Now you want a moral to my song, To know what is right and what is wrong, Don't get champagne upon the brain, Or else instead of speaking plain, You'll say U-pi-Dee-I-Day, U-pi-Dee-I-Day. Night passed, and in the morning gray, It was U-pi-Dee-I-Day, U-pi-Dee-I-Day. About a quarter past six the next forenoon, U-pi-Dee-I-Day, U-pi-Dee-I-Day, He's dead, defunct, without any doubt U-pi-Dee-I-Day, U-pi-Dee-I-Day. This old fashioned comic song, written by F. C. Burnand, was sung in the Burlo-Drama of Julius Cnaeser at the Royalty Theatre. The chorus has here been somewhat abbreviated, as its wit was not in proportion to its length. A parody, having a similar refrain, appeared in Volume 1, Parodies, page 101. [The Echo in a recent article pictures Mr. Maskelyne starting off in search of Mr. Irving Bishop to recover the ten thousand pounds awarded him by the Jury in the libel suit.] Air-Excelsior." THE mail train blew its final blast, "Ten thousand pounds!" His cheek was flushed, his eyeballs seemed "Ten thousand pounds!" All Europe soon he searched-in vain He climbed each mountain, scoured each plain, And vocal grew the luring thought- "Off to the east I'll go," he cried : "Ten thousand pounds.' One day the Mahdi's army saw They heard the mystic words he said- Tradition doubtless will declare He's been seen here, there, everywhere; Of him who ceases not to seek- Funny Folks, January 31, 1885. THE GREAT DEMONSTRATION. SHOULD you ask me why this hubbub, Why this motley-garbed procession, Filled with parties somewhat blatant, Bearing sundry gaudy banners 66 Like to banners borne by supers Better known as Doctor "Dewdrops ❞— In the senate of St. Stephen. Often has he swayed his "gingham See, they stay at Nelson's column From the Eastern plains of Shoreditch, From the Southwark Southern suburb, Fun, April 26, 1876. PAHTAHQUAHONG. 4 Lyric after Longfellow. " (The Rev. Henry Pahtaquahong Chase, Hereditary Chief of the Ojibway Indians has arrived in England. Vide Press.) SHOULD you ask me whence this Chieftain ?— I should answer, I should tell you- Drain the happy hunting valleys; Where the Mas-ka-gaws and Saulteaux, Surcees, Pay-gans, Bloods, and Blackfeet, Ottoes, Dog-ribs, Crees, and Beavers, Should you ask me what he looks like- Belt of wampum, coat of war-paint, I should answer. I should tell you- He has turn'd him from the war-path, Gives us sermons 'stead of war-whoops, WALTER PARKE, The Bath and Cheltenham Gazette, March 30, 1881. Soon as a "distinguished stranger," And his hearers think he has none." THE SONG OF CETEWAYO. (WITH APOLOGIES TO THE NOBLE HIAWATHA.) FAR across the big-sea-water Which is sometimes termed the ocean To the lodges of the pale-face Comes the gentle Cetewayo. (Lady Florence trisyllabic Makes the name of her odd hero; But, to suit this bards convenience, Pray let him say 66 66 Cet-e-wayo.") If you ask me Why the gentle ?'" I shall answer, I shall tell you, I shall pity you and tell you, 'Tis because he is a savage, He has slaughtered by the hundred. G. G. Gone to pay the toiling printer, 'Ride! Ride! Ride! Till my boots are rusty and worn ! And ride, ride, ride! Till my breeches are tattered and torn ; Till over the saddle I fall asleep, Oh! Squatters with beautiful runs! Oh! Squatters with fattening plains I feel it in all my bones, "But why do I talk of rheumatics? Oh! that runs should be so dear, Ride Ride! Ride! My labour never flags : And what are its wages? Forty a year, This mutton chop and this damper queer A stretcher, a 'possum rug, And so wretched all that the traveller here "Count! Count! Count! The thousands of every flock, Count, count, count! Till I've counted my master's stock; Ewes, and wethers, and lambs, Lambs, and wethers, and ewes, Till the eyes are dazzled, the hurdles smashed, And my shins are all in a bruise. Snip! Snip! Snip ! When the shearing season's come, And snip, snip, snip! But never a keg of rum! Curse, and squabble, and row, Row, and squabble, and curse, Till my eyes are blackened, my 'claret' drawn, As well as my private purse. "Oh ! but to breathe the breath *Clark's Horses were notorious buck-jumpers. "Your attention has been drawn to this pestilential source of disease, and to the consequence of heaping human beings into contracted localities* and I again revert to it because of its great importance, not merely that it perpetuates fever and the allied disorders, but because there stalks side by side with this pestilence a yet deadlier presence, blighting the moral existence of a rising population, rendering their hearts hopeless, their acts ruffianly, and scattering, while society averts her eye, the retributive seeds of increase for crime, turbulence and disorder."-See Report of Dr. Letheby, Medical Officer of Health. *"Of the many cases to which I have alluded there are some that have commanded my attention by reason of their unusual depravity, cases in which three or four adults of both sexes, with many children were lodging in the same room, and often sleeping in the same bed. I have notes of three or four localities where 48 men, 73 women, and 59 children are living in 34 rooms. They are distributed as follows:-2 men, 2 women, and 3 children in one room; 1 man, 2 women. and 3 children; 1 man, 4 women, and 2 children; 2 men, 3 women, and 1 child; 2 men, 1 woman, and 2 children; 1 man, 4 women, and 1 child; 1 man and 3 women; 2 men and 3 women; and so on.-Vide Repo*1. Stench, and fever, and death, Where huddle the young and old, Where the beggars brat is rocked to sleep By the side of the corpse just cold ! † "Oh! men with thousands a year, Oh! men with mothers and wives, Oh! read that report, and think of our sort, Oh! think of our bestial lives. Dirt! Dirt! Dirt! Can such as we grow good, When filth is around us, night and morn, In sleep, work, drink and food? "But why do I talk of dirt, Where nothing else is known? I hardly know the foul thing's form, It seems so like my own While three in a bed we sleep, Till filth doth grow to the poor man dear, While water and soap are cheap. Dirt! Dirt! Dirt! We cannot sleep on the flags, Where the slimy vapour doth reek, Dirt! Dirt! Dirt! In the cold December night, Like a message from bygone years, "Oh, for one breath of air, Away from this sick'ning smell, Are the flowers we cannot sell, Which we hawked in the street all day, Till hunger our cheeks doth blench, And we bring 'em home to wither and die, Tait's Magazine, 1858. |