Our reading is all moonshine-the wind is not more free: The champagne is all sparkling; we quaff it day and night, Like creatures in whose sunny throats a thirsty flame burns bright. All Oxford knows our triumph: fast birds around us sweep; Strange "duns" come up to look at us, their masters though so deep; In our wake, like any serpent, doth the night policeman go, And at the toll-bar tarrieth the proctor with his pro. Proud, proud must be each Brasenose man, at least so I should say, Of all those grooms and flunkies who promptly him obey, Who've ta'en his horse to covert, who've cleaned, with labour sore, The snowy "tops" which he shall have when chapel-time is o'er. Who would not be a Brasenose man to order with a word, Each morn I'll make thee carry me Lord Redesdale's hounds to see. Each term our pace grew faster, and faster still it grew, Yet talked we to our tradespeople, and gull them not a few; And we looked into our bankers, but nothing could we see, And at last there came the fearful time for what we call "degree. We read 'twas but an instant! for speedily the pride This gave boldness to th' examiners, as, sitting in a row, That night a horrid proctor fell on us where we lay, And we knew some fine policemen were carrying us away; And we heard the wash of waters-hard by the gutter weAnd a whistle from a friend of ours who knew how it would be. Till dawn they watched the body in its most unpleasant sleep, And the two next Terms, at morning, they refused to let us keep; And ever from that moment did one shudder for to see, From Hints to Freshmen. Oxford: J. Vincent. (An amusing little pamphlet, which has been ascribed to the Rev. Canon Hole.) THE RETURN TO TYROL. I. How merrily, how jollily we haste along the steep, Though mist is all around us, and snow is lying deep; Brasen Nose College, Oxford. All nature holds a washing-day, with froth, and slop, and steam, The wintry sun will scarcely deign vouchsafe one vagrant beam; So when we reach Landek and stop, well may the He sees the Nirgend's Wanderer come very soppy in: Oh! wet must be the Wanderer, for it has rained to-day, He wrinkles up his forehead like an ancient Chimpanzee's, And babbles of the "puff-puff," and prattles of " geegees: " He guggles and he struggles, and he will not stand nor sit, I am not very captious, and I wish not to complain- I wish to feign the friendly, but I earnestly reflect- He knows that I am longing to make faces on the sly, O bold Directors, build a car to take such household pets! To soothe the savage bosoms of these little girls and boys. Let roasted mutton deck the board, and milky rice also! (After "The Sea! The Sea!") THE NEWS! the News! the motley News! 'Tis here, 'tis there, 'tis everywhere, At market, statute, wake and fair, And tells to all the country round, Where rogues and knaves may soon be found. I love, oh, how I love the News! To loll at ease from morn till night, I never see the motley News, But love the more its new-born dews; That come to his hand from wits and blues, The devil was black, 'twas early morn, And the press men sweat, when the News was born; A proof had been in the editor's gripe, And there wasn't a single misplaced type. The forme was so well lock'd up with quoin, I love, I love, the motley page, And if I live to well-fed age, And e'er-so-often change my views, What matter? I'll always love the News! From "Songs of the Press, and other Poems relative to the art of Printing, original and selected." Compiled by C. H. Timperley, and published by Fisher, Son & Co., London, 1845. THE PRESS. THE Press! the Press! the glorious Press ! Without a mark, without a bound, It searcheth the earth's wide regions round. I'm on the Press! I'm on the Press ! With the ink above, and the paper below, If the Os should storm, and threaten my fall, It loves, oh! how it loves to ride I never reported for one short hour, For the Press was born to be useful and free! The world was changed, and the Pope looked round, It has stood since then with great strength and weight, OLD SONGS AND BALLADS. THE MIDDLESEX ELECTION. (A Ballad to the tune of Chevy Chase.) GOD prosper long our noble king, And eke his subjects too; And grant such deeds as now I sing * Overseers. In seventeen hundred sixty-eight, All on a summer's day, Grim death did on our member wait, And took him clean away. O, then a writ was issued out, To chuse a member in ; And soon began a mighty rout For Procter and for Glynn. When as the day advanced nigh, Each party did its best; And Horne (who scorns to tell a lye) Some worthy wights, the Lord knows who, True men, I'll pawn my word. Such crowds to Brentford town' did hie, While thousands knew not where to lie, At length the fatal morning came, For many a wight crawled home quite lame, Soon as the rising sun had clear'd All on the hustings they appear'd- With ribbon and with star bespread, The serjeant held his head upright, For conscious still was he, That those who do the deed that's right, Mr. O'Murphy too was there, Hight counsellor at law His business was to strut and stare, Count Gambler look'd as who should say, "I'll bet ye six to one "That Beauchamp Proctor gets the day:" "I'll take it, damme."-" Done." Whilst bustling still from place to place, And still to heighten all they could Close by the hustings numbers stood, The clock told two, up flew the hat, And soon the freeholders lay flat As ever lay a flounder. Then eyes and sculls, and arms and legs, And many a ribbon flew about, What they did more, let other bards In other guise declare ; For, truth to say, they play'd their cards, Now God preserve our noble king, THE LITCHField Defeat. A woful horse-race late there did Great Bedford's duke, a mighty prince! His pleasure in fair Staffordshire At once to grace his father's race, But ah! (with grief my Muse does speak) A luckless time he chose. For some rude clowns, who long had felt The whole of this parody will be found in volume iv. of The New Foundling Hospital for Wit. London, 1786. Another parody of Chevy Chase occurs in the same volume, it is very long, and relates to some persons and political events of interest in 1776, but long since forgotten. : 0: VERSES BY SIR WALTER RALEIGH. Go soul, the body's guest, Upon a thankless errant, Fear not to touch the best, The truth shall be thy warrant. Go, since I needs must dye, And give them all the lye. Go, tell the court it glowse Tell potentates they live Acting, but oh! their actions, Not lov'd unless they give! Not strong, but by their factions. If potentates replye, Give potentates the lye. A PARODY WRITTEN IN 1764. Go, truth, unwelcome guest ! For truth is a safe warrant. Go, tell the Tory faction, Now in their noontide hour, England won't bear an action Of an arbitrary power. If Tories should reply, Give Tories all the lye. Go, tell th' ennobled thief, While cares oppress him most, He ne'er shall taste relief From guilt-from Ayliffe's ghost. And if the thief reply, Then give the thief the lye. The original and the parody are both given at full length in volume iv. of The New Foundling Hospital for Wit. London, 1786. -:0: BEN JONSON'S "ODE ON THE STAGE." Ben Jonson was very unfortunate in not conciliating the affections of his brother writers. He possessed a great share of arrogance, and was desirous of ruling the realms of Parnassus with a despotic sceptre. That he was not always successful in his theatrical compositions is evident from his abusing, on the title pages of his plays, both the actors and the public. I have collected the following three satirical odes, written when the unfavorable reception of his "New Inn, or The Light Heart," warmly exasperated the poet. He printed the title in the following manner: "New Inn, or The Light Heart; a Comedy never acted, but most negligently played by some, the King's servants; and more squeamishly beheld and censured by others, the King's subjects, 1629. Now at last set at liberty to the readers, his Majesty's servants and subjects, to be ju 'ged, 1631." At the end of this play he published the following Ode, in which he threatens to quit the stage for ever; and turn at once a Horace, an Anacreon, and a Pindar. "The just indignation the author took at the vulgar censure of his play, begat this following Ode to himself: COME, leave the loathed stage, And the more loathsome age; Where pride and impudence (in fashion knit,) Inditing and arraigning every day Something they call a play. Commission of braine Run on, and rage, sweat, censure, and condemn ; They were not made for thee,-less thou for them. Say that thou pour'st them wheat, And they will acorns eat; 'Twere simple fury, still, thyself to waste To offer them a surfeit of pure bread, No, give them graines their fill, No doubt some mouldy tale Like Pericles*, and stale As the shrieve's crusts, and nasty as his fish- Thrown forth, and rak't into the common-tub, As the best order'd meale, For who the relish of these guests will fit, And much good do't you then, Brave plush and velvet men Can feed on orts, and safe in your stage clothes, Dare quit, upon your oathes, The stagers, and the stage-wrights too (your peers), Of larding your large ears With their foul comic socks, Wrought upon twenty blocks : Which if they're torn, and turn'd, and patch'd enough, The gamesters share your guilt and you their stuff. Leave things so prostitute, And take the Alcæick lute, Or thine own Horace, or Anacreon's lyre; And, tho' thy nerves be shrunk, and blood be cold, As curious fools, and envious of thy strain, But when they hear thee sing His zeal to God, and his just awe o'er men, Feel such a flesh-quake to possess their powers, In tuning forth the acts of his sweet reign, This Magisterial Ode, as Langbaine calls it, was answered by Owen Feltham, author of the "Resolves." His character of Ben Jonson should be attended to : Leave then this humour vain, Where self-conceit, and choler of the blood, Then, if you please those raptures high to touch, And but forbear your crown Till the world puts it on: No doubt, from all you may amazement draw, To console Ben for this reprimand, Randolph, one of the adopted poetical sons of Jonson, addressed him as follows: AN ANSWER TO MR. BEN JONSON'S ODE, TO PERSUADE HIM NOT TO LEAVE THE STAGE. I. BEN, do not leave the stage Cause 'tis a loathsome age; For pride and impudence will grow too bold, They frighted thee; Stand high, as is thy cause; * The names of several of Jonson's Dramatis Personæ, New Inn, Act iii. Scene 2.-Act iv. Scene 4. This break was purposely designed by the poet, to expose that equally singular one in Ben's third stanza. |