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 Not kindled heretofore by other pains,
As oft y’ave wanted brains
And art to strike the white,
As you have levell’d right:
Yet if men vouch not things apocryphal,
You bellow, rave, and spatter round your gall.

Jug, Pierce, Peek, Fly[63], and all

Your jests so nominal,
Are things so far beneath an able brain,
As they do throw a stain
Thro’ all th’ unlikely plot, and do displease
As deep as Pericles.
Where yet there is not laid
Before a chamber-maid
Discourse so weighed[64], as might have serv’d of old
For schools, when they of love and valour told.

Why rage, then? when the show

Should judgment be, and know-[65]
ledge, there are plush who scorn to drudge
For stages, yet can judge
Not only poets’ looser lines, but wits,
And all their perquisits;
A gift as rich as high
Is noble poesie:
Yet, tho’ in sport it be for Kings to play,
’Tis next mechanicks’ when it works for pay.

Alcæus lute had none,

Nor loose Anacreon
E’er taught so bold assuming of the bays
When they deserv’d no praise.
To rail men into approbation
Is new to your’s alone:
And prospers not: for known,
Fame is as coy, as you
 Can be disdainful; and who dares to prove
A rape on her shall gather scorn—not love.

Leave then this humour vain,

And this more humourous strain,
Where self-conceit, and choler of the blood,
Eclipse what else is good:
Then, if you please those raptures high to touch,
Whereof you boast so much:
And but forbear your crown
Till the world puts it on:
No doubt, from all you may amazement draw,
Since braver theme no Phœbus ever saw.

To console Ben for this reprimand, Randolph, one of the adopted

poetical sons of Jonson, addressed him as follows:—
A A M .B J ’ O ,
T P L S .
I.
Ben, do not leave the stage
Cause ’tis a loathsome age:
For pride and impudence will grow too bold,
When they shall hear it told
They frighted thee; Stand high, as is thy cause;
Their hiss is thy applause:
More just were thy disdain,
Had they approved thy vein:
So thou for them, and they for thee were born;
They to incense, and thou as much to scorn.

II.
Wilt thou engross thy store
Of wheat, and pour no more,
Because their bacon-brains had such a taste
As more delight in mast:
No! set them forth a board of dainties, full
 As thy best muse can cull;
Whilst they the while do pine
And thirst, midst all their wine.
What greater plague can hell itself devise,
Than to be willing thus to tantalise?
III.
Thou canst not find them stuff,
That will be bad enough
To please their pallates: let ’em them refuse,
For some Pye-corner muse:
She is too fair an hostess, ’twere a sin
For them to like thine Inn:
’Twas made to entertain
Guests of a nobler strain;
Yet, if they will have any of the store,
Give them some scraps, and send them from thy dore.
IV.
And let those things in plush
Till they be taught to blush,
Like what they will, and more contented be
With what Broom[66] swept from thee.
I know thy worth, and that thy lofty strains
Write not to cloaths, but brains:
But thy great spleen doth rise,
’Cause moles will have no eyes;
This only in my Ben I faulty find,
He’s angry they’ll not see him that are blind.
V.
Why shou’d the scene be mute
’Cause thou canst touch the lute
And string thy Horace? Let each Muse of nine
Claim thee, and say, th’art mine.
’Twere fond, to let all other flames expire,
To sit by Pindar’s fire:
 For by so strange neglect
I should myself suspect
Thy palsie were as well thy brain’s disease,
If they could shake thy muse which way they please.
VI.
And tho’ thou well canst sing
The glories of thy King,
And on the wings of verse his chariot bear
To heaven, and fix it there;
Yet let thy muse as well some raptures raise
To please him, as to praise.
I would not have thee chuse
Only a treble muse;
But have this envious, ignorant age to know,
Thou that canst sing so high, canst reach as low.
 COLONEL RICHARD
LOVELACE.
(Born about 1618. Educated at Oxford. Imprisoned by the Long
Parliament. Afterwards served in the French army. The latter part of his life
was very miserable. He died in an alley near Shoe Lane, in 1658.)
TO ALTHEA.
When Love, with unconfinèd wings,
Hovers within my gates,
And my divine Althea brings
To whisper at the grates;
When I lie tangled in her hair,
And fettered to her eye,
The birds that wanton in the air
Know no such liberty.

When flowing cups run swiftly round

With no allaying Thames,
Our careless heads with roses crowned,
Our hearts with loyal flames;
When thirsty grief in wine we steep,
When healths and draughts go free—
Fishes that tipple in the deep
Know no such liberty.

When, linnet-like, confinèd, I

With shriller throat shall sing
The sweetness, mercy, majesty
And glories of my King;
When I shall voice aloud how good
He is, how great should be,
Enlargèd winds, that curl the flood,
 Know no such liberty.

Stone walls do not a prison make,[67]

Nor iron bars a cage;
Minds innocent and quiet take
That for an hermitage:
If I have freedom in my love
And in my soul am free,
Angels alone, that soar above,
Enjoy such liberty.
R. L .
 S .—A L - .
Grey hairs do not a prophet make,
Nor wrinkled brow a sage;
Though Innocence as such may take
These signs upon Life’s stage.
Some think they are in “wrinkles” wise,
And some a profit find
In hair—but then it is in dyes,
And braids to pin behind!

Though flowing locks will drop away,

The flowing cups remain.
The drops they hold will go, but they
Can still be filled again.
And ’tis a “wrinkle” Age has taught,
That clay must ne’er be dry,
Lest into crumbling dust ’tis brought
So, fill the Tankard high!
C. H. W .
From Hood’s Comic Annual. 1885.

The author of the above parody, Mr.C. H. Waring, is a frequent

contributor to Fun, and other humorous periodicals. He was formerly
associated with George Cruikshank in several literary ventures. The
amusing parody on Lord Tennyson’s Revenge entitled “Retribution,” on
page 42, Volume I. Parodies, was also from his pen.
 AF M .
Champagne will not a dinner make,
Nor Caviare a meal:
Men gluttonous and rich, may take
Those till they make them ill.
If I’ve potatoes to my chop,
And after chop have cheese,
Angels in Pond and Spiers’s shop
Know no such luxuries!
Punch. April 3, 1875.
——:o:——
 TO LUCASTA.
O G W .
Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind,
That from the nunnery
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind
To war and arms I fly.
True, a new mistress now I chase,—
The first foe in the field;
And with a stronger love embrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.
Yet this inconstancy is such
As you, too, shall adore:
I could not love thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not honour more.
R. L .
 T G O O’D M E .
Tell me not, sweet, it is a dodge
Because so swift I hie,
From making love to Molly Hodge
And wink at thee an eye!
True, a new charmer now I chase
Across wild Faction’s field,
Prepared, with shame-forgetting face,
Whate’er thou wilt, to yield.
Yet this apostacy is such
As thou, too, shalt adore:
I should not love thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not office more.
Moonshine. January 2, 1886.
——:o:——
 HANG SORROW, LET’S CAST AWAY CARE.
The Rev. Mr. J. W. Ebsworth, a great authority on our early songs and
ballads, supplies the following information as to the different existing
versions of “Hang sorrow.”
The music of this old ballad was composed by William Lawes, and
“published by John Hilton: printed for John Benson and John Playford, and
to be sould in St. Dunstan’s Churchyard, and in the Inner Temple neare the
Church doore, 1652.” It reappeared in ‘Windsor Drollery,’ 1672, with a few
verbal alterations.
From J. Hilton’s ‘Catch that Catch Can,’ 1652 (music by William
Lawes):—
Hang Sorrow and cast away Care,
and let us drink up our Sack;
They say ’tis good to cherish the blood,
and for to strengthen the back.
’Tis wine that makes the thoughts aspire,
and fills the body with heat;
Besides ’tis good, if well understood,
to fit a man for the feat:
Then call and drink up all,
The Drawer is ready to fill,
A Pox of care, what need we to spare?
my father has made his will.
Another version appeared in an excessively rare work, “The New
Academy of Complements,” 1671, as, Song 276:—
Hang fear, cast away care,
The parish is bound to find us,
Thou and I and all must die,
And leave this world behinde us.
The Bells shall ring, the Clerk shall sing,
And the good old wife shall winde us,
 And John shall lay our bones in clay
Where the Devil ne’er shall find us.
A later version is in Playford’s ‘Musical Companion,’ 1673. There is
also a Roxburghe ballad beginning similarly, but quite distinct from these
two songs. It is entitled, “Joy and Sorrow mixt together. To the tune of,
Such a Rogue should be hang’d.” Which is the same tune as ‘Old Sir Simon
the King.’ Here is the first of the fourteen stanzas for comparison. The
ballad is preserved in the Roxburghe Collection (vol. 1. fol. 170), and has
been reprinted in the Ballad Society’s publication, vol. 1 p. 509:—
Hang sorrow, let’s cast away care,
for now I do mean to be merry,
Wee’l drink some good Ale and strong Beere,
With sugar, and clarret, and sherry.
Now I’le have a wife of mine own,
I shall have no need to borrow;
I would have it for to be known
that I shall be married to-morrow.
(Burden:) Here’s a health to my Bride that shall be,
Come pledge it you boon merry blades:
The day I much long for to see,
We will be as merry as the Maides, &c.
This ballad was written and signed by Richard Climsell, and was printed
for John Wright the younger, dwelling in the Old Bayley.
D S .
Cast away care, he that loves sorrow
Lengthens not a day, nor can buy to-morrow;
Money is trash; and he that will spend it,
Let him drink merrily, Fortune will send it.
Merrily, merrily, merrily, Oh, ho!
Play it off stiffly, we may not part so.
* * * * *

J F . (About 1623.)
 A play, ascribed to Fletcher, entitled The Bloody Brother; or Rollo, Duke
of Normandy, printed as early as 1640, contains a somewhat similar defence
of drinking:—
AD S
Drink to-day, and drown all sorrow,
You shall perhaps not do it to-morrow:
Best, while you have it, use your breath;
There is no drinking after death.
Wine works the heart up, wakes the wit,
There is no cure ’gainst age but it:
It helps the head-ach, cough, and ptisick,
And is for all diseases physick.
Then let us swill, boys, for our health;
Who drinks well, loves the Commonwealth.
And he that will to bed go sober
Falls with the leaf, still in October.[68]
 Five reasons for Drinking.
There are five reasons, as I think,
Why man, being reasonable, should drink.
A friend—a bottle—being dry.
Or, that one may be, by and bye,
Or—any other reason why.
——:o:——
T B H B .
(Anti-Bacchanalian Song, dedicated to the Temperance
Society, as an Aid to Moral Suasion.)
A .—“Three Jolly Postboys.”
Three Band of Hope Boys, drinking, on their mettle,
Three Band of Hope Boys, drinking, on their mettle,
And they determinèd,
And they determinèd,
And they determined again to tap the kettle.
We’ll have t’other cup; pour on the water.
We’ll have t’other cup; pour on the water.
Fill us the teapot up,
Fill us the teapot up,
Fill us the teapot up, strong liquor’s self-slaughter.
Tea cheers the gloomy, the sad, and melancholic,
Tea cheers the gloomy, the sad, and melancholic,
And it not inebriates,
And it not inebriates,
And it not inebriates like potions alcoholic.
He that drinks mixed punch, and goes to bed mellow,
He that drinks mixed punch, and goes to bed mellow,
Lives as he shouldn’t do,
Lives as he shouldn’t do,
Lives as he shouldn’t do, and wakes a seedy fellow.
He that drinks mild tea, and goes to bed sober,
He that drinks mild tea, and goes to bed sober,
Lasts as the leaves do,
 Lasts as the leaves do,
Lasts as the leaves do, bright green in October.
Punch. May 7, 1870.
——:o:——
T B Y !
(After the Earl of Dorset’s Song.)
A .—“To all you Ladies now on Land.”
Ho! all you toilers in the land
Who freedom would promote,
We fain would have you understand
The way you ought to vote.
Old Whigs eschew,
And Tories too—
The Rads, they are the boys for you—
Boys for you!
With a fal-lal, lal-lal, la, la, la—
With a fal-lal, lal-lal, la, la, la—
With a fal-lal-lal, fal-lal-lal—
The Rads are the boys for you!

To Jingoes, of whatever ilk,

Who’d bid you with them march,
Proclaim for Chamberlain and Dilke,
And men like Burt and Arch.
Brave men and true,
Good work they’ll do,
And they’re the only boys for you—
Boys for you!
A .
The Weekly Dispatch. October 25, 1885.

——:o:——
B W .
 Sadly Lord Salisbury
Muttered “Oh, lor!”
As he was hobble-ing
Back from the war;
Wailing, “From Voterdom
Hither I come;
Party dear, Party dear,
Welcome me home!”

She at the thought of him

Mournfully wept;
Ruefully dreamt of him
Too, while she slept;
Wailing, “From Voterdom
Would thou could’st come
Victor—yet, Salisbury,
Hurry back home!”

Into her presence then

Slowly he came,
Seeking her sympathy,
Battered and lame;
Wailing, “From Voterdom
Vanquished I come:
Party dear, Party dear,
Soothe me at home!”
Fun. December 16, 1885.
 A .—“Gaily the Troubadour.”
Gaily the Grand Old Man
Spoke by the way,
As he was hurrying
Home from the fray,
Singing, “From Parliament
Hither I come;
Darling Midlothian,
Welcome me home.”

She for her veteran

Felt much distress’d;
Sadly she grieved for him,
By foes sore press’d,
Singing, “To succour thee,
Would I might come;
Grand Old Man! Grand Old Man!
Haste to thy home.”

Hark! ’twas the Grand Old Man

Breathing her name.
Through the applauding crowds
Swiftly he came,
Singing, “No need have I
Farther to roam.
Darling Midlothian,
Here is my home.”
E .
Truth. July 15, 1886.
 T C L P .
A —The King of the Cannibal Islands.
Now, all ye hungry Whigs, who wait
For pickings from your Premier’s plate,
Attend, while I predict the fate
Of the Chief of the Liberal Party.
No more he plays the daring game
That made all Europe fear his name;
The Temple now enshrines a Fame
Whose trumpet-notes are rather tame.
And he’s only saucy, “jaunty Pam”—
His boasted power’s an empty sham—
And his colleagues groan when he says, “I am
The Chief of the Liberal Party.”
Joking—poking feeble fun—
That is the way his work is done
By the Premier Palmerston—
The Chief of the Liberal Party.”

Pam’s oft the victim of his men—

For Gladstone’s tongue, or Russell’s pen
Brings into trouble, now and then,
The Chief of the Liberal Party.
Now Gladstone’s fancy decks finance
With all the charms of fair romance,
And shows an Income-tax advance.
Or cheapened rates on goods from France,
To be, in fact the nation’s gain—
While poor John Bull protests in vain,
And of his taxes doth complain
To the Chief of the Liberal Party.
Taxing, waxing, more and more,
We pay in peace the price of war—
Thanks to our brilliant Chancellor,
That not too “liberal” party.
 Then Russell will despatches write,
And bark at States he dares not bite:
His every movement causes fright
To the Chief of the Liberal Party.
“Non-intervention” is his plan.
And yet he’ll meddle where he can;
But nobody minds the little man,
Except perhaps poor, weak Japan,
And he’ll bully Prussia about the Danes,
And get a snubbing for his pains—
Till not a rag of respect remains
To the Chief of the Liberal Party!
Meddling, peddling everywhere—
Intervene and interfere—
Oh! what a Foreign Minister
Has the Chief of the Liberal Party!

But now the Whigs are in retreat—

At every poll they lose a seat—
So bid “good-bye” to Downing Street,
Oh, Chief of the Liberal Party!
The bench you fill, you soon shall face,—
Like your own jokes, be out of place!
And a better man your post shall grace—
The country’s fav’rite in the race;—
So clear the course for the D -day
Tories gather in strong array!
And Whigs prepare to clear the way
For the great C Party!
Gladstone, Russell, Grey & Co.,
Nobody mourns your overthrow—
Your time is come—so out you go
With the Chief of the Liberal Party!
E. J. G , 1864.

These verses were first sung at a dinner of the Edinburgh Conservative

Club, on February 19, 1864, and were published in the Edinburgh Courant,
February 21, 1864.
——:o:——
S B S ,S .
(A Lay of the Downy One.)
A .—“Dance, the Boatman, Dance.”
I lead a very merry and a rollicking life,
Each passing day with fun is rife,
I’ve hunters, I’ve a yacht, I’ve an Opera box,
And this is how I steer clear of rocks.
Sign the Bill Stamp, sign,
Sign the Bill Stamp, sign.
You may dance all night, ’neath the gay gas light,
If you only do a bill in the morning.
Heigho! I’m the regular doo,
Floating down Life’s river on an I.O.U.

I’m Director of ten railways, and a tip-top swell,

My villa’s at Richmond, my Club in Pall Mall.
I laugh at petty larcenies, and never cut my stick,
For this is the way we do the trick.
Sign the Bill Stamp, sign,
Sign the Bill Stamp, sign.
You may revel all night, and yet feel all right,
If you only do a bill in the morning.
Then heigho! for the regular doo,
Floating down Life’s river on an I.O.U.
The Man in the Moon. Vol. I.

——:o:——