O, THE SNOW! the beautiful snow!
Feathering down to the ground below.

Snow on the pavement, and snow on the street,
Snow on the boots of the people you meet.
Train, cab, or omnibus? O, no !-no!
Nothing to-day but the beautiful snow;
Nothing to go by and nowhere to go,
All through the fall of the beautiful snow.

O, the slush! the ineffable slush!

Snow, mud, and fog churned to maddening mush, Slush that slips in through the boots on your feet, Slush that slops up to your chimney-pot neat. Into town-into country-wherever you rush Nothing to-day but ineffable slush: Bedraggled merino, and velvet, and plush, Trail through the swamps of ineffable slush. The Globe. January, 28, 1886.

THAT BEAUTIFUL KISS.

When Madame Patti was in St. Louis, U.S., in 1884, the then Governor, Mr. T. T. Crittenden, called upon her, and during some playful badinage, he kissed her. The newspapers got hold of the story and humourously enlarged upon it, one of them published the following parody, wickedly ascribing it to the Governor :

OH, THAT kiss! that beautiful kiss!
Filling and thrilling my lips with its bliss ;
Reaching 'way down to the depths of my soul,
Voting early and often at joys inmost poll,
O, transport ecstatic! O rapture I hail
More pleasant than pardoning crooks out of jail,
Throbbing,

Sense robbing,

Oh bountiful bliss, I'd yield my political hopes for that kiss!

For me holds no bliss

One half so entrancing as that Patti kiss.

It could scarcely have been the same newspaper writer who wrote the following unfavourable criticism upon Madame Patti's singing: "Her technique is bad, besides being too small. When a bran-new technique can now be had for three dollars, and a good second-hand one, holding over two quarts, for $1.75, there is no excuse for this. Of course we all know-all we critics-that there are no tears in Mrs. A. Patti's voice, which is the reason for her having to wet her whistle so early and often. There is a marked deficiency in breadth, and depth, and thickness in the upper register, which does not admit the air freely in consequence, and a far-off nearness, a sort of inanimate after-taste, so to speak, in the diminuendo of her flats, particularly her French flat. Her singular mannerism of holding her chin lopsided during her G ups is in bad form, and the first thing she knows, one of her sharps will come out edgeways and cut her throat. Then she opens her mouth too much and too often when she sings, which makes her chest-notes mouthy, and her mouthnotes chesty. It would be much better, to say nothing of more artistic, if she were to open only one side of her mouth at a time. This would save wear and tear of her teeth, and at the same time give the other corner time to rest and brace up. She exerts herself too much in her trills, and it would save her both breath and expense if she had them hereafter done behind the scenes, by a boy with a dog-whistle or something."

:0:

HANS

BREITMANN'S BARTY.

HANS BREITMANN gife a barty;

Dey had biano-blayin;

I felled in lofe mit a Merican frau,
Her name was Madilda Yane.
She hat haar as prown ash a pretzel,
Her eyes vas himmel-plue,
Und vhen day looket indo mine,
Dey shplit mine heart in dwo.

Hans Breitmann gife a barty,

I vent dere you'll pe pound;

I valtzet mit Madilda Yane,

Und vent shpinnen' round and round.
De pootiest Fraulein in de house,

She vayed 'pout dwo hoondred pound,
Und efery dime she gife a shoomp
She make de vindows sound.

Hans Breitmann gife a barty,

I dells you it cost him dear;

Dey rolled in more ash sefen kecks

Öf foost-rate lager beer.

Und vhenefer dey knocks de shpicket in

De Deutschers gifes a cheer;

I dinks dat so vine a barty

Never coom to a het dis year.

Hans Breitmann gife a barty;

Dere all was Souse and Brouse,
Vhen de sooper comed in, de gompany
Did make demselfs to house;
Dey ate das Brot and Gensybroost,
De Bratwurst and Braten vine,
Und vash der Abendessen down
Mit four parrels of Neckarwein.

Hans Breitmann gife a barty;
Ve all cot troonk ash bigs;

I put mine mout' to a parrel of beer,
Und emptied it oop mit a schwigs;
Und den I gissed Madilda Yane,

Und she shlog me on the kop,

Und de gompany vighted mit daple-lecks
Dill de coonshtable made oos shtop.

Hans Breitmann gife a barty-
Vhere ish dat barty now?

Vhere ish de lofely golden cloud

Dat float on de moundain's prow?
Vhere ish de himmelstrahlende stern-
De shtar of de shpirit's light?

All goned afay mit de lager beer-
Afay in de ewigkeit !

CHARLES GODFREY LELAND.

THE FATE OF THE FOUR.

LORD Woodcock* had a Party,
Of high heroic strain;

They held that the Liberal lot were naught,
And Gladstone's vauntings vain.

They had principles of the patriot type,
True Neo-Tory Blue,

And when in muster full they met,

They numbered-just twice two!

* Lord Randolph Churchill.

THE FATE OF THE FRONTIERSMAN.

After Joaquin Miller, an exaggeration of an exaggeration, for indeed much of Miller's verse is a travesty of poetry.

THAT whiskey-jug! For dry or wet,
My tale will need its help, you bet!

We made for the desert, she and I,

Though life was loathsome, and love a lie,
And she gazed on me with her glorious eye,
But all the same,-I let her die!

For why?-there was barely water for one
In the small canteen, and of provender, none !

A splendid snake, with an emerald scale,
Slid before us along the trail,

With a famished parrot pecking its head;
And, seizing a huge and dark brown rock
In her dark brown hands, as you crush a crock,
With the dark brown rock she crushed it dead.
But ere her teeth in its flesh could meet,

I laid her as dead as the snake at my feet,
And grabbed the snake for myself to eat.

The plain stretched wide from side to side,
As bare and blistered and cracked and dried
As a moccasin sole of buffalo hide,

And my throat grew hot, as I walked the trail,
My blood in a sizzle, my muscles dry,
A crimson glare in my glorious eye,
And I felt my sinews wither and fail,
Like one who has lavished, for fifty nights,
His pile in a hell of gambling delights,
And is kicked at dawn, from bottle and bed,
And sent to the gulches without a red.
There was no penguin to pick or pluck,
No armadillo's throat to be stuck,

Not even a bilberry's ball of blue

To slush my tongue with its indigo dew,

And the dry brown palm-trees rattled and roared

Like the swish and swizzle of Walker's sword.

I was nigh rubbed out; when, far away,

A shanty baked in the furnace of day,
And I petered on, for an hour or more,

Till I dropped, like a mangy hound, at the door.

No soul to be seen; but a basin stood
On the bench, with a mess of dubious food,

Stringy and doughy and lumpy and thick,
As the clay ere flame has turned it to brick.
I gobbled it up with a furious fire,

A prairie squall of hungry desire,

And strength came back; when, lo! a scream
Closed my stomach and burst my dream.

She stood before me, as lithe and tall
As a mosqueet-bush on the Pimos wall,
Fierce as the Zuni panther's leap,
Fair as the slim Apache sheep.

A lariat draped her broad brown hips,
As she stood and glared with parted lips,
While piercing stitches and maddening shoots
Ran through my body, from brain to boots.
I would have clasped her, but ere I could,
She flung back her hair's tempestuous hood,
And screamed, in a voice like a tiger-cat's:
"You've gone and ett up my pizen for rats!"
My blood grew limp and my hair grew hard
As the steely tail of the desert pard:
I sank at her feet, convulsed and pale,
And kissed in anguish her brown toe-nail.

You may rip the cloud from the frescoed sky,
Or tear the man from his place in the moon,
Fur from the buzzard, and plumes from the coon,
But you can't tear me from the truth I cry,
That life is loathsome and love a lie.
She lifted me up to her bare brown face,
She cracked my ribs in her brown embrace,

And there in the shanty, side by side,

Each on the other's bosom died.

She's now the mistress of Buffalo Bill,

And pure as the heart of a lily still;

While I've killed all who have cared for me,

And I'm just as lonely as I can be,

So, pass the whiskey,-we'll have a spree !

From Diversions of the Echo Club, by Bayard Taylor.

Several other parodies of American poets have already been quoted from The Diversions of the Echo Club, and it is only now necessary to say of the others that they are written in imitation of E. C. Stedman, Mrs. Sigourney, W. C. Bryant, T. B. Oldrich, Mrs. Stoddard, N. P. Willis, R. H. Stoddard, Henry T. Tuckerman, Jean Ingelow, George H. Baker, Mrs. Julia Ward Howe, and William Winter.

:0:

WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE! This favourite old song was written by an American, General G. P. Morris, and several parodies of it were inserted in Volume IV., the following has since been received from the United States :

THE WOODMAN'S REPLY.

No, mum, this 'ere old tree
Can't be no longer spared;

It ain't no odds to me,

If Muster Brown was squared ; But Muster Brown says, "Green, You drop that there tree down," And what he say he mean, Sure-ly, do Muster Brown.

I don't possess the 'ed
To hargify with you,

A lady born and bred

Is safe to speak what's true.
But, put a case, I takes
A job from Mr. B.

(And little 'tis I makes

Out of the likes of he).

Your heart-strings, and all that, Round this 'ere tree may clingTo contradict you flat,

Would not be quite the thing; But if you talk of shade, There's other boughs than these, And other folks have played, Mayhap, round other trees.

It's very good to feel

A mystning of the eyes, For chairs of oak or deal,

And old straw-hats likewise,

To keep, if you've a mind,

The things as makes you weep;

I've got no fault to find,

If they're your own to keep.
But this 'ere old oak tree,

As you don't want cut down,
Excuse me, mum, you see,
Belongs to Muster Brown.
To him you should apply,
Though 'taint no use I think,
And if you please, mum, I

Should like your health to drink.

GODFREY TURNER.

Although, as has been seen, American writers have abundance of humour, it does not make them proud, and they will appropriate the comic writings of our authors, without acknowledgment, in the most condescending manner. A volume of amusing verse entitled "Songs of Singularity" was brought out by Mr. Walter Parke in 1874, it contained a ballad on the mother-in-law, a theme of never-failing fruitfulness to the satirist. That same ballad afterwards appeared in the San Francisco News Letter, duly appropriated and altered to suit the local market, without one word of acknowledgment to the original author.

BY THE SAD SEA WAVES.

AN IDYLL.

"O gai!"-French exclamation of delight.
HE stood on his head on the wild sea shore,
And joy was the cause of the act,
For he felt as he never had felt before,
Insanely glad in fact.

And why? In that vessel that left the bay
His mother-in-law had sail'd

To a tropical country far away,

Where tigers and snakes prevailed.
And more than one of his creditors too-
Those objects of constant dread-
Had taken berths in that ship "Curlew,"
Whose sails were so blithely spread.
Ah! now he might hope for a quiet life,
Which he never had known as yet,
'Tis true that he still possessed a wife,
And was not quite out of debt,

But he watch'd the vessel, this singular chap,
O'er the waves as she up'd and down'd,

And he felt exactly like Louis Nap.
When "the edifice was crown'd."

Till over the blue horizon's edge

She disappeared from view,
Then up he leapt on a chalky ledge
And danced like a kangaroo.

And many and many a joysome lay
He pealed o'er the sunset sea;

'Till down with a "fizz" went the orb of day, And then he went home to tea.

WALTER PARKE.

HIS MOTHER-IN-LAW.

HE stood on his head by the wild sea shore,
And danced on his hands a jig ;

In all his emotions, as never before,

A wildly hilarious grig.

And why? In that ship just crossing the bay

His mother-in-law had sail'd

For a tropical country far away,

Where tigers and fever prevailed.

Oh! now he might hope for a peaceful life
And even be happy yet,

Though owning no end of neuralgic wife,

And up to his collar in debt.

He had borne the old lady through thick and thin;
And she lectured him out of breath;

And now as he looked at the ship she was in,
He howled for her violent death.

He watched as the good ship cut the sea,
And bumpishly up-and-downed,

And thought if already she qualmish might be,
He'd consider his happiness crowned.
He watched till beneath the horizon's edge
The ship was passing from view;
And he sprang to the top of a rocky ledge,
And pranced like a kangaroo.

He watched till the vessel became a speck
That was lost in the wandering sea,
And then, at the risk of breaking his neck,
Turned somersaults home to tea.

From The San Francisco News Letter.

Mr. Parke, being a good natured man, might not, perhaps, have objected to the theft of his poem, but the mutilations must have been galling to his feelings.

He has since republished the poem, with some alterations to fit it for music, in "Patter Poems, humourous and serious." London, Vizetelly and Co.

·:0:

ON THE PIER.

An American Idyll.

Our friend, Dapper English, on a Mississippi Pier, awaits the advent by river boat, of an Americaness whom he adores. A hunter, who will voyage by the same boat, drinks freely until its arrival, and thus urbanely accosts Dapper :Look ye hyar, young feller! Not you, ye wizen'd old stoat! Him! that smarty chap. What flower 's that in your coat? It looks so bright an' red 'longside 'o that sprig o' green, I like the look of it rayther. Don't you know what I mean? Don't yer know who I am? Look hyar! Y' see that knife? It's dug out o' human an' grizzly the red and ragin' life.

I'm Grizzly Jim o' Nebraska! Hain't ye heerd o' him?
An' the human dies an' the grizzly that crosses Grizzly Jim.

Now, I like yer flower, young feller. Confound yer Britisher look:

Don't yer know what I mean? What I've liked I've allus took.

Jest you hand over that flower as humble as humble can be, Or this 'll make winders and doors where yer won't like sich to be.

Laughin'. By thunder! Dog done it, ye're grit, an' I love yer spunk.

Come, tip us yer flipper, stranger; I reckon yer not such a skunk.

Why that was the grip of a man, yer a fellow the reds 'ud

fear,

Let's have a drink. Don't? Moses! Don't! Why ain't that queer,

Not! an' a feller like you! Nor smoke? Eh? Well, that's

rum !

What's the name o' yer flower, I say! Gee-ray-nee-um. That's a comical name; and fern's that bit o' green, Never know'd it before, though acres of 'em I've seen.

Where'd you get 'em? Grew 'em? Come, sell me one, I say!

Here's half-a-dozen o' dollars: I want to throw 'em away, Hain't got yer flowers clus by? Besides, you wouldn't trade. You'd gi' me 'em if you had em. Well, yer a generous blade.

Too tarnal proper a chap by half for a Britisher.

But why wouldn't you gi' me that flower, you lyin' sneak of a cur?

Well, beg parding. You were'nt ask'd, that is, in a proper way;

Besides, goin' courtin' I s'pose. Ay, an' likely, too, I say. I forgot, yer

Well, let's liquor up, old chap-my stars!
don't.

It's extrornery cert'nly, but if yer won't, yer won't.
I'd like to know you a deal, for you ain't so stiffish an' high.
Tarnation hyar's the boat. Look hyar keep the bowie.
good-bye!
WILLIAM WILKINS.

From Kottabos. Trinity College, Dublin.
Term, 1878.

:0:

JOSEPH SWIFE, OF POTIPHAR.

A Man after Twain's own

Michaelmas

"Harte."

THERE'S been some whales 'mong the buoys I've know'd,
(They was all on 'em high above par);
But the rightest sperm as ever blow'd
Was Joe Swife o' Potiphar.
Joseph's heighth was seven fut three,

All mussell and grit when he stripp'd,
On his face a network of scars you'd see,
(That is, where the dirt had chipp'd.)
Whenever the buoys had a rowdy on,
Bet your currency Joe was there ;
An' ef he didn't head inter the fun,

He'd see as all things went square;
'Twas a Fourth o' July to see him hop round,
Along of his 'leven-inch knife,
And the way his man would nose the ground
Was the pootiest sight in life.

273

His Bowie was now jest a 'leven-inch rip, ('Twas thirteen when it was bought, But he wore two inches off the tip With carvin' the men he'd fought.) A plumb-centre shot was his Derringer, He didn't let that iron rust, He'd spot a couple a day with her, Would Joseph-when on the bust.

We reckon'd his "down-pins" about fourscore, But we hadn't the c'rect amount;

'Cos arter he'd notch'd up to seventy-four,
He lost the run of his count.

Where is he now? I knows no more
Nor you, in them respeks,

'Cos one arternoon in sixty-four

He had to "pass his checks."

The way that it mayhap'd was thus :-
Up Potiphar they went "pard,"
An' made a pile, that some thievin' cuss
Stole which was derned hard;

I tell ye, they felt it pooty bad,

They wanted that skunk to knife, An' the lad that 'peared to git most mad Was him as I've named-Joe Swife.

To see that critter cavortin' around,
Was a sight to raise your hair,

Jest arx him if the thief was found,
If you wanted to hear a swear!

Joe left Potiphar then an' came here to Creek,
An' soon had a run o' luck,

He hadn't been prospectin' more'n a week 'Fore he said a big pocket he'd struck.

One day we was lappin' round Joggles's bar-
The Cunnel, an' Joseph, an' me-
When in totes Long Hiram from Potiphar,
An' we arxed him to drink 'long o' we;
He call'd for a "spider "-(his fav'rite drink),
An' was liftin' the glass to his lips;

But he dropp'd it smash on the floor in a wink,
When he saw Joseph haul out his chips.

Ses he: "Joe Swife, my gentle son,
You'll have for to strike your flag,
You stole the pile, you son of a gun-
Our dust was in that bag!"
He glared at Joe like a grizzly bear,
Then he draw'd a bead an' fired,
'Scavating a canon in Joseph's hair,
In a manner we all admired.

But Joseph's iron was ready to bark,
'Fore Hiram the dose could repeat,
Six shots, an' Hiram was stretch'd out stark,
In a style as couldn't be beat;

With "conical" holes he was reg'lar scored,
From his scalp-lock, down his legs,
He'd ha' made a derned good cribbage-board,
If you'd on'y got the pegs.

Whar was Joe? Waal, I reckon he clear'd,
'Fore the fellows had time to revanche,
For the fust time in his life he was skear'd,
An' mosey'd out of the ranche;

He know'd, with men as digs and delves,
He dursent trust his breath,

"Killin' a man was atwixt yerselves,"

But to go for his pile meant death.

When he found that the buoys were dead on "kill,"
Joe came for'ard an' giv' hisself up,

"You'll settle my hash with a leaden pill,"

Ses he-" DON'T string me up like a pup!"
Openin' his shirt, and slappin' his breast-
"Here's lodgings to let for a slug !".

They fired, an' Potiphar's pride lay at rest,
Stiff an' stark, with a smile on his mug!

Funny Folks. April 29, 1876.

This is an imitation of the style of Colonel John Hay's poems, for which see page 246.

THE WIFE.

HER washing ended with the day,
Yet lived she at its close,

And passed the long, long night away,

In darning ragged hose.

But when the sun in all its state
Illumined the Eastern skies,

She passed about the kitchen grate,

And went to making pies.

From Poems and Parodies by Phoebe Carey, Boston, U.S. 854.

The same interesting little volume contains a number of clever parodies, of which those on the best known poets have already been printed in this collection. The remainder refer principally to American authors whose works are not very familiar to British readers. The book is out of print and very scarce, and although there is a copy of it in the Library, British Museum (11687. d), it is difficult to find, as it is improperly catalogued under Cary, instead of Carey.

Another curious American book is entitled "Strange Visitors, by the spirits of Irving, Willis, Thackeray, Bronté, Richter, Byron, Humboldt, Hawthorne, Wesley, Browning, and others, now dwelling in the Spirit World.' Dictated through a Clairvoyant while in an abnormal or Trance State. New York. G. W. Carleton, publisher, 1869. Most of the papers in this volume are in prose, the following only are in verse:

...

...

To his Accusers The Lost Soul To her Husband Hold Me Not, A Spirit Revisiting Earth Alone

The Spirit Bride

after Lord Byron.

E. A. Poe.

Mrs. E. B. Browning. Adah Isaacs Menken.

N. P. Willis.

Allan Cunningham. Adelaide A. Procter.

All these imitations are serious, and even sombre, not to be styled parodies, although of little merit, except, perhaps, the imitation of Mrs. E. B. Browning.

Her spirit speaks thus :

TO HER HUSBAND.

DEAD! dead! You call her dead!

You cannot see her in her glad surprise,

Kissing the tear drops from your weeping eyes; Moving about you through the ambient air, Smoothing the whitening ripples of your hair.

Dead! dead! You call her dead! Lift up your eyes! she is no longer dead! In your lone path the unseen angels tread ! And when your weary night of earth shall close, She'll lead you where eternal summer blows.