfect geese,
And rolled away in the distance
As if it were loth to cease.

I have sought and still seek vainly

Of the lost ball a sign,

That came from the shoulder of Morley

And travelled away from mine.

It may be some man from the gas-works
Will find it on his domain ;

It may be that only next season

I shall strike at that ball again.

Written by the late Doctor G. F. Grace, the celebrated Cricketer.

THE LOST CORD.

(Words by an Organ-grinder. Music by Sir Arthur Sullivan.)

Andante Moderato.

SEATED one day on the organ

Was my monkey, but ill at ease,
For his fingers wandered idly,
Searching for-what you please.
I know not what I was playing,
Or what I was dreaming, quite,
But I dropped his cord and, quickly,
With a bound he was out of sight!
With a bound he was out of sight!

Then forth he came through a skylight,

With some clothes on his outstretched arm; And the way that he sought to wear them Had a touch of infinite charm. While riot and shrieks of sorrow Above, from a plundered wife,