My body's of cork, of an olive green hue, When Phoebus is bright and young zephyr at rest, When the sky like a friar is shrouded in gray, Sometimes, when the water's not "soupy" in tint, With a haif-doubting eye at the worm-covered hook, under I go ! But then if the scaly 'un goes for that bait, I'm a float! I'm a float! on the deep rolling tide, I'm the fisherman's friend, his mark on the stream, The Angler's Journal. April 3, 1886. :0: OH! DON'T YOU REMEMBER SWEET ALICE, BEN BOLT? Two parodies of this song were published by Ryle & Co., Monmouth Court, Seven Dials, London, as street ballads. Both were very coarse, one began :— Now don't you remember old Alice, Ben Bolt, At the cook-shop a little up town, How she grinned with delight when you gave her the brass, For the pannum you sent rolling down? The other commenced thus: OH! don't you remember sweet Sal, Harry Holt, How she danced all the night, and drank with delight, WHEN "BOLT." OH! dont you remember the days when "Bolt " The old watchman always would let us then bolt, But policeman are so wide awake now-adays, Oh! don't you remember our tradesmen, when "Bolt " When they knew that to claim their demands would entail The system has gone to decay, and when "Bolt " Oh! don't you remember the days when "Bolt" For the New Law Procedure Act lets them pursue Diogenes. Vol. 3, page 132. March, 1854. I have not met with any other parodies of Ben Bolt, although it is probable that many have been written, as the song was very popular some years since. While around us roars the thunder, We have things oft sent that fright us, And our breasts with rapture warm! Or affront our readers sense, Or we drive Subscribers hence! Do not then too harsly judge us, When we cast your trash aside; The exercise, both broad and wide! The Monthly Belle Assemblée. September, 1836. SONG FOR THE DOUCHE. CEASE to lure us 'bout the ocean, Neptune s is an easy couch, Listen while a fellow patient Sings the dangers of the Douche; Stripped and shivering-quite defencelessStunned by its terrific roar Now you're shouting-now you're senseless- Hark! the bathman loudly bawling,- "Bathman, please to draw it mild'." Now all you in sick beds lying, Pill and potion vainly trying Try the Douche, its shocks and terrors Who would health and strength regain. Every bath shall make you stronger, Nervous sufferers try the Douche. From Health and Pleasure, or Malvern Funch, by J. B. Oddfish. (London. Simpkin, Marshall, & Co., 1865. :0: "POLY." (A new ballad of the Fleet, sung by a British Tar àpropos of the "Polyphemus.") Do you want to know the ugliest craft That ever put from port? Well that's the Poly, the steel ram'd Poly, Open your peepers and look my lads, Tame as "loblolly,' The ug iest craft in the world! Do you want to know the latest thing Well, that's the Poly, this precious Poly, And darn her dirty hull! Come, you'll see the horror a lyin' there, Her sides full of rivets, her turret of guns, Afloat, afloat, like a leaky boat, Our nautical folly, The ugliest craft in the world! Do you want a toast to-night, my lads, Afore we says good-bye? Well, here's short life to the lumbering Poly, And blarm her hulk, says I. Fill your grog-glasses high, my lads, 66 Drink in sepulchral tones: May a storm soon send this confounded Poly To supper with David Jones.' Afloat, afloat, is she worth a groat, When the waves in heaps are hurled? THE BATTLE OF SPITHEAD. Recitative. O'ER Thompson's nose, by Swiggins' fist imprest, 'Twas in the Spithead Bay He loudly swearing, then ; We owed him for a joke He levell'd at our men Our Thompson mark'd the wily knave, Three screams our outraged sweethearts gave, Nor thought of home or duty; Before the shine this signal ran, And now we ply the oar, Our Thompson clove the spray; His ship the Sarah named, For squabbles night and day; But dearly was our victory bought, For Sarah, home, and duty; He cried, as to his foe he ran, This day we'll spoil his beauty.' But, oh the dreadful wound, Then, sinking on his side, On Sarah, home, and duty!" Portsmouth confess'd that each brave man Diogenes. July, 1853. THE GREAT UNEMPLOYED. (A Song for Scotland Yard. Air--" The Death of Nelson.") 'TWAS in Trafalgar Square We heard Sedition blare; Each heart was sickened then. We'd scorned the foreign Reds Who cracked each other's heads, But here were madder men. Henderson marked them howl and rave, But little heed that hero gave. Let Roughdom smash and loot, he Stirred not, appeared not, formed no plan. And now the rabble roar, Is startled, shocked, and shamed Right dearly is experience bought, The maddened Mob surged, smashed, and fought, From mouth to mouth the murmur ran, This day has shirked his duty." Our trust has been deceived. It guards home, wealth, age, beauty, Punch. February, 1886. With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, to the British grenadier. Those heroes of antiquity ne'er saw a cannon-ball, Or knew the force of powder to slay their foes withal; Then Jove the god of thunder, and Mars the god of war, Whene'er we are commanded to storm the palisades, We throw them from the glacis about the Frenchman's ears, With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, for the British grenadiers. And when the siege is over, we to the town repair, The townsmen cry huzza, boys, here comes a grenadier,— Here come the grenadiers, my boys, who know no doubts or fears. Then sing tow, row, row, row, row, row, row, for the Then let us fill a bumper, and drink a health to those ANONYMOUS. (Written about 1760.) THE BRITISH GRENADIERS. UPON the plains of Flanders, Beneath old Marlborough ; And Moore and Wellington. Our plumes have waved in combats, Reeled backwards from our shot. In charges with the bayonet, We led our bold compeers; But Frenchmen like to stay not Once bravely at Vimiera They hoped to play their parts, And sing fal lira, lira, To cheer their drooping hearts. But English, Scotch, and Paddy whacks, We gave three hearty cheers, And the French soon turned their backs To the British Grenadiers. At St. Sebastiano, And Badajos's town, Though raging like volcanoes The shell and shot came down, With courage never wincing, We scaled the ramparts high, And what could Bonaparte, In battle do, at Waterloo, With British Grenadiers? Then ever sweet the drum shall beat That march unto our ears, Whose martial roll awake the soul Of British Grenadiers, THOMAS CAMPBELL. BROOK GREEN VOLUNTEER. SOME talk of Alexander, And some of Wellington, Of Blucher and Lysander, But of all the gallant heroes, There's none for to compare, With his Quick march! to the right about! Face! To the Brook Green Volunteer. Without the least occasion, He rushes to the field, From peril of invasion Old Hammersmith to shield. Nor talk of War's alarms, The bosom knows no fear Of that fine, handsome, spirited young man, In spite of vilest weather No matter how severe; What a downright, thorough-going trump At this inclement season To brave a death of cold. And stand a drop of beer To that gay, gallant, promising recruit, The Brook Green Volunteer. Punch. February 28, 1846. This parody refers to the rumours of a threatened invasion of England by the Prince de Joinville, and ridicules the proposals then made to call out the Militia. There was another parody of this song in Punch, 1849, relating how two Grenadiers robbed two French National Guards during their visit to London. The parody, entitled "The Blackguard Grenadier," commenced thus : "Most regiments have some varlet, A stain upon their scarlet, Their scandal and disgrace." This disgraceful incident created great indignation, and there was a loud outcry as to the want of proper discipline amongst the Guards stationed in London. Yet they still enjoy the undeserved, and exceptional, privileges they then possessed, and are better fed, clothed, and paid than their comrades in the Line regiments. THE GALLANT SPECIALS. (During the Chartist agitation in 1848, about 150,000 men were sworn in as special constables.) THEY may talk if they like of their Horse Guards Red, They may talk of their Horse Guards Blue; They may boast if they please, of such troops as these, And of all the exploits they'd do. But London town acknowledges, That in spite of their fine fal-de-rals, They're not up to the mark, in the street or the park, Of the gallant Spe-ci-als. The Peelers, no doubt, are a stout brigade, And partial to kitchen stuff; The Detectives, too, are by no means a do, But perfectly up to snuff, For what are they, I should like to know, To the jolly old bricks, who flourish the sticks Oh! 'tis they are the boys for the Chartist mob, And who spoke out so bold, in their John Street hold, Who swore that they did not care one whit, But who cut right away, with the devil to pay, The Man in the Moon, Vol. III. THE THIEVISH PRIVATEER. OH! some talk about Jack Sheppard ¡ And some speak of a worthy, But there's a thief in our belief Whose crimes e'en worse appear, Who in war's dark hour doth the ocean scour'Tis the thievish Privateer. While nations are contending- The world's foundation shake. But alone for the pelf, To enrich himself, Fights the thievish Privateer. Then shall we suffer longer, That letters called "of Marque," Shall save from England's vengeance, Each cut-throat pirate bark? Oh, no! let's hope henceforth a rope Shall be knotted 'neath the ear, As pirates to hang Every man of the gang Of each thievish Privateer. Diogenes, Vol. III., p. 122. March, 1854. THE ORDER OF VALOUR (The v. c.) SOME talk of ALEXANDER, And some of HERCULES, And many a great commander As glorious as these ; But if you want a hero Of genuine pluck and pith, It's perfectly clear there's none comes near To full British PRIVATE SMITH. Its easy to fight, with glory Among the sons of fame. But SMITH, full British private, Is expected to be brave, With the cold "cold shade" above his head, At his feet a nameless grave. For Generals there's the peerage, With grant of public tin; There's regiments for Colonels, For Captains steps to win. But for PRIVATE SMITH the utmost, Was a Chelsea berth, and a pension worth Till now the stars and garters, Were for birth's or fortune's son, And as oft in snug home-quarters, As in fields of fight were won. But at length a star arises, Which as glorious will shine On SMITH'S red serge vest as upon the breast Though carpet-knights may grumble, Though CARDIGANS and LUCANS, And AIREYS may oppose, Yet shall the star of valour Defy their scoffs and jeers As its bronze rays shine on plain SMITH of the Line, Too long mere food for powder We've deem'd our rank and file, Now higher hopes and prouder. Upon the soldier smile. And if no Marshal's bâton PRIVATE SMITH in his knapsack bears, Punch. February 23, 1856. There was another parody of the same song in Punch, February 27, 1858, complaining of the shameful manner in which our soldiers were then clothed, lodged, and fed. As most of the evils therein alluded to have been remedied, the parody is now obsolete. A parody entitled "Aitcheson's Carabineers," appears on page 112 of the 1869 edition of Logan's "Pedlar's Pack of Ballads and Songs." THROUGH FIRE AND WATER; OR, THE London VOLUNTEERS, SOME talk of Alexander, And some of Hercules, The Chief whose martial dander, The Sayers of the prize ring, |