Punch (37.1859)

18-1

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI,

[November 5, 1859.

BALLADS FOR BEDLAMITES.

ensitive minds are af-
flicted to consider what
heaps of trash our sen-
timental balladmongers
write. Often as we have
called attention to the
subject, we fear but
little p~ofit has resulted
from our criticism. In-
deed, judging from the
samples which have re-
cently been handed to
us, we really think
the stuff and nonsense
which is written is be-
coming annually more
stuffy and nonsensical.
Bor instance, what pre-
posterous absurdity it
is for a young lady to
burst out, during a lull
in conversation, with
the startling interroga-
tive, “ Will you love me
then as now ? ” a ques-
tion obviously intended
for a private pair of
ears, and not to be pro-
pounded to a roomful
of company. What

folly, too, it is for anjwgirl to break the solemn silence of a tea fight by suddenly exclaiming,
“0 Willie, we have missed you!”—a remark which sets one wondering as to who this
William is, and whether he has committed burglary, or bolted with the till, or what else is
the reason that his family have missed him.

Nor is the folly of such songs the worst fault we can find in them. To our mind their
mendacity quite equals their absurdity. When Miss Sqauller, for example, at the tiptop of
her voice sings out “I have always a welcome for thee ! ” she knows as well as wre do that were
any one to act upon her general invitation, he would most likely get his ears boxed, or be
kicked out of the house. Moreover, who believes a sentimental singer when he or she keeps
constantly protesting before company that “I’m leaving thee in sorrow, Annie!”—an action
which a person cannot constantly be doing, although it is just possible one might have done
it once. Who, again, can listen with anything like patience when Miss Sciireecher screws
her voice up to its shrillest pitch, and bursts out with some such bosh as, “ Ever of thee I’m
fondly dreaming!” However much Miss Schreecher may dream when she’s asleep, she
cannot when awake continue in so doing; and to make assertion therefore that she is
“ ever ” dreaming is as barefaced a falsehood as well can be conceived. Such falsehoods are,
however, nightly uttered in our drawing-rooms; and yet the truthfullest of parents take no
steps to clap a stopper on them.

To put some check upon the sale of the stuff and nonsense sellers who supply such
rampant rubbish as that which we have quoted, we have devoted some five minutes to the
writing of a song or two, which may serve to throw some ridicule upon our sentimental
songwrights, and may bring them to their senses,—if perchance they have any. As
sentimental songs must be silly to be popular, we have tried to make our specimens as
senseless as we can, and in every way to imitate the Bedlamitish bosh which our composers
are insane enough just now to set to music. To read glibly and to rhyme are apparently
the only conditions which are aimed at, and we leave the world to judge if we have, hit the
mark. It is a great point, too, with songwrights to make a taking title. Young ladies who
buy ballads are caught as readily by a title as plebeian millionnaires; and as the first line of
a love-song is used in general for its title, we may say for popularity, C'est le premier vers qui
coiite. We have, therefore, paid particular attention to tins point, and rather feel inclined
to pride ourselves upon our titular success. There is a something so striking in the first
lines of our ballads, that we feel persuaded they would make a hit. Were the following
put to music by a popular composer, there is no saying what a heap of money it might bring
to us:—

BALLAD—“ SEE THE SWALLOWS GAILY SWIMMING!”

Melody by Buefer.

See the swallows gaily swimming,

Hop upon the rainbow’s back !

See, the milky way is skimming,

And the comet’s got the sack !

Sweetly purrs the cheeky chicken.

Softly sings the rampant gnu ;

While the moon’s alive and kicking,

Bond one, ah! I love but you !

Poetry by Punch.

Now the cat hath left the city.

Now the dove hath left her den.
Waken, love, and hear my ditty,
I’m the merriest of men !

See, my eyes with grief are pouring
See, my heart is black ana blue ;
Harken then, oh ! to my snoring.
Bond one, oh! I love but you!

The words of our next specimen are also slightly incoherent; but there is certainly good
sound in them, if there be not good sense:—

BALLAD—“THE CLOUDS ARE SHINING CLEAR AND BRIGHT!”

Melody by Dueeer.

The clouds are shining clear and bright, |
The moon is blazing blue.

Poetry by Punch.

The owlets sparkle red as night,
And sighs the tame curlew;

The frogs are mewing far and wide.

No sound abroad is seen,

So come, my love, and be my bride,

Bor it is all serene!

The tiger hops from spray to spray.

And clears his tuneful throat,

I catch a fragment of his lay,

He warbles, “ Pm afloat! ”

The diving-bell soars high above,

’Tis steered by Mr. Green ;

So come, my bride, and be my love,

Bor, yes! ’tis all serene!

In the last of our three specimens there is some-
what more coherence; and as the least approach
to sense is avoided by our song-writers, we
have no doubt this coherency would interfere
with its success. Nevertheless, we mean to
print it, and any publisher who chooses to pay
us for the copyright, will have our gracious
leave to do the ditto with our ditty, and make
as fine a fortune by it as he can:—

BALLAD-1'WHEN THE SPARROWS UPWARD
SOARING !”

Melody by Stuffer. Poetry by Punch.

When the sparrows upward soaring
Bruise their wings against the sky.

When the beetle by his snoring
Wakes the dormouse slumb’ring nigh;
When the dolphin on the billow
Ceases for his wife to rove.

And the weeping leaves the willow.

Then may I too cease to love !

When no more the bosky thickets
Joy to sip the mountain dew,

When to chirrup cease the crickets.

And the sky’s no longer blue!

When the ocean ceases flowing,

When the donkey mates the dove.

When the cochin ceases crowing.

Then may I too cease to love !

There is nothing very wonderful in any of
these ballads, excepting, we admit, that they are
wonderfully silly. Yet if Sims Beeves would
but sing them once or twice in public, we are
sure that all young ladies would instantly go
mad for them; and there are lots of lunatics,
at large in the community who would be insane
enough to lend a listening ear to whatever their
particular young lady lent her lips to. So, as we
never entertain a doubt of the merit and success
of anything we do, we feel persuaded the most
maniacal of musical furores will be at once ex-
cited by our Ballads for Bedlamites.

Passionate Pastorals.

The Archbishop of Malines has published
a ferocious pastoral, abusing the vindicators of
Italian liberty, and menacing eternal bad con-
sequences to all parents who send their children
to the Belgian public schools. If it had not
been for the ravings which Cullen and Mac-
Hale have also vented on the like subjects*
we should say that the Archbishop of Malines
was unrivalled for malignity.

Euceleuch v. Brougham.

A Word to the Electors of the President cf
the Edinburgh University. “New brooms,” it
is said, “sweep clean.” But there is an old
Brougham that sweeps cleaner than any amount
of new ones. That is the Brougham to stick
at your masthead.

“The Home Magazine.”—The caddy which
contains the domestic gunpowder.