And the lamps were not yet lighted, and we sat down, half benighted, We three; and the uninvited-the intruder, she was there, On the shoulders of the captain, the intruder standing there, With green eyes and ebon hair. Still upon the captain's shoulder, strange it seemed to the beholder, In the twilight of the cabin, among strangers standing so ; And I fancied it would fright her when the cuddy lamps grew lighter. And I mused upon the writer of "The Raven," Edgar Poe, On that weird and wondrous genius, wilful, wayward Edgar Poe, Dead now eighteen years ago! There she stood, with green eyes gleaming; there she stood, with tail outstreaming, A black line athwart the cuddy, rising somewhat high in air. And the captain look'd behind him, as though puss in spell did bind him, And, without a sound, inclined him to keep looking o'er his chair, To keep turning to the black cat, on his shoulder o'er the chair, With a look that held despair! (The Yankee skipper relates that he had formerly been a slave-dealer, and that having bought a negro with his child, he was entreated not to part them.) "Deaf was I to all compassion; brutally I laid the lash on His defenceless naked shoulders; yet I tortured him in vain And my anger growing bigger, out with pistol, pull'd the trigger; With a cry, dropp'd down the nigger, with a startling cry of pain, With the spasm of the death-pang shooting o'er his face of pain, Never more to move again!" Sitting in my parlour lonely, thinking on my day's work only, This black cat you see before you, sat herself upon the chair; And in vain I tried to please her, all in vain I sought to tease her, Oh, if I could but release her from her hold upon me there! On my chair, or on my shoulder, ever will that cat be there, With her eyes of constant glare!" "Smile you may, and disbelieve me; that black cat can ne'er deceive me ; She is sent me from the darkie, come to haunt me for my crime, And will leave me never, never, and on earth will haunt Soon the ship away was steering, and the whaler's crew were cheering Loudly the brave British vessel that had help'd them when afloat; On the poop two eyes were beaming, green eyes through the darkness gleaming, And a tail outstretch'd, outstreaming, as it stream'd when in the boat, When the captain bade farewell, and sadly left us in the boat, Fear in eye and husky throat. Several verses of this very long parody have been omitted ; it is contained in The Mocking-Bird and other Poems, by Frederick Field (J. Van Voorst) London, 1868. THE CROAKER. ONCE in a dress-circle, weary with discussing many a query Of the palmy days of acting, and of quaint dramatic loreWhile I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at a chamber-door. "Tis some visitor," I muttered, "outside the dress-circle door, Wants a seat, and nothing more." Then the flapping—sad, uncertain, rustling of the painted curtain Thrilled me, filled me with fantastic visions never felt before Of the coming Macbeth's greeting, wondering if his repeating Would delight me; while the visitor kept tapping at the door, And I said "Where is the box-keeper, to open yonder door? For the tapping is a bore." And myself the door unlocking, just to end the tiresome knocking, In there stepped a solemn Croaker of the palmy days of yore; Not the least obeisance made he, not a minute stopped or stayed he, Passed each fashionable lady with long skirts upon the floor, Scanned his voucher through gold-mounted and green spectacles he wore, Took his seat, and nothing more. Then this Croaker grave, beguiling my sad fancy into smiling By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance he wore. Though his aspect was unnerving, I began to speak of Irving For I doubted not that he had seen of Macbeths many a By the bust of Shakespeare o'er us-by the bard we both adore Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if within thy distant Aidenn Ever widow, wife, or maiden Lady Macbeth's mantle wore With a grace beyond Miss Bateman ?" Still this croaking man of yore Answered grimly, "Yes, a score." "Be that word our sign of parting, Croaker," then I said, upstarting; For the curtain now is rising, and I hear a deafening roar. Not a word hath Macbeth spoken; he can only bow in token Of the homage all unbroken. Then the Croaker spoke once more: "Truly this Macbeth reminds me of a figure seen before Over many a snuff-shop-door." And the Croaker, never flitting, still was sitting, his brows knitting, Growling oft at Irving's action, voice, and costume that he wore, And his eyes had all the seeming of a croaker who was dreaming Of Macready, Kemble, Kean, and Young, in palmy days of yore ; And the last words that he muttered, as he passed the circledoor, Were-"I'm very glad 'tis o'er." Funny Folks October 9, 1875. THE STOKER. ONCE in February dreary, while the Commons, weak and weary, Pondered many a quaint and curious Tory measure then in store, While they nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at the chamberdoor; "Some new member 'tis," they muttered, tapping at our chamber-door; 'Tis KENEALY-nothing more!" But the house was in a flutter when, without a "Hem " or stutter, In there walked a stately Counsel some of them had seen before; Not the least obeisance made he--not a minute stopped or stayed he, But with mien of ancient member took his place upon the floor, Hitched his "gamp' behind the door upon the mace, and hung his hat Hitched and stood, and nothing more! Stood the Counsel grim, beguiling their " smiling 'gay wisdom" into By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance he wore"None come here without proposer," said the Speaker, as a poser; "Tis the Parliamentary custom for two hundred years and more ;" But outspoke the doughty Premier, "Truly all know how he came here;" He's KENEALY--nothing more! Mr. Whalley, sitting lonely on his placid bench, spoke only But one word, as if his soul on that one word he did outpour; Nothing further then he uttered. He was just a little fluttered. While a host of members muttered, "Other bores have flown before; Some fine morning he will leave us as our bores have left before." WHALLEY whispered, "Nevermore!" Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, "Doubtless," said they, "what he utters is his only stock and store, Caught from Liberal disaster when that party had no master, When mistakes came fast and faster, and their songs one burden bore, When the dirges of their hopes that melancholy burden bore Of never, nevermore." Members willing to be civil said, "Oh, quit the Tichborne drivel ! By the roof that bends above us-by the Commons we adore. Tell our souls with sorrow laden that our Parliamentary Aidenn Shall not echo with the name of "Arthur Orton" any more; That the mystery unriddled who the name Sir Roger bore Shall not vex us any more!" But Kenealy, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting With his gingham hitched upon the mace, his hat behind the door, And his eyes have all the seeming of a Counsel who is dreaming, This amusing parody originally appeared in Funny Folks, March 6, 1875, accompanied by a portrait of Dr. E. V. Kenealy. This was immediately after his election as member for Stoke, and the week after it appeared the clever but eccentric advocate of the "unfortunate nobleman" inserted the parody in his newspaper, The Englishman, with a compliment to its author, and it was re-copied in many other newspapers. The author, Mr. Joseph Verey, a well-known contributor to dramatic and humorous pericdicals, has written many other clever parodies, amongst them being "Mariana at the Railway Station," inserted on page 4, Volume J.; and "The Night Policeman," after Longfellow, inserted on page 68, Volume I. of this collection. "THE RAVEN." (After Edgar Allan Poe.) LATE at midnight I was seated, and my brain was overheated With reflections quaint and curious as I thought my subject o'er ; While I pondered, almost napping, suddenly there came a tapping As of someone softly rapping, rapping at the parlour door, And my heart it fairly fluttered, hearing at the parlour-door, Just a tap, and nothing more. Yes! distinctly I remember how I trembled in each member, Thought I saw in every ember ghastly forms of one or more; Goblins came before my vision, grinning wildly with derision, There I sat as though in prison, prison closed by parlourdoor, Icy chill came creeping o'er me whilst I gazed upon the door, Getting frightened more and more. And the windy gusts uncertain through the window shook the curtain, Thrilled me, filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before. Then methought perhaps the rapping might be but the servant tapping That awoke me from my napping, she might then be at the door, Bringing me the nightly candle, candlestick with broken handle, As she'd often done before. Then my soul grew strong in valour, and my cheeks lost all their pallor, "Maid," said I, "or Mary, just you place the candle at the door, Pond'ring was I, almost napping, when you came so gently tapping, And you came so softly rapping, rapping at the parlourdoor; Mary, scarcely could I hear you," then I went unto the door Darkness there, and nothing more! Scarcely had I got me seated, feeling still all over-heated, When again I heard the rapping louder than it was before, "Bless me!" said I, "This again, something's at the window-pane, Now some knowledge I'll obtain of this strange mysterious bore; Courage, heart! a single moment, while this mystery I explore. 'Tis the wind, and nothing more!" Scarce the words my tongue had spoken, scarce the silence I had broken, Thro' the window stepped a raven like to Ingoldsby's of yore, Notice took he of me never, off he hopped and looked so clever, Flight he took with bold endeavour, perching o'er my parlour door, From his perch he eyed me closely, watched me from the parlour-door, Sat and looked-did nothing more! Cunning looked he, as though chaffing-funny bird! he set me laughing, Perched aloft, and looking grave, with both his eyes upon the floor : "Ebony friend, with head all shaven, surely thou canst be no craven, Out so late, you funny raven, tell me what misfortune bore Thee unto my humble roof, and to sit above my door." Quoth the raven, "Tell me, raven, what has brought you, how it is that you've bethought you Here to fly in midnight darkness, coming hither to explore. Hast thou good or evil omen to pronounce to men or women, Which thou wilt reveal to no men-speak the message, I implore.' Then he ruffled all his feathers, speaking from the parlourdoor, Said he, "Think the matter o'er." There he was with mien so stately, looking solemn and sedately, Like a monk he was "complately," thinking something deeply o'er, All at once his wings he fluttered, and in tone sepulchral muttered Something indistinctly uttered, as it came from o'er the door ; Most intently did I listen, listened as I ne'er before -At the Prince's Pierhead, said he, there you'll find a policeman steady, Strutting proudly ever ready to annoy the cabmen there, With the Jehus roughly dealing, causing them a bitter feeling, Vain it is the men appealing, one and all they now declare Pierhead rank they ll never stand in, never ply for landing "fare " Whilst that "bobby's " stationed there ! banquet lately, was a Colonel bold and At the Town Hal stately, Full of pomp he was "complately," sitting rigid in his chair. When the Army's health was toasted, up he rose and proudly boasted, Whilst with with'ring tongue he "roasted" Captain Douglas sitting there, That the Naval forces never, whilst he sat upon that chair With the Army must compare! Said with gracious tone and manly, how the noble House of Stanley Oft in former times like him had sat upon the civic chair; Then the noble Earl, replying, said with truth he might declare "Such an honour now was rare!" Chinamen out there in "Peeking," Treaty obligations breaking, Our Ambassador is seeking wily stubborn men to awe, Telling them the British nation anger'd cannot brook evasion; Better listen to persuasion, or he threatens he'll withdraw; So they wisely yield submission. Frightened of the Lion's paw, China says she'll keep the law. Sea is rough and weather breezy, still "Serapis," steaming easy, Slowly sails from out Brindisi, bearing son of Britain's Queen, Foaming billows nobly riding, Eastern seas her prow dividing, Soon in sunny waters gliding Royal Standard will be seen; Prince will have a royal welcome, Rajahs proud, of royal mien, Greeting son of India's Queen Thus he spake what he intended, and his croaking speech was ended, Flapping wings he soon descended from his perch above the door. Not another word was spoken, nor again the silence broken, He had given me the token, and he hopp'd along the floor, Thro' the window into darkness-glancing at my parlour door, Raven saw I nevermore ! The Porcupine (Liverpool), October 30, 1875. A BLACK BIRD THAT COULD SING BUT WOULDN'T SING. (A Lyric of the American Southern States.) ONCE upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, O'er the War of the Rebellion and the things that were before; While I sat absorbed in thinking, brandy cocktails slowly drinking, Suddenly I saw a blinking, one-eyed figure at my doorSaw a nasty, stinking, blinking, one-eyed figure at my door, Standing up as stiff as steel-yards, just across my chamber floor, Peeping in, and-nothing more. Ah! I never shall forget it, how in glancing round I met it, Darting, with a hideous snigger, glances right across my floor, A reeking, lantern-jaw'd buck nigger bolt upright against my door, Glancing in, and—nothing more. Startled by the stillness broken by reply so flatly spoken, "Doubtless," said I, "this big nigger once could eat enough for four, When on some grand rice plantation, he could out-eat all creation, Until his corporal situation warned him he could eat no more; Scorning any calculation of how much cash it cost I'm sure, For the master paid the piper in the good old days of yore, Days he'll revel in no more!" "Nigger," said I, "thing of evil! quit my sight! go to the devil! Or even yet, pause, reconsider terms I'll offer you no more, Tell me truly, I implore you, for the last time I conjure you, If good wages I ensure you, and clothes the best you ever wore, Will you work three days in seven, at tasks far lighter than of yore? Only three short days in seven-labour light and payment sure?" And the nigger, never working, still is shirking-still is shirking Every kind of honest labour, in the house or out of door, And his eye has all the seeming of a vulture's starved and dreaming, And my bacon, gently steaming tempts him still to cross my floor. But I'll gamble with that poker that I hurled at him before, The Figaro, February 16, 1876. COWGATE PHILANTHROPY. ONCE, while in the Cowgate dirty, on an evening damp and murky, Mournfully I gazed at objects swarming there from door to door, From a whisky palace, swearing, a poor woman issued, bearing A child upon her bosom bare, and that bosom stained with gore, And she uttered dreadful threats against the man that kept the store Idle threats, and nothing more. To myself I said, interror, "Surely here there is some error; This woman seems in deep distress-distress which pierces to the core ;" So I stepped into the palace, with the view of getting solace, For that creature whose deep sorrow my soft heart with arguish tore, That shadow of an angel bright, for her countenance yet bere |