Punch (103.1892)

October 22, 1892.]

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

mm ■■■■in urn

183

Soft twanged his lyre and loud his voice out-
rang,

As the first Bard this moving measure sang:—

ON THE BAYS.

[To the tune—more or less — of " In the Bay")

I.

Beyond the bellowing onset of base war,
Their latest wearer wendeth! With wild
zest.

Fulfilled of windy resonance, the rest
Of the bard-mob must hotly joust and jar
To win the wreath that he beyond the bar
Bare not away athwart the bland sea's breast.

But who with hope and faith may live at, Some bards pipe from Parnassus, some from

odds ? _ | Hermon;

And then these jingling jays with plume- Room for the singer of the Sunday Sermon!

plucked wings, His stimulant tepid tea, his theme a text,

Compete, and laureate laurels are lovely Carmarthen's cultured caroller comes next!
things,

Though crowing lyric lauders of kings and
gods!

Beshrew the blatant bleating of sheep-voiced
mimes!

True thunder shall strike dumb their chirp-
ing chimes.

If there be laureate laurels, or bays, or palms,
In these red, Radical, revelling, riotous times,

II.

And sooth the soft
sheen of that death-
less bay

Gleams glamorous!

Amorous was I in my
day,

C1 amorous were

Gath's goose-critics

But my fire,
Chastened from To-

phet-fumes, burns

purer, higher;
My thoughts on cour-

tier-wings might

make their way
Did my brow bear the

laurels all these

desire.

in.

For I, to the proprie-
ties reconciled,
Who hymned Dolores,

sing the "weanling

child."
At "home-made

treacle" I made

mocking mirth;
That was before my

better self had

birth.
At virtue's lilies and

languors then I

smiled,
ButHertha's wo£thine

onlv goddess, 0

Earth!

IV.

For surely brother,

and master, and

lord, and king,
Though vice's roses

and raptures did

not spring
Iu thy poetic garden's

trim parterre;
Though thou wert

fond of sunshine and

sweet air,
More than of kisses,

that burn, and bite,

and sting;

Some living love our England for thee bare.

v.

Thou, too, couldst sing about her sweet salt
sea,

And trumpet pseans loud to Liberty,
With clamour of all applausive tkroats. Thy
feet,

Not wine- press red, yet left the flowers more
sweet,

From the pure passage of the god to be ;
And then couldst thunder praises of Eng-
land's Fleet.

VI.

I did not think to glorify gods and kings,
Who scourged them ever with hate's san-
guineous rods;

Experienced Sportsman {on Pony). "Well—had good Sport, Fred, old Boy?"
Inexperienced Fred. "Not exactly 'Good,'—but I think I've let off about a
Hundred Cartridges."

Experienced Sportsman. "Not so bad. S'pose you must have 'let off' an equal
number of Partridges !"

They should be the true bard's, though mid-
age calms

His revolutionary fierce rolling rhymes,
Fulfilled with clamour and clangour and
storm of—psalms

THE WORTH OF VERSE.
Air—" The Birth of Verse."

Wild thoughts which occupy the brain,
Vague prophecies which fill the ear,

Dim perturbation, precious pain,
A gleam of hope, a chill of fear,—

These vex the jjoet's spirit. Moral:—■

Have a shy at the Laureate Laurel!

Some say no definite

thought there is
In my full flatulence

of sound.
Let National Obser-
vers quiz
(H-nl-y won't have
it, I'11 be bound!)
Envy! O trumpery,

O Morris!
Could Ju venal j ealous
be of Horace ?

I know the chambers

of my soul
Are filled with lauda-
tory airs,
Such as the salaried
bard should troll
When he the Lau-
reate laurels
wears.
And I am he who

opened Hades,
To harmless parsons
and to ladies!

For I can "moralise

my song "
More palpably than

Mr. Pope ;
And I can touch the
toiling throng:
There is small doubt
of that, I hope.
I 've piped for him
who ploughs the
furrows,
And stood for the
Carmarthen
Boroughs.

I mayn't be strong, in-
spired, complete,
But on the Liberal
goose I'm sound.
And I can count my

(rhythmic) feet
With any Pegasus

around.
I witch all women,

and some men,
Gladstone I've
drawn, and writ-
ten " Given:'

If these be not sufficient claims,

The worth of Verse is vastly small.
I've called him various pretty names,'

The honoured Master of us all;
" His place is with the Immortals." Yes !
But I could fill it here, I guess !

His " chaste white Muse " could not object,

For mine is white, and awfully chaste.
Now Algernon has no respect
For purity and public taste.

That great lyre's golden echoes rolled away!
Forth tripped another claimant of the bay.
Trim, tittivated, tintinnabulant,
His bosom aped the true Parnassian pant,

As may a housemaid's leathern bellows mock EDWiN^kgYve^n to^alleg"ory^
The rock - whelmed Titan's breathings. He ; whilst Alfred is a wicked Tory!!!
no shock

Of bard-like shagginess shook to the breeze. J He ceased. Great Punchius rubbed his
A modern Cambrian Minstrel hopes to please eagle beak,

By undishevelled dandy-daintiness, And said, " I think we'll take the rest next

Whether of lays or locks, of rhymes or dress. week! "