Part 31

PAR VICTOR HUGO.

O Irlande, grand pays du shillelagh et du bog, Où les patriots vont toujours ce qu'on appelle le whole hog. Aujourd'hui je prends la plume, moi qui suis vieux, Pour dire au grand patriot Parnell, "How d'ye do?" Erin, aux armes! le whisky vous donne la force De se battre l'un pour l'autre comme les fameux Frères Corses. Votre Land League et vos Home Rulers sont des libérateurs. Payez la valuation de Griffith et n'ayez pas peur.

De la tenure la fixité c'est l'astre de vos rêves, Que Rory des Collines vit et que les landgrabbers crèvent Moi, je suis vieux, mais dans l'ombre je vois clair, Bientôt serez-vous maîtres de vos bonnes pommes de terre. C'est le brave Biggar, le T.P. O'Connor et les autres Qui sont vos sauveurs, comme Gambetta était le nôtre; Suivez-les, et la victoire sera toujours à vous, Si à Milbank ce cher Forster ne vous envoie pas. Hooroo!

By the time that these lines were written the late Mr. J.K. Stephen--affectionately known by his friends as "Jem Stephen"--was beginning to be recognized as an extraordinarily good writer of humorous verse. His performances in this line were not collected till ten years later (Lapsus Calami, 1891), and his brilliant career was cut short, by the results of an accident, in 1892. I reproduce the following sonnet, not only because I think it an excellent criticism aptly expressed, but because I desire to pay my tribute of admiration to one of whom all men spoke golden words:--

"Two voices are there: one is of the deep-- It learns the storm-cloud's thunderous melody, Now roars, now murmurs with the changing sea, Now bird-like pipes, now closes soft in sleep; And one is of an old, half-witted sheep Which bleats articulate monotony, And indicates that two and one are three, That glass is green, lakes damp, and mountains steep; And, Wordsworth, both are thine."

I hope that there are few among my readers who have not in their time known and loved the dear old ditty which tells us how

"There was a youth, and a well-beloved youth, And he was a squire's son, And he loved the Bailiff's daughter dear Who dwelt at Islington."

Well, to all who have followed that touching story of love and grief I commend the following version of it. French, after all, is the true language of sentiment:--

"Il y avait un garçon, Fort amiable et fort bon, Qui était le fils du Lord Mayor; Et il aimait la fille D'un sergent de ville Qui demeurait à Leycesster Sqvare.

"Mais elle était un peu prude, Et n'avait pas l'habitude De coqueter, comme les autres demoiselles; Jusqu'à ce que le Lord Mayor (Homme brutal, comme tous les pères) L'éloigna de sa tourterelle.

"Après quelques ans d'absence, Au rencontre elle s'élance; Elle se fait une toilette de très bon goût-- Des pantoufles sur les pieds, Des lunettes sur le nez, Et un collier sur le cou--c'était tout.

"Mais bientôt elle s'assit Dans la rue Piccadilli, Car il faisait extrêmement chaud; Et là elle vit s'avancer L'unique objet de ses pensées, Sur le plus magnifique de chevaux!

"Je suis pauvre et sans ressource! Prête, prête-moi ta bourse, Ou ta montre, pour me montrer confiance.' 'Jeune femme, je ne vous connais, Ainsi il faut me donner Une adresse et quelques références'

"'Mon adresse--c'est Leycesster Sqvare, Et pour référence j'espère Que la statue de Shakespeare vous suffira,' 'Ah! connais-tu ma mie, La fille du sergent?' 'Si; Mais elle est morte comme un rat!'

"'Si défunte est ma belle, Prenez, s'il vous plaît, ma selle, Et ma bride, et mon cheval incomparable; Car il ne faut rien dire, Mais vite, vite m'ensevelir Dans un désert sec et désagréable.'

"'Ah! mon brave, arrête-toi. Je suis ton unique choix; La fille du sergent sans peur! Pour mon trousseau, c'est modeste, Vous le voyez! Pour le reste, Je t'épouse dans une demi-heure!'

"Mais le jeune homme épouvanté Sur son cheval vite remontait, La liberté lui était trop chère! Et la pauvre fille dégoûtée N'avait qu'à reprendre sa route, et Son adresse est encore Leycesster Sqvare."

The chiefs of the Permanent Civil Service are not usually, as Swift said, "blasted with poetic fire," but this delightful ditty is from the pen of Mr. Henry Graham, the Clerk of the Parliaments.

Of the metrical parodists of the present hour two are extremely good. Mr. Owen Seaman is, beyond and before all his rivals, "up to date," and pokes his lyrical fun at such songsters as Mr. Alfred Austin, Mr. William Watson, Mr. Rudyard Kipling, and Mr. Richard Le Gallienne. But "Q." is content to try his hand on poets of more ancient standing; and he is not only of the school but of the lineage of "C.S.C." I have said before that I forbear, as a rule, to quote from books as easily accessible as Green Bays; but is there a branch of the famous "Omar Khayyám Club" in Manchester? If there be, to it I offer this delicious morsel, only apologizing to the uninitiated reader for the pregnant allusiveness, which none but a sworn Khayyámite can perfectly apprehend:--

MEASURE FOR MEASURE.

Wake! for the closed Pavilion doors have kept Their silence while the white-eyed Kaffir slept, And wailed the Nightingale with "Jug, jug, jug!" Whereat, for empty cup, the White Rose wept.

Enter with me where yonder door hangs out Its Red Triangle to a world of drought, Inviting to the Palace of the Djinn, Where death, Aladdin, waits as Chuckeroût.

Methought, last night, that one in suit of woe Stood by the Tavern-door and whispered, "Lo! The Pledge departed, what avails the Cup? Then take the Pledge and let the Wine-cup go."

But I: "For every thirsty soul that drains This Anodyne of Thought its rim contains-- Freewill the can, Necessity the must; Pour off the must, and see, the can remains.

"Then, pot or glass, why label it 'With care?' Or why your Sheepskin with my Gourd compare? Lo! here the Bar and I the only Judge:-- O Dog that bit me, I exact an hair!"

No versifier of the present day lends himself so readily to parody as Mr. Kipling. His "Story of Ung" is an excellent satire on certain methods of contemporary literature:--

"Once on a glittering icefield, ages and ages ago, Ung, a maker of pictures, fashioned an image of snow. Fashioned the form of a tribesman; gaily he whistled and sung, Working the snow with his fingers, 'Read ye the story of Ung!'

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