T E E ;
Or, Mitchell in Norfolk Island. There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin, The dew on his breeches was heavy and chill; He thought of the days of his spouting and “beering,” As he rattled his chains on the wind-beaten hill. He looked towards the north with an air of devotion, And thought of the very green isle of the ocean, Which once he had put in such awful commotion
By bawling and roaring out Erin-go-bragh!
“Sad is my fate,” said the gray-coated stranger, “My cousins, the apes to their caverns can flee, But I in a chain-gang of convicts must range here; Repose or tobacco exist not for me;
Ne’er again in the snug little bar Where my ancestors dwelt, shall I smoke the cigar. Or cheer on the rabble of Dublin to war
By bawling and roaring out Erin-go-Bragh!
he Puppet Show, May 27, 1848.
T V E .
There came an ex-Premier from England to Erin, If not to his tongue, to give rest to his quill. From his country he came in the hope of repairing Some errors whose memory clings to him still. Can we doubt that e’en now, as he traversed the ocean, His conscience recalled with a doubtful emotion
The day when, to show to the priests his devotion, He danced to the music of Erin-go-bragh?
O fond is my breast, said the time-serving stranger, O Erin! dear Erin! my heart yearns to thee.
The day still I rue when we parted in anger, For a place and a party remain not in me.
Then grant me once more for a day or an hour
The pleasures of office, the semblance of power.
O cover my head with the shamrock’s green flower, And I’ll dance to the measure of Erin-go-bragh.
O Erin! dear island! though sad and forsaken, In dreams I revisit the Speaker’s right hand; But, alas! with the dawn’s reappearing I waken, Regretful I broke with the Irish brass band.
O fate, cruel fate! would’st thou only replace me
On the Treasury Bench, with few Tories to face me, With Biggar, O’Donnell, Parnell to embrace me, I’d seem like their leader, though they might command.
Where is my great University measure? Prelates and priests, did ye weep o’er its fall?
O how can you dwell on its failure with pleasure, Which gave to you Trinity College and all?
O my poor pen, long abandoned to railing!
O my sad tongue, is thy influence failing?
Pamphlets and speeches are both unavailing, My power and my party they cannot recall.
O that, all sad recollections suppressing, From the future one bright grain of hope I could draw, I’d sing, over-coming, all memories distressing, Home Rule for ever! sweet Erin-go-bragh! Sea-sick and ill when I feel the ship’s motion, Still joyously homeward I’ll traverse the ocean, And murmur, in token of grateful devotion, Home Rule for ever! and Erin-go-bragh!
rom “They are Five,” by W. E. G., 1877.
In the thirtieth of the Poem Competitions in “The World,” two prizes were offered for poems on “Ireland’s Distress,” the model selected being Campbell’s “Exile of Erin.” The first prize was gained by Captain Walford (Kommitop); the second by Miss Chamberlayne (Hypophosphate.) The Poems were printed in “The World” March 3, 1880.
I ’ D .
I saw in a dream the sad angel of Erin; Her green robe hung loosely, so withered her form; For her country she sighed, as though almost despairing, Of shelter and rest from the pitiless storm. Though the day-star of Hope, rising fair o’er the ocean, Shone bright on the mist of her eye’s sad devotion; Yet scarcely her lips, in their trembling emotion, Could whisper the anthem of Erin-go-bragh.
‘Sad is my fate!’ said the heart-broken stranger; ‘The wild deer and fox shall be monarchs alone; For, racked by the tortures of famine and danger, To new homes and new countries my children have flown, Never again, when the hill-tops are hoary And the winter winds wail, shall they list to the story, Which their forefathers loved, of their countrymen’s glory, Nor join in the chorus of Erin-go-bragh.
Britannia, my sister, though sad and forsaken, In hope I yet linger about thy rough shore;
Alas, has my anguish no power to awaken Some pity to love, and some aid to restore?
O happy land, only thou can’st replace me In a haven of peace! If thine arms shall embrace me, Never again shall my children disgrace me, Nor die at a distance, but live in my heart.
Now is the cabin-door open and shattered, Father and mother are weeping within; Gone are their kindred, their friends are all scattered, Their children with famine are wasted and thin. Ah, my sad heart, as I look on this sorrow, Hopeless to-day, and despairing to-morrow, How can I dare any comfort to borrow From dreams which the future may blast and destroy?
Yet all the thoughts of its anguish suppressing, One only fond wish my sad heart can desire— That my sons’ bitter curses may change to a blessing, As faction shall languish and discord expire! Now wild with distress is my isle of the ocean; Then gladness shall swell my fond breast with emotion, And my children shall sing with new love and devotion, Erin mavourneen, Erin-go-bragh!’
K (C W ).
S P .
There crept o’er the loveliest isle of the ocean
The foretaste of famine, foreshadow of pain, And winter and want, with each fiercer emotion. Long-suffering patience had worn to the wane; For the food of the famishing people was rotten, And the hate that is often of hunger begotten
Embittered the hearts with sedition besotten, And the singers of Erin were silent again.
O, where is the ardour of Shiel and O’Connell, The heart-burning eloquence poured in the cause? Would it stimulate Parnell, impassion O’Donnell, If of hunger they felt for a moment the claws?
For small is the gain and the glory ensuing
From the tortuous path that their feet are pursuing, And slow the advance unto Ireland accruing, From forcing the coach-wheels of Albion to pause.
‘Sad is our fate,’ cries the famishing peasant; ‘The wild bird is left to its home on the tree, And corn is full lavishly flung to the pheasant, But no roof and no food for my children and me.
O, harder our fate than the horrors of fiction! When thrust by the merciless laws of eviction
From the home that is held by the heart’s predilection, We are forced o’er the bare breast of Erin to flee.
Erin, our country, as, weak and heart-broken, We wander half-starved over mountain and shore, And search for a remnant of hope, or a token
That life may be glad to our spirits once more; Can we trust that the hearths, now forlorn and forsaken, To welfare shall warm and to laughter awaken, And the dust from the wings of thy glory be shaken
To the future reëcho of Erin-go-bragh!
Sweet solace it were to the heart of the dying, That throbs his last pulse out on pitiless ground, Could he know that the land upon which he was lying Would smile into gladness, with plenty abound; And the trials and straights of despair and starvation Through which he was fighting should end in salvation To happier sons of a new generation, Who will sing the old anthem of Erin-go-bragh.’
H (M E. C .)
An imitation of Hohenlinden, written by Mr. F. B. Doveton, was given on page 28. It was descriptive of the Tay Bridge disaster, which happened in December, 1879.
The subject was chosen for a prize competition in The World, the model selected being Campbell’s Hohenlinden, and the following poems appeared in that journal on January 21, 1880:—
T T B D .
On Balgay when the sun was low, Pale gleamed the distant Grampian snow, And dark and muddy was the flow Through Strath-Tay ebbing rapidly.
But Balgay saw another sight, When rose the wind at fall of night, And distant gleams of splendour light The darkness of her scenery.
Mid light and darkness fast arrayed The Storm-King’s hosts commenced their raid, And every furious blast essayed To join the dreadful revelry.
:o: H O H E N L I N D E N .
Then shook the bridge with storm-gusts riven, Then rushed the cloud-wrack tempest-driven, And nearer ’neath the vault of heaven, Out flashed the train lights ruddily. But brighter still that light shall gleam, With one last flash o’er land and stream, And then shall vanish like a dream At daylight passing wearily.
The coming sun shall light no more Yon bridge that spans from shore to shore, And dark Dundee bereft shall cower Beneath her smoky canopy.
The horror deepens. Who can save Those rushing to a watery grave? Wave dashes wildly over wave, And leaps in dreadful rivalry.
None, none shall part where many meet; The sand shall be their winding sheet; No churchyard turf shall veil their feet In their untimely sepulchre.
C C (J. F. B .)
S P .
On Tay the summer sun sinks low, Soaring above the broad Firth’s flow; A thread athwart yon ruddy glow, The wondrous bridge winds airily.
But halcyon days have taken flight, Wild howls the storm this winter’s night, And ’gainst that daring fabric light The tempest rages furiously.
Homeward they wend from town and glade, Husband and wife, and youth and maid, For that dread race of death arrayed, An all-unconscious company.
Forth speeds the train to ruin driven— Is there no help, O pitying Heaven?
No warning voice in mercy given Of the impending destiny?
The signal beckons—on they go; Now o’er the bridge the lamp-lights glow, Where, in the shuddering depth below, The foam-flecked Firth roars hungrily.
With straining eyes the watchers run, Longing to mark the passage done. In vain: the blast his prey has won, And on it swoops relentlessly.
That fiery flash the signal gave; Down crashing through the maddened wave, Both bridge and freight have found a grave, Whelmed in one dire catastrophe.
With questioning eyes the mourners meet,
Blanched lips the fearful tale repeat; The wild wave rolling at their feet Mocks at their helpless misery.
C (L. B .)
B AT T L E O F T H E B A LT I C .
Of Nelson and the North, Sing the glorious day’s renown, When to battle fierce came forth
All the might of Denmark’s crown. And her arms along the deep proudly shone; By each gun the lighted brand, In a bold determined hand, And the Prince of all the land Led them on!
But the might of England flush’d To anticipate the scene; And her van the fleeter rush’d O’er the deadly space between.
“Hearts of Oak,” our captains cried! when each gun From its adamantine lips Spread a death-shade round the ships, Like the hurricane eclipse Of the sun.
Again! again! again! And the havoc did not slack, Till a feeble cheer the Dane
To our cheering sent us back;— Their shots along the deep slowly boom:— Then ceas’d—and all is wail, As they strike the shatter’d sail; Or, in conflagration pale,
:o:
* * * * *
Light the gloom.
T C .
The two following parodies of this poem occur in The University Snowdrop, an Edinburgh College Magazine. These and the interesting explanatory notes which accompany them have been kindly furnished by Mr. James Gordon, F.S.A., Scotland.
The winter of 1837-8 was very severe, and there was a heavy fall of snow in Edinburgh. On the 10th January some snowballing took place in front of the College, in which the students took part. The warfare between the students and the townspeople was renewed on the 11th, and became more serious. Several shop windows were broken, the shops were closed, and the street traffic suspended. The students, believing that the constables took the side of the mob against them, appeared on the 12th armed with sticks, to defend themselves against the constables batons. Then a regular riot took place, sticks and batons being freely used, and matters became so serious that the magistrates found it necessary to send to the Castle for a detachment of soldiers of the 79th Highlanders, which arrived and drew up across the College quadrangle, and peace was restored. Five students who had been most active in the fray were tried by the Sheriff and were acquitted. The trial lasted three days. Among the witnesses for the prosecution were the Lord Provost, some Bailies, and the heads of the police force. The students were defended by Patrick Robertson, in a most amusing speech. He was made a Lord of Session, and wrote some volumes of poetry, now unsaleable, if ever they did sell. Lockhart wrote an epitaph for him:—
“Here lies that peerless paper lord, Lord Peter, Who broke the laws of ‘gods and men’ and metre.”
A report of the trial was published, which was followed by “The University Snowdrop, an appendix to the Great Trial, containing a selection of squibs, old and new, descriptive of the wars of the
* * * * *
quadrangle and the consequences thereof. With magnificent embellishments.” Edinburgh, 1838.
The “embellishments” are pen and ink portraits of the principal parties concerned in the riot, drawn by Edward Forbes, then a student, who became a Professor. (His widow married Major Yelverton, from which event sprang the famous case of Longworth against Yelverton.)
B B .
Of Alma and the North, Sing the glorious day’s renown, When the students all stood forth ’Gainst the minions of the town. And their snowballs on the Bridge fleetly flew I can’t tell how or why, But each Student took a shy, And floored were passers by Not a few!
Like ravens to the row, Came Pond and his Police, (For breaking heads, we know, Is their way of keeping peace,) It was two post meridiem by the bell: Up the Bridges as they dashed, The boldest looked abashed, For they knew they would be hashed Very well!
Out the youth of Alma poured
To anticipate the scene—
And the balls the faster showered
O’er the deadly space between:
“We’ll be licked!” bellowed Pond, “that’s the fact.”
So around his band he looks,
“Now go, B20, Snooks, And summon Bailie Crooks
With the Act.”
The Act was read in vain— And the havoc did not slack, Till Crooks had fled again To the Council chambers back, And that there was a riot he would vouch: Then came the soldiers all, With their captains stout and tall, And sixty rounds of ball In their pouch.
Out spake the Major then, And he trembled as he spoke—
“We are brothers—we are men—
By the Lord, my nose is broke!
Are your cartridges, my men, duly rammed; Our patience you will tire Peace is all we require, Then yield, or we shall fire!”
“You be d——d!”
Then the Provost forth he came, For he saw it was no go: Said he “It is a shame
To treat the Students so,—
If you’ll promise, my young friends, to withdraw, No longer at the gate
The Policemen shall await, And the vengeance I’ll abate Of the law.”
“That will do,” the Students cried, And each band departed straight. And one by one they hied
Through the lofty College gate.
But they knew not how severely they were watched; For Pond and all his rout
Raised a horrid shout, And as every man came out He was cotched.
Brave hearts! who fought so well Once so faithful and so true, In your dungeon’s gloomy cell Our eyes shall weep for you. We’ll be bail for every one of you and bond! And when you all are freed, I think we are agreed On one article of creed, D P !!!
Of the combat in the North, Sing the glorious days’ renown, When the Charlies’ fierce came forth, To defend the trembling town, While the ragged crew without, hiss and groan. Each student took his stand, Till the College gates were mann’d, And shillellahs in each hand, Proudly shone.
Intent upon a row, Rose their clamour wild and loud, And in showers the snowballs flew, At the ragamuffin crowd. It was just two o’clock by the time; When the medicals came out, As each waved his cudgel stout, Cried “To crack a Charlie’s snout Is no crime.”
So down the stairs they dashed, Spreading terror far and wide; Right and left the crabsticks smash’d; Yells were heard on every side. “Hit ’em hard,” was the cry—when each man With an adamantine whack, Made their empty noddles crack, Now, ye Charlies, pay them back!! If ye can!!!
Again, again, again, And the havoc did not slack, Till to cut their sticks, they deign, And within the gates fly back. Stones and dirt along the streets, slowly boom; And the Charlies’ bruised and pale,
S L B .
With the mob behind their tail, Our environs to assail, Did presume.
With joy ye students shout, At the tidings of your might, How ye made the claret spout! How the scoundrels mauled took flight! Until midst their howling and uproar, The Lobsters in were led, And the Riot Act was read, While the Provost popp’d his head Through the door.
Brave hearts! turn out’s the word; Though you’ve leathered the police, Yet a baton’s not a sword, So leave the field in peace. And our bards shall sing the glory of the day, How many a skull and hat, To the tune of “Tit for Tat,” Was bash’d and batter’d flat, In the fray.
K .
In the same volume (which is now very scarce) there are also Parodies of “Lochiel’s Warning,” entitled the “Student’s Warning,” one of a passage from Marmion, and another imitating The Lady of the Lake:—
“Hail to the chief who in triumph advances,” &c. headed “Clan Charlie’s Pibroch,” and a parody of Hamlet’s Soliloquy, commencing, “To stand or not to stand, that is the question?” This is headed, “The Policeman’s Soliloquy.” :o:
T B P - .
(Improved from Campbell.)
[Covent Garden Theatre was destroyed by fire on March 5, 1856, during a masked ball conducted by Anderson, the self-styled “Wizard of the North.”]
Of the “Wizard of the North Sing the Tuesday’s night renown, When he let the gas break forth And burn the play-house down. And illuminated London brightly shown, While a masquerading band, Almost too drunk to stand, But all holding hand in hand, Revelled on.
Detesting every note, (They’d been playing there from nine), The orchestra scarce kept
From kicking up a shine.
It was five of Wednesday morn, by the chime, And as each fiddler saith, Tobacco choked his breath, And he played, fatigued to death, Out of time.
Any decent folks had blushed
To assist at such a scene— But, sudden, firemen rushed
Where before they should have been, And “Fire! fire!” the Wizard cried, and the fun Stopped upon pallid lips, For the ceiling and the slips
Glowed like a mountain’s tips
In the sun.
The Main! the Main! the Main!
But beams came tumbling whack,
And a shower of fiery rain
Falls on the frightened pack, And each hurries from the menaced doom, And gents with terror pale Pay no heed to woman’s wail, And the flames at once prevail And consume.
Down went Covent Garden then, Vain was the engine’s wave, Vainly the gallant men
Struggled the wealth to save— The clock twice saved away indeed they bring, But the Muse’s ancient seat Is a ruin most complete; Ashes, where song’s élite Used to sing.
And London’s blame was chief
For the stupid heads of those Who have doubtless come to grief Through the Wizard’s vulgar shows. A play-house is intended for a play; If you let it for a night
To a Quack, you but invite A fate that serves you right, You may say.
Now joy old opera raise
For the tidings of the night, Once more thy gas shall blaze, Once more thy songs delight, And though losing our fine house is a bore, Let us think of those who weep Their tools—by no means cheap— A charred and melted heap On its floor.
T L G .
(After Thomas Campbell’s Last Man—also after the Official Report that there are one hundred and fifty seven fewer Four-wheeled Cabs in London now than last year.)
Four million souls without a Fly! Shall we then realise Our lack of common comforts, born From lack of enterprise?
I saw a vision in my sleep That caused me from my bed to leap, And skip around the room; I saw the Final Growler go Unhonoured, hideous, mean and slow, To its appointed doom!
The gas-lamps had a sickly glare, And not a heart did bleed
As passed that bony hulk along. Drawn by its bony steed; The Hansom Cabmen winked and leered, The very Crossing-Sweeper jeered, The street-boys raised a yell: And bliss o’er troubled spirits slid To see that Four-wheeled Monster bid To fares a long farewell!
Yet, martyr-like, the Driver sat; He knew the end was near Of over-charge and under-pay, And did not shed a tear; Saying—“Too long I have delayed; My Cab is old, my Horse decayed,
:o:
S B .
’Tis mercy bids me bolt; For fifty years of mortal breath, We’ve jolted Passengers to death, And shall no longer jolt.
“What though upon my seats have writhed The Great, perhaps the Good. Condemned in this proud Capital To use my box of wood? Yet now repentance, all too late, Makes me confess that ne’er did Fate A vehicle provide More maddening in each palsied shake, Or where long-suffering Fares might take, A more atrocious ride?
“’Tis done! Oblivion’s curtain falls Upon the myriad men Who’ve blown me up, and knocked me down, And ‘had me up’ again. Those frowsy cushions bring not back Nor stretch four souls upon the rack By Nature made for twain!
Oh, let this cramped roof-tree go, Also thy dirty straw below, Thou Vehicle of Pain!
“Even I am weary now of playing My customary pranks; Rank idiocy it was to place Such Cabs upon the ranks! How came it, else, that London’s sons To stable-owning Goths and Huns
For aid in vain did cry, While every Gent, and every Cad, In Aberdeen and Glasgow had His reputable Fly?
