A Parody Anthology

AFTER MRS. HEMANS

THE THYROID GLAND

 
"WE hear thee speak of the thyroid gland,
But what thou say'st we don't understand;
Professor, where does the acinus dwell?
We hashed our dissection and can't quite tell.
Is it where the mascula lutea flows,
And the suprachordial tissue grows?"
"Not there, not there, my class!"
 
 
"Is it far away where the bronchi part
And the pneumogastric controls the heart?
Where endothelium encardium lines,
And a subpericardial nerve intertwines?
Where the subpleural plexus of lymphatics expand?
Is it there, Professor, that gruesome gland?"
"Not there, not there, my class!"
 
 
"I have not seen it, my gentle youths,
My myxoedemia, I'm told, it soothes.
Landois says stolidly 'functions unknown;'
Foster adopts an enquiring tone.
Duct does not lead to its strange recess,
Far below the vertex, above the pes,
It is there, I am told, my class!"
 

R. M.

AFTER KEATS

I

ODE ON A JAR OF PICKLES

 
A SWEET, acidulous, down-reaching thrill
Pervades my sense. I seem to see or hear
The lushy garden-grounds of Greenwich Hill
In autumn, where the crispy leaves are sere;
And odors haunt me of remotest spice
From the Levant or musky-aired Cathay,
Or from the saffron-fields of Jericho,
Where everything is nice.
The more I sniff, the more I swoon away,
And what else mortal palate craves, forego.
 

II

 
Odors unsmelled are keen, but those I smell
Are keener; wherefore let me sniff again!
Enticing walnuts, I have known ye well
In youth, when pickles were a passing pain;
Unwitting youth, that craves the candy stem,
And sugar plums to olives doth prefer,
And even licks the pots of marmalade
When sweetness clings to them.
But now I dream of ambergris and myrrh,
Tasting these walnuts in the poplar shade.
 

III

 
Lo! hoarded coolness in the heart of noon,
Plucked with its dew, the cucumber is here,
As to the Dryad's parching lips a boon,
And crescent bean-pods, unto Bacchus dear;
And, last of all, the pepper's pungent globe,
The scarlet dwelling of the sylph of fire,
Provoking purple draughts; and, surfeited,
I cast my trailing robe
O'er my pale feet, touch up my tuneless lyre,
And twist the Delphic wreath to suit my head.
 

IV

 
Here shall my tongue in otherwise be soured
Than fretful men's in parched and palsied days;
And, by the mid-May's dusky leaves embowered,
Forget the fruitful blame, the scanty praise.
No sweets to them who sweet themselves were born,
Whose natures ooze with lucent saccharine;
Who, with sad repetition soothly cloyed,
The lemon-tinted morn
Enjoy, and find acetic twilight fine.
Wake I, or sleep? The pickle-jar is void.
 

Bayard Taylor.

AFTER HEINE

IMITATION

 
MY love she leans from the window
Afar in a rosy land;
And red as a rose are her blushes,
And white as a rose her hand.
 
 
And the roses cluster around her,
And mimic her tender grace;
And nothing but roses can blossom
Wherever she shows her face.
 
 
I dwell in a land of winter,
From my love a world apart, —
But the snow blooms over with roses
At the thought of her in my heart.
 
 
This German style of poem
Is uncommonly popular now;
For the worst of us poets can do it —
Since Heine showed us how.
 

H. C. Bunner.

COMMONPLACES

 
RAIN on the face of the sea,
Rain on the sodden land,
And the window-pane is blurred with rain
As I watch it, pen in hand.
 
 
Mist on the face of the sea,
Mist on the sodden land,
Filling the vales as daylight fails,
And blotting the desolate sand.
 
 
Voices from out of the mist,
Calling to one another:
"Hath love an end, thou more than friend,
Thou dearer than ever brother?"
 
 
Voices from out of the mist,
Calling and passing away;
But I cannot speak, for my voice is weak,
And.. this is the end of my lay.
 

Rudyard Kipling.

AFTER HOOD

SONG OF THE SHEET THE DRIPPING SHEET

This sheet wrung out of cold or tepid water is thrown around the body. Quick rubbing follows, succeeded by the same operation with a dry sheet. Its operation is truly shocking. Dress after to prevent remarks.

 
WITH nerves all shattered and worn,
With shouts terrific and loud,
A patient stood in a cold wet sheet —
A Grindrod's patent shroud.
Wet, wet, wet,
In douche and spray and sleet,
And still, with a voice I shall never forget,
He sang the song of the sheet.
 
 
"Drip, drip, drip,
Dashing, and splashing, and dipping;
And drip, drip, drip,
Till your fat all melts to dripping.
It's oh, for dry deserts afar,
Or let me rather endure
Curing with salt in a family jar,
If this is the water cure.
 
 
"Rub, rub, rub,
He'll rub away life and limb;
Rub, rub, rub
It seems to be fun for him.
Sheeted from head to foot,
I'd rather be covered with dirt;
I'll give you the sheet and the blankets to boot,
If you'll only give me my shirt.
 
 
"Oh, men, with arms and hands,
Oh, men, with legs and shins,
It is not the sheet you're wearing out,
But human creatures' skins.
Rub, rub, rub,
Body, and legs, and feet;
Rubbing at once with a double rub,
A skin as well as a sheet.
 
 
"My wife will see me no more —
She'll see the bone of her bone,
But never will see the flesh of her flesh,
For I'll have no flesh of my own.
The little that was my own,
They won't allow me to keep;
It's a pity that flesh should be so dear,
And water so very cheap.
 
 
"Pack, pack, pack,
Whenever your spirit flags,
You're doomed by hydropathic laws
To be packed in cold water rags;
Rolled up on bed or on floor,
Or sweated to death in a chair;
But my chairman's rank – my shadow I'd thank
For taking my place in there.
 
 
"Slop, slop, slop,
Never a moment of time;
Slop, slop, slop,
Slackened like mason's lime.
Stand and freeze and steam —
Steam or freeze and stand;
I wish those friends had their tongues benumbed,
That told me to leave dry land.
 
 
"Up, up, up,
In the morn before daylight,
The bathman cries 'Get up,'
(I wish he were up for a fight).
While underneath the eaves,
The dry snug swallows cling;
But give them a cold wet sheet to their backs,
And see if they'll come next spring.
 
 
"Oh! oh! it stops my breath,
(He calls it short and sweet),
Could they hear me underneath
I'll shout them from the street!
He says that in half an hour
A different man I'll feel;
That I'll jump half over the moon and want
To walk into a meal!
 
 
"I feel more nerve and power,
And less of terror and grief;
I'm thinking now of love and hope —
And now of mutton and beef.
This glorious scene will rouse my heart,
Oh, who would lie in bed?
I cannot stop, but jump and hop,
Going like needle and thread."
 
 
With buoyant spirit upborne,
With cheeks both healthy and red,
The same man ran up the Malvern Crags,
Pitying those in bed.
Trip, trip, trip,
Oh, life with health is sweet;
And still in a voice both strong and quick,
Would that its tones could reach the sick,
He sang the Song of the Sheet.
 

Anonymous.

I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER

 
I REMEMBER, I remember,
The house where I was wed,
And the little room from which that night
My smiling bride was led.
She didn't come a wink too soon,
Nor make too long a stay;
But now I often wish her folks
Had kept the girl away!
 
 
I remember, I remember,
Her dresses, red and white,
Her bonnets and her caps and cloaks, —
They cost an awful sight!
The "corner lot" on which I built,
And where my brother met
At first my wife, one washing-day, —
That man is single yet!
 
 
I remember, I remember,
Where I was used to court,
And thought that all of married life
Was just such pleasant sport: —
My spirit flew in feathers then,
No care was on my brow;
I scarce could wait to shut the gate, —
I'm not so anxious now!
 
 
I remember, I remember,
My dear one's smile and sigh;
I used to think her tender heart
Was close against the sky.
It was a childish ignorance,
But now it soothes me not
To know I'm farther off from Heaven
Than when she wasn't got!
 

Phœbe Cary.

AFTER ALFRED BUNN

A YULE-TIDE PARODY

 
WHEN other wits and other bards,
Their tales at Christmas tell,
Or praise on cheap and colored cards
The time they love so well,
Secure from scorn and ridicule
I hope my verse may be,
If I can still remember Yule,
And Yule remember me.
 
 
The days are dark, the days are drear,
When dull December dies;
But, while we mourn an ended year,
Another's star will rise.
I hail the season formed by rule
For merriment and glee;
So let me still remember Yule,
And Yule remember me.
 
 
The rich plum-pudding I enjoy,
I greet the pie of mince;
And loving both while yet a boy,
Have loved them ever since.
More dull were I than any mule
That eyes did ever see,
If I should not remember Yule,
And Yule remember me.
 

Anonymous.

SELF-EVIDENT

 
WHEN other lips and other eyes
Their tales of love shall tell,
Which means the usual sort of lies
You've heard from many a swell;
When, bored with what you feel is bosh,
You'd give the world to see
A friend, whose love you know will wash,
Oh, then remember me!
 
 
When Signor Solo goes his tours,
And Captain Craft's at Ryde,
And Lord Fitzpop is on the moors,
And Lord knows who besides;
When to exist you feel a task
Without a friend at tea,
At such a moment I but ask
That you'll remember me.
 

J. R. Planché.

AFTER LORD MACAULAY

THE LAUREATE'S TOURNEY

By the Hon. T – B – M

FYTTE THE FIRST

 
"WHAT news, what news, thou pilgrim gray, what news from the southern land?
How fare the bold Conservatives, how is it with Ferrand?
How does the little Prince of Wales – how looks our lady Queen?
And tell me, is the monthly nurse once more at Windsor seen?"
 
 
"I bring no tidings from the Court, nor from St. Stephen's hall;
I've heard the thundering tramp of horse, and the trumpet's battle-call;
And these old eyes have seen a fight, which England ne'er had seen,
Since fell King Richard sobbed his soul through blood on Bosworth Green.
 
 
"'He's dead, he's dead, the Laureate's dead!' 'Twas thus the cry began,
And straightway every garret-roof gave up its minstrel man;
From Grub Street, and from Houndsditch, and from Farringdon Within,
The poets all towards Whitehall poured on with eldritch din.
 
 
"Loud yelled they for Sir James the Graham; but sore afraid was he;
A hardy knight were he that might face such a minstrelsie.
'Now by St. Giles of Netherby, my patron Saint, I swear,
I'd rather by a thousand crowns Lord Palmerston were here! —
 
 
"'What is't ye seek, ye rebel knaves – what make you there beneath?'
'The bays, the bays! we want the bays! we seek the laureate wreath!
We seek the butt of generous wine that cheers the son of song;
Choose thou among us all, Sir Knight – we may not tarry long!'
 
 
"Loud laughed the good Sir James in scorn 'Rare jest it were, I think,
But one poor butt of Xeres, and a thousand rogues to drink!
An' if it flowed with wine or beer, 'tis easy to be seen,
That dry within the hour would be the well of Hippocrene.
 
 
"'Tell me, if on Parnassus' heights there grow a thousand sheaves;
Or has Apollo's laurel bush yet borne ten hundred leaves?
Or if so many leaves were there, how long would they sustain
The ravage and the glutton bite of such a locust train?
 
 
"'No! get ye back into your dens, take counsel for the night,
And choose me out two champions to meet in deadly fight;
To-morrow's dawn shall see the lists marked out in Spitalfields,
And he who wins shall have the bays, and he shall die who yields!'
 
 
"Down went the window with a crash, – in silence and in fear
Each ragged bard looked anxiously upon his neighbor near;
Then up and spake young Tennyson – 'Who's here that fears for death?
'Twere better one of us shall die, than England lose the wreath!
 
 
"Let's cast the lot among us now, which two shall fight to-morrow;
For armor bright we'll club our mite, and horses we can borrow;
'T were shame that bards of France should sneer, and German Dichters too,
If none of British song might dare a deed of derringdo!'
 
 
"'The lists of Love are mine,' said Moore, 'and not the lists of Mars;'
Said Hunt, 'I seek the jars of wine, but shun the combat's jars!'
'I'm old,' quoth Samuel Rogers. – 'Faith,' says Campbell, 'so am I!'
'And I'm in holy orders, sir!' quoth Tom of Ingoldsby.
 
 
"'Now out upon ye, craven loons,' cried Moxon, good at need;
'Bide, if ye will, secure at home, and sleep while others bleed.
I second Alfred's motion, boys, – let's try the chance of lot;
And monks shall sing, and bells shall ring, for him that goes to pot.'
 
 
"Eight hundred minstrels slunk away – two hundred stayed to draw;
Now Heaven protect the daring wight that pulls the longest straw!
'Tis done! 'tis done! And who hath won? Keep silence one and all, —
The first is William Wordsworth hight, the second Ned Fitzball!"
 

FYTTE THE SECOND

 
Oh, bright and gay hath dawned the day on lordly Spitalfields, —
How flash the rays with ardent blaze from polished helms and shields!
On either side the chivalry of England throng the green,
And in the middle balcony appears our gracious Queen.
 
 
With iron fists, to keep the lists, two valiant knights appear,
The Marquis Hal of Waterford, and stout Sir Aubrey Vere.
"What ho! there, herald, blow the trump! Let's see who comes to claim
The butt of golden Xeres, and the Laureate's honored name!"
 
 
That instant dashed into the lists, all armed from head to heel,
On courser brown, with vizor down, a warrior sheathed in steel;
Then said our Queen – "Was ever seen so stout a knight and tall?
His name – his race?" – "An't please your grace, it is the brave Fitzball.
 
 
"Oft in the Melodrama line his prowess hath been shown,
And well throughout the Surrey side his thirst for blood is known.
But see, the other champion comes!" – Then rang the startled air
With shouts of "Wordsworth, Wordsworth, ho! the bard of Rydal's there."
 
 
And lo! upon a little steed, unmeet for such a course,
Appeared the honored veteran; but weak seemed man and horse.
Then shook their ears the sapient peers, – "That joust will soon be done:
My Lord of Brougham, I'll back Fitzball, and give you two to one!"
 
 
"Done," quoth the Brougham, – "And done with you!" "Now minstrels, are you ready?"
Exclaimed the Lord of Waterford, – "You'd better both sit steady.
Blow, trumpets, blow the note of charge! and forward to the fight!"
"Amen!" said good Sir Aubrey Vere; "Saint Schism defend the right!"
 
 
As sweeps the blast against the mast when blows the furious squall,
So started at the trumpet's sound the terrible Fitzball;
His lance he bore his breast before, – Saint George protect the just!
Or Wordsworth's hoary head must roll along the shameful dust!
 
 
"Who threw that calthrop? Seize the knave!" Alas! the deed is done;
Down went the steed, and o'er his head flew bright Apollo's son.
"Undo his helmet! cut the lace! pour water on his head!"
"It ain't no use at all, my lord; 'cos vy? the covey's dead!"
 
 
Above him stood the Rydal bard – his face was full of woe.
"Now there thou liest, stiff and stark, who never feared a foe:
A braver knight, or more renowned in tourney and in hall,
Ne'er brought the upper gallery down than terrible Fitzball!"
 
 
They led our Wordsworth to the Queen – she crowned him with the bays
And wished him many happy years, and many quarter-days;
And if you'd have the story told by abler lips than mine,
You've but to call at Rydal Mount, and taste the Laureate's wine!
 

William Aytoun.

AFTER EMERSON

MUTTON

 
IF the fat butcher thinks he slays,
Or he – the mutton – thinks he's slain,
Why, "troth is truth," the eater says —
"I'll come, and cut and come again."
 
 
To hungry wolves that on him leer
Mutton is cheap, and sheep the same,
No famished god would at him sneer —
To famine, chops are more than fame.
 
 
Who hiss at him, him but assures
That they are geese, but wanting wings —
Your coat is his whose life is yours,
And baa! the hymn the mutton sings.
 
 
Ye curs, and gods of grander blood,
And you, ye Paddies fresh from Cork,
Come taste, ye lovers of the good —
Eat! Stuff! and turn your back on pork.
 

Anonymous.

AFTER MARY HOWITT

THE LOBSTER QUADRILLE

 
"WILL you walk a little faster?" said a whiting to a snail,
"There's a porpoise close behind us, and he's treading on my tail.
See how eagerly the lobsters and the turtles all advance!
They are waiting on the shingle – will you come and join the dance?
Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance?
Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?
 
 
"You can really have no notion how delightful it will be
When they take us up and throw us, with the lobsters, out to sea!"
But the snail replied "Too far, too far!" and gave a look askance —
Said he thanked the whiting kindly, but he would not join the dance.
Would not, could not, would not, could not, would not join the dance.
Would not, could not, would not, could not, could not join the dance.
 
 
"What matters it how far we go?" his scaly friend replied.
"There is another shore, you know, upon the other side.
The further off from England the nearer is to France —
Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance.
Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance?
Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?"
 

Lewis Carroll.

AFTER MRS. BROWNING

IN THE GLOAMING

 
IN the gloaming to be roaming, where the crested waves are foaming,
And the shy mermaidens combing locks that ripple to their feet;
When the gloaming is, I never made the ghost of an endeavor
To discover – but whatever were the hour, it would be sweet.
 
 
"To their feet," I say, for Leech's sketch indisputably teaches
That the mermaids of our beaches do not end in ugly tails,
Nor have homes among the corals; but are shod with neat balmorals,
An arrangement no one quarrels with, as many might with scales.
 
 
Sweet to roam beneath a shady cliff, of course with some young lady,
Lalage, Nærea, Haidee, or Elaine, or Mary Ann:
Love, you dear delusive dream, you! Very sweet your victims deem you,
When, heard only by the seamew, they talk all the stuff one can.
 
 
Sweet to haste, a licensed lover, to Miss Pinkerton, the glover;
Having managed to discover what is dear Nærea's "size":
P'raps to touch that wrist so slender, as your tiny gift you tender,
And to read you're no offender, in those laughing hazel eyes.
 
 
Then to hear her call you "Harry," when she makes you fetch and carry —
O young men about to marry, what a blessed thing it is!
To be photograph'd – together – cased in pretty Russia leather —
Hear her gravely doubting whether they have spoilt your honest phiz!
 
 
Then to bring your plighted fair one first a ring – a rich and rare one —
Next a bracelet, if she'll wear one, and a heap of things beside;
And serenely bending o'er her, to inquire if it would bore her
To say when her own adorer may aspire to call her bride!
 
 
Then, the days of courtship over, with your WIFE to start for Dover
Or Dieppe – and live in clover evermore, what e'er befalls;
For I've read in many a novel that, unless they've souls that grovel
Folks prefer in fact a hovel to your dreary marble halls.
 
 
To sit, happy married lovers; Phillis trifling with a plover's
Egg, while Corydon uncovers with a grace the Sally Lunn,
Or dissects the lucky pheasant – that, I think, were passing pleasant,
As I sit alone at present, dreaming darkly of a Dun.
 

C. S. Calverley.

GWENDOLINE

 
'TWAS not the brown of chestnut boughs
That shadowed her so finely;
It was the hair that swept her brows,
And framed her face divinely;
Her tawny hair, her purple eyes,
The spirit was ensphered in,
That took you with such swift surprise,
Provided you had peered in.
 
 
Her velvet foot amid the moss
And on the daisies patted,
As, querulous with sense of loss,
It tore the herbage matted.
"And come he early, come he late,"
She saith, "it will undo me;
The sharp fore-speeded shaft of fate
Already quivers through me.
 
 
"When I beheld his red-roan steed,
I knew what aim impelled it.
And that dim scarf of silver brede,
I guessed for whom he held it.
I recked not, while he flaunted by,
Of Love's relentless vi'lence
Yet o'er me crashed the summer sky,
In thunders of blue silence.
 
 
"His hoof-prints crumbled down the dale,
But left behind their lava;
What should have been my woman's mail
Grew jellied as guava.
I looked him proud, but 'neath my pride
I felt a boneless tremor;
He was the Beér, I descried,
And I was but the Seemer!
 
 
"Ah, how to be what then I seemed,
And bid him seem that is so!
We always tangle threads we dreamed,
And contravene our bliss so,
I see the red-roan steed again!
He looks as something sought he;
Why, hoity-toity! – he is fain,
So I'll be cold and haughty!"
 

Bayard Taylor.

AFTER LONGFELLOW

THE MODERN HIAWATHA

 
HE killed the noble Mudjokivis.
Of the skin he made him mittens,
Made them with the fur side inside,
Made them with the skin side outside.
He, to get the warm side inside,
Put the inside skin side outside;
He, to get the cold side outside,
Put the warm side fur side inside.
That's why he put the fur side inside,
Why he put the skin side outside,
Why he turned them inside outside.
 

Anonymous.