RANDY RANDOLPH CHURCHILL O! A new version of an old Scotch favourite, suggested by recent events, and dedicated to the Standard. KICK him now the bold outlaw, Show no mercy Tories a', Randy Randolph Churchill O! Long old Sal. has doom'd his fa', Randy Randolph Churchill O! We will e'er staunch Tories be Randy Randolph Churchill O! We're but glad he did resign, Pall Mall Gazette. 1886. To tak' a kiss or grant ye ane; It's no through hatred o' a kiss I'm sure wi' you I've been as free Sic freedom used before folk. So mind you that-before folk. Ye tell me that my lips are sweet; To pree their sweets before folk. But gin you really do insist Behave yoursel' before folk; And when we're ane baith flesh and bane, Ye may tak' ten before folk. :0: BEHAVE YOURSEL' BEFORE BEHAVE yoursel' before folk, As kiss me sae before folk. It wadna gi'e me meikle pain, Gin we were seen and heard by nane, FOLK. THE ANSWER TO "BEHAVE YOURSEL' BEFORE FOLK." CAN 1 behave, can I behave, Can I behave before folk, In a' ye do, in a' ye say, That my poor wits ye lead astray, Can I behave, can I behave, Can I behold that dimpling cheek, And shun sic light before folk? That lip, like Eve's forbidden fruit, Sweet, plump an' ripe, sae tempts me to 't, So rich a treat before folk? That gowden hair sae sunny bright, Can I behave, can I behave, When ilka charm, young, fresh, and warm, An', oh, that pawkie, rowin ee, I canna, for my soul, let be Frae kissing you before folk! To tack a smack before folk? Ye own that were we baith our lane, Can I behave, can I behave, Sly hypocrite, an anchorite Could scarce desist before folk! But after a' that has been said, We'll hae a "blythesome bridal" made, Then I'll behave, then I'll behave, For whereas then ye'll aft get ten, :0: ALEXANDER Rodger. THE TURTLE Dove. (Air-Jessy of Dunblayne.) As lonely I sat on a calm summer morning, To breathe the soft incense that flowed on the wind, I mus'd on my Boots in their bright beauty dawning, By Warren's Jet Blacking-the pride of mankind. On a maple-tree near sa a turtle bewailing, She hover'd around, at the figure still gazing, I pity'd the dove, for my bosom was tender,-- "LET US HASTE AND JOIN THE CHASE. See the morning's peeping face, Hark, hark, the barking pack, Jolly huntsmen, O! And then, when drowsy night, Jolly huntsmen, O! Brings the brown ale to our sight, Then we'll quaff the flowing can, And ugly care trepan, With a health to every man The Universal Songster. :0: SONG OF MARCH. MARCH, March; daisies and buttercups Put forth their petals in exquisite order. March, March; crocuses springing up, Give a gay aspect to bed and to border. Our father is gone Where the wrong'd are forgiven, And that dearest one, Thy husband, in heaven. No toil in despair, No tyrant, no slave, No bread-tax is there, With a maw like the grave. And their mother, who sank Are waiting for thee, In the beautiful isles, Where the wrong'd are the free. Go, loved one, and rest Where the poor cease to pay! To the land of the blest Thou art wearing away. But the son of thy pain Will yet stay with me, And poor little Jane Look sadly like thee. From Corn Law Rhymes, by Ebenezer Elliott. London. B. Steill. 1844. :0: THE LAMENT OF THE LOST ONE. Residing in the Unprotectorate of Notting Hill. OH where, and oh where is our one policeman gone? Suppose at my nose a cocked pistol I espy, No policeman comes to save, tho' Murder! loud I cry ; To "first catch your hare" is sound advice 'tis true; But when my burglar's caught, pray what am I to do? For peace and police each half-year a rate I pay ; And 'tis night when thieves delight to steal a march, they say. Punch 1856. OH, WHERE, AND OH, WHERE, DOES YOUR OWN TRUE LOVER STRAY? Он, where, and oh, where does my own true lover stray? He's gone upon his travels, oh, he's gone to Botany-Bay; And its oh, in my heart I hope he will not stay. Oh, where, and oh, where does your own true lover dwell? He lived in Tothill-fields, at the sign of the Blue Bell; And its oh, in my heart I loved him very well. What cloth, and what cloth does your own true lover wear? He's clothed in wool and yarn, and they've shaved off all his hair. And its oh, in my heart, I love him to dispair. But what should I do if my own true love should die? The Universal Songster. Volume III. -:0: ORMONDE, M.P. An Election Song. June, 1886. To the "House" at Westminster, 'twas wisdom that spoke, The Home Rule of Gladstone is nothing but smoke; Come fill up your cup, come fill up your can, For its all up with Gladstone and his minis-trie. The Light 'un is mounted, he rides up the street, There are hills up to Highgate and lands as set forth, Then awa' to the highlands and meadows in cocks, GLADSTONE'S ADDRESS. To the millions of England, 'twas Gladstone who spoke, Come, follow me, men, for the fight that is near; "You'll fight as you fought when the people I led, Come, follow me, men, for the fight that shall say “Think how we have fought for the people's free Press, For the schools that with knowledge your children shall bless, For the laws that from Ireland swept wrong upon wrong, So gather, my men, for the fight that is near, And again your old leader your leader shall be, He spoke, and the people arose at his word, TO THE PEERS. To the Peers 'tis the People that sturdily spoke Then be it the duty of every man To fight for the franchise as hard as he can, For who are the handful of lords who assume But the bubbles, though gilded and gay they appear, The Weekly Dispatch. August 24, 1884. J. PRATT. THE BROOM cam capouring doon to the Hoose, It sims the Exchequer can loosen a noose So Looshington cried, "Ye've foond a mare's nest, The Broom is commonly pawkie enoo; Boot was, faith, ilka night, not a wise mon, Ef he thought in the coontry, to make a hubboo, Wi' a mossion aboot an Excisemon; For the Trasury cried, "Ye've foond a mare's nest,” &c., &c. (Two verses omitted.) From The New Whig Guide. London. 1819. Henry Brougham, M.P. (afterwards Lord Chancellor), brought a motion before the House of Commons on April 2, 1816, relative to the remission of Excise penalties. In October, 1866, a large number of English Volunteers went to the Tir National in Brussels, and were received with every mark of kindness and attention. The Belgians were lavish in their hospitality, and on October 20, the King gave a splendid dinner to all the English Volunteers then in Brussels. In 1867, about 2,000 members of the Belgian Garde Civique paid a return visit, and were most cordially received by the London Volunteers. A great deal of money was spent in entertaining them, but the general arrangements were faulty in the extreme, and Royal hospitality was conspicuously absent. :0: A DIRGE FOR THE DEPARTED. BY AN OLD MEMBER. Air." The flowers o' the forest are a' wede awa'." Sad fog in our brains and soft pangs in our bosoms; A past peopled fair with-we will call them flowers, Whose petals were strewn by November's chill blast, Or beaten to earth by December's dread showers. Where are they, the bright ones who bloomed and looked brave, Hardy annuals, year after year on these benches? Some Villon should "wake" them with lachrymose stave, The mild modern Muse from the tragical blenches. "A Ballad of M. P.'s Unseated," Good lack! Master Francois would make it pathetic and pretty; But he, too, is fled and will hardly come back, Though tempted by Swinburne, though coaxed by Rossetti. Oh, for yester-year's snows! Where is Newdegate gone? The House without him! 'Tis a thought that bewilders. Shaw Lefevre, where's he? Like the rose season gone With rare Farrer Herschell and radiant Childers. The rose will return, and these twain in its train May, like penitent peris, in Paradise sport on ; But ever henceforth may we hunger in vain For the shout and the snuff-box of Bill-blocker Warton. Where's Firth? How the flushed City Fathers rejoice Where's Alderman Lawrence's soul-soothing voice? Any more in the House; mute as Lesbia's dumb pet, With Lawson's Joe Millers and Thomasson's trumpet. Where's Briggs? Who'd suspect' neath his Cymon-like air, That general fidus Achates, "dear Caine," Is a wanderer now, which seems cruel, most cruel. Like Mossoo in his seat O'Shea "does not remain.' Smug McArthur has got—and deserved it—his gruel. Sidney Waterlow's down 'tis low water with him. Smart George Russell's defeat Rads regard with abhorrence; But few of them weep that Dame Fortune's wild whim Has upset Lambeth's bête-noir, Sir "Jamie" Clarke Lawrence. And Power, Ciceronian O'Connor? Alack! Where was Kennington's wit when, though loving, she lost him? Well he, like poor Bo-peep's strayed sheep, will come back To the seat which his pluck, for the season, hath cost him. But Wolff! Ah, Sir Henry, 'tis pitiful work. To "Shoe the Gray Goose" Eastward-Ho you were summoned, And while you were wasting your time with the Turk, Then Bright, Jacob Bright! But time fails us to tell For the Lobby strikes chill, and the Terrace looks sodden; The winter wind wails, not a Happy New Year, But a mournful lament like the dirge after Flodden. So sounds it to one who remembers old days: Then face to the fray with the freshest New Member! The Daily News, January 13, 1886, :0: MY LOVE IS LIKE THE RED RED ROSE. My love is like the red red rose That's sweetly played in tune. As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, |