DOI Heft:
October 18, 1856
DOI Seite / Zitierlink: https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16618#0159
October 18, 1856.]
151
THE AMERICAN BALLADS.
NLY give me the making of
the laws of England, and I do
not care who makes its ballads.
Such is Mr. Punch's adaptation
of a foolish saying, with which
donkeys who are going to prose
* about verse invariably begin
their nonsense. But, though
he does not in the least care
who makes the ballads, pro-
vided they are good ones, or,
in the other alternative, pro-
vided they are not sung under
his windows, he does not deem
it beneath his digni'y occasion-
ally to make an observation
upon the chatacter of the
popular compositions of the
day. The music - publishers
grow frightfully proud when
he does so, and instantly quote
his opinion in a legion of adver-
tisements, but this is an incon-
venience to which all great
folks are subject.
At this moment there is no
song of English origin which
is commanding the sympathies
of the public so strongly as
certain imported melodies. The
American poets have supplied
us with some lyrics which now
entrance the British public. At
a dozen theatres, every night,
one or other of these efforts of
the Trans-Atlantic muse is
thrilling the audiences, and
eliciting the most enormous
shouts of applause. For the
instruction of those who do not go to theatres, and to efface the unfair impression that
entertainments of an unintellectual character will sometimes satisfy the requirements of those
who do, Mr. Punch begs to offer a brief analysis of the three songs which have now undis-
puted possession of the metropolitan mind, and in presence of which the lover of bonnie
Annie Laurie has laid him down to die, and the daughter of the Ratcatcher has sunk unheeded
into the mud off Westminster Bridge.
The first of these lyrics is called My Mary Anne. It is short, and it describes the sorrows
of a gentleman who is about to take a voyage, absenting himself therefore from the object
of his affections. The burden is a " farewell," with the intimation that
" The ship it is ready, and the wind it is fair,
And I am bound for the sea-Mary Anne ! "
The chief vocal effect of the ditty is a pleasing maniacal shout when the singer arrives at
the name of the lady. The poedcal images are various. After likening himself to a
lamenting turtle-dove, the lover proceeds :—
A lobster in a lobster-pot,
A blue-fish wriggling on a hook,
May suffer some—but O no not
What I do feel for my-Maby Anne I"
And he sorrowfully records that though pumpkins was the pride of all the produce of his
kitchen at home, none of them could compare in angel form with his—Mary A.nne. We
hardly know to whom among the American poets to assign the authorship of this song.
There is a breezy sea air about it that reminds one of Longfellow, but he has not claimed
it, while the illustrations from nature would seem to point to Mb. Emerson. Mr. Willis,
we think, would hardly have had courage for the pumpkins, or else the tenderness of the
tone much resembles that of his recent writings.
The next song to which Mr. Punch would invite attention is even more popular than its
predecessor. It is of a more playful character, and is supposed to express the sentiments
of a young lady, who, discovering that her suitor has entrapped the affections of another
maiden, permits his attentions in order to punish hit infidelity, and having brought him
to the church door, abandons him, exposing him to the ridicule of his associates. There is
a lofty moral purpose therefore in this poem, and we believe that uncontradicted public
report, which assigns the authorship to Mr. Nathaniel Hawthorn, is not inadequately
based. The Spartan brevity with which the story, which is called Bobbing Around, is told,
is artistic in its simplicity :
" In August last, on one fine day,
Bobbing around.
When Josh and i went to make hay,
We went bobbing around.
" Says Josh to rue, let's take a walk,
Bobbing around,
Then we can have a private talk
As we go bobbing around."
The lady assents, and they visit the bridge belonging to a certain Squire Slipslop. In
the same metre, and with the same rhyme, aie recorded a little playful love-passage, the
exchange of a salute, acd the offer of marriage.
The fair narrator glances briefly over subsequent
events, but, intimatiBg, as follows;—
" I knew he lov'd another ga),
Bobbing around :
They called her iong-legg'd. crook'd-shin'd
curly-tooth'd Sal,
Where he went bobbing p.round,"
she thus describes how she avenged the wrong
to her pretty fntnd :—
" So after we got into Church,
Bobbing around,
I ran and left him in the lurch,
Then he went bobbing around."
Bat the third of the ballads now having pos-
session of the public ear is most remarkable, and
from its extraordinary delineation of the negro
diaiect and mind, we have no hesitation in
ascribing it to the accomplished authoress of
Bred, assisted, perhaps by her reverend hus-
band. It is called Keemo, Kimo. It appears to
describe nothing in particular, but to contain an
assortment of poetical ideas strung together with
that wild harmonious no-meaning, more delight-
ful than exact meaning, which gives its charm,
according to Mr, Charles Knight, to 1 he songs
of Ssakspeabe, It consists of nine verses, but
as any of them represents the whole, the selec-
tion we shall offer will give an adequate idea of
the composition. "The simplest charm prevails,"
and the shouts with which we have heard this
ballad greeted, each burst of applause followed
by a peremptory encore, show how a few touches
of nature make the whole world grin :
" In South Car'lina de darkies go—
Sing song, Kitty, can't you ki.' me, oh?
Oat's whar de white folks plant de tow—
Sing song, Kitty, can't you ki' me, oh ?
" Keemo kimo ! Dar! oh whar ?
Wid my hi, my ho, and in come Sally singing
Sometimes penny-winkle ling-tum, nip-cat—
Sing song, Kitty, can't you ki' me, oh?
" Dey try for to sleep, but it ain't no use—
Sing song, Kitty, can't you ki' me, oh ?
Dere iegs bang out for the chickens to roost,
Sing song, Kitty, can't you ki' me, oh I
" Dar was a frog lived in a pool—
Sing song, Kitty, can't you ki' me, oh?
And sure dis frog he was no fool—
Sing song, Kitty, can't you ki' me, oh ?
" De wedder's warm, and so am I—
Sing song, Kitty, can't you ki' me, oh ?
I'm sure you'd lub me if you'd try—
Sing song, Kitty, can't you ki' me, oh ? "
With this extract Mr, Punch concludes his
analysis of the lyric successes of the present year.
The beauty, wit, and pathos of these composi-
tions are a striking contrast to the vulgar, bald,
meaningless ditties which used to delight our
fathers in the days of Kemble and Siddons, and
the enthusiasm which our modern ballads excite,
affords a noble answer to the carpers who allege
that popular taste has not improved. Such
strains, moreover, coming from the other side the
Atlantic, bind England and America more closely
in the bonds of social sympathy, and irradiate
with a common sunshine the hearts of the two
mighty nations. Long may the Americans send
us such poems, and long may British audiences
assemble to be enraptured by them.
Homoeopathic Globules. (Seventh Dose.)
A Stitch in the side, if taken in time, saves nine.
One Physician is better than two, but three are fatal.
Hope is the best medicine, and fortunately it is in the
power of every Doctor to dispense it.
There is one evil that Doctors in length of time do effec-
tually cure us of—and that is, the faith we place in their
nostrums.
Medical Botany might be restricted almost to the plucki&g
of Simples!
Might we not say of a Doctor what Figaro said of the
Seigneur of his period—that he does us a sufficiency of good,
so long as he refrains from doing us any harm ?
Wise persons, when they take advice, go to a Physician,
but fools go to a Quack—and the large disproportion between
the two classes explains why so many Quacks make theis
fortune whilst many a clever Physician starves.
Many persons take advice as they do physic—to fling
it aside the moment the Doctor's back is turn*4.
151
THE AMERICAN BALLADS.
NLY give me the making of
the laws of England, and I do
not care who makes its ballads.
Such is Mr. Punch's adaptation
of a foolish saying, with which
donkeys who are going to prose
* about verse invariably begin
their nonsense. But, though
he does not in the least care
who makes the ballads, pro-
vided they are good ones, or,
in the other alternative, pro-
vided they are not sung under
his windows, he does not deem
it beneath his digni'y occasion-
ally to make an observation
upon the chatacter of the
popular compositions of the
day. The music - publishers
grow frightfully proud when
he does so, and instantly quote
his opinion in a legion of adver-
tisements, but this is an incon-
venience to which all great
folks are subject.
At this moment there is no
song of English origin which
is commanding the sympathies
of the public so strongly as
certain imported melodies. The
American poets have supplied
us with some lyrics which now
entrance the British public. At
a dozen theatres, every night,
one or other of these efforts of
the Trans-Atlantic muse is
thrilling the audiences, and
eliciting the most enormous
shouts of applause. For the
instruction of those who do not go to theatres, and to efface the unfair impression that
entertainments of an unintellectual character will sometimes satisfy the requirements of those
who do, Mr. Punch begs to offer a brief analysis of the three songs which have now undis-
puted possession of the metropolitan mind, and in presence of which the lover of bonnie
Annie Laurie has laid him down to die, and the daughter of the Ratcatcher has sunk unheeded
into the mud off Westminster Bridge.
The first of these lyrics is called My Mary Anne. It is short, and it describes the sorrows
of a gentleman who is about to take a voyage, absenting himself therefore from the object
of his affections. The burden is a " farewell," with the intimation that
" The ship it is ready, and the wind it is fair,
And I am bound for the sea-Mary Anne ! "
The chief vocal effect of the ditty is a pleasing maniacal shout when the singer arrives at
the name of the lady. The poedcal images are various. After likening himself to a
lamenting turtle-dove, the lover proceeds :—
A lobster in a lobster-pot,
A blue-fish wriggling on a hook,
May suffer some—but O no not
What I do feel for my-Maby Anne I"
And he sorrowfully records that though pumpkins was the pride of all the produce of his
kitchen at home, none of them could compare in angel form with his—Mary A.nne. We
hardly know to whom among the American poets to assign the authorship of this song.
There is a breezy sea air about it that reminds one of Longfellow, but he has not claimed
it, while the illustrations from nature would seem to point to Mb. Emerson. Mr. Willis,
we think, would hardly have had courage for the pumpkins, or else the tenderness of the
tone much resembles that of his recent writings.
The next song to which Mr. Punch would invite attention is even more popular than its
predecessor. It is of a more playful character, and is supposed to express the sentiments
of a young lady, who, discovering that her suitor has entrapped the affections of another
maiden, permits his attentions in order to punish hit infidelity, and having brought him
to the church door, abandons him, exposing him to the ridicule of his associates. There is
a lofty moral purpose therefore in this poem, and we believe that uncontradicted public
report, which assigns the authorship to Mr. Nathaniel Hawthorn, is not inadequately
based. The Spartan brevity with which the story, which is called Bobbing Around, is told,
is artistic in its simplicity :
" In August last, on one fine day,
Bobbing around.
When Josh and i went to make hay,
We went bobbing around.
" Says Josh to rue, let's take a walk,
Bobbing around,
Then we can have a private talk
As we go bobbing around."
The lady assents, and they visit the bridge belonging to a certain Squire Slipslop. In
the same metre, and with the same rhyme, aie recorded a little playful love-passage, the
exchange of a salute, acd the offer of marriage.
The fair narrator glances briefly over subsequent
events, but, intimatiBg, as follows;—
" I knew he lov'd another ga),
Bobbing around :
They called her iong-legg'd. crook'd-shin'd
curly-tooth'd Sal,
Where he went bobbing p.round,"
she thus describes how she avenged the wrong
to her pretty fntnd :—
" So after we got into Church,
Bobbing around,
I ran and left him in the lurch,
Then he went bobbing around."
Bat the third of the ballads now having pos-
session of the public ear is most remarkable, and
from its extraordinary delineation of the negro
diaiect and mind, we have no hesitation in
ascribing it to the accomplished authoress of
Bred, assisted, perhaps by her reverend hus-
band. It is called Keemo, Kimo. It appears to
describe nothing in particular, but to contain an
assortment of poetical ideas strung together with
that wild harmonious no-meaning, more delight-
ful than exact meaning, which gives its charm,
according to Mr, Charles Knight, to 1 he songs
of Ssakspeabe, It consists of nine verses, but
as any of them represents the whole, the selec-
tion we shall offer will give an adequate idea of
the composition. "The simplest charm prevails,"
and the shouts with which we have heard this
ballad greeted, each burst of applause followed
by a peremptory encore, show how a few touches
of nature make the whole world grin :
" In South Car'lina de darkies go—
Sing song, Kitty, can't you ki.' me, oh?
Oat's whar de white folks plant de tow—
Sing song, Kitty, can't you ki' me, oh ?
" Keemo kimo ! Dar! oh whar ?
Wid my hi, my ho, and in come Sally singing
Sometimes penny-winkle ling-tum, nip-cat—
Sing song, Kitty, can't you ki' me, oh?
" Dey try for to sleep, but it ain't no use—
Sing song, Kitty, can't you ki' me, oh ?
Dere iegs bang out for the chickens to roost,
Sing song, Kitty, can't you ki' me, oh I
" Dar was a frog lived in a pool—
Sing song, Kitty, can't you ki' me, oh?
And sure dis frog he was no fool—
Sing song, Kitty, can't you ki' me, oh ?
" De wedder's warm, and so am I—
Sing song, Kitty, can't you ki' me, oh ?
I'm sure you'd lub me if you'd try—
Sing song, Kitty, can't you ki' me, oh ? "
With this extract Mr, Punch concludes his
analysis of the lyric successes of the present year.
The beauty, wit, and pathos of these composi-
tions are a striking contrast to the vulgar, bald,
meaningless ditties which used to delight our
fathers in the days of Kemble and Siddons, and
the enthusiasm which our modern ballads excite,
affords a noble answer to the carpers who allege
that popular taste has not improved. Such
strains, moreover, coming from the other side the
Atlantic, bind England and America more closely
in the bonds of social sympathy, and irradiate
with a common sunshine the hearts of the two
mighty nations. Long may the Americans send
us such poems, and long may British audiences
assemble to be enraptured by them.
Homoeopathic Globules. (Seventh Dose.)
A Stitch in the side, if taken in time, saves nine.
One Physician is better than two, but three are fatal.
Hope is the best medicine, and fortunately it is in the
power of every Doctor to dispense it.
There is one evil that Doctors in length of time do effec-
tually cure us of—and that is, the faith we place in their
nostrums.
Medical Botany might be restricted almost to the plucki&g
of Simples!
Might we not say of a Doctor what Figaro said of the
Seigneur of his period—that he does us a sufficiency of good,
so long as he refrains from doing us any harm ?
Wise persons, when they take advice, go to a Physician,
but fools go to a Quack—and the large disproportion between
the two classes explains why so many Quacks make theis
fortune whilst many a clever Physician starves.
Many persons take advice as they do physic—to fling
it aside the moment the Doctor's back is turn*4.