Parodies of the works of English & American authors, vol. I

Parodies

With Gradus dirty and worn,
      With heavy and weary eyes,
    A Freshman sat who had written an ode
      For the last Vice-Chancellor's prize.
    Wait, wait, wait,
      'Mid Grinders, Lectures, and fines,
    And thus on a lyre of dolorous chord,
    (Would that its tones could reach the Board),
      He sang the Song of the Lines.

    C. P. MULVANY.

_Kottabos_, Dublin (William McGee), 1873.

       *       *       *       *       *

The following imitation was written by Father McCarthy, and appeared in
_The Catholic Herald_ (Jersey), about forty years ago:--


THE SONG OF THE DRUNKARD.

    With body shrivelled and worn,
      With eyeballs bloodshot and red,
    A man in plight forlorn,
      Lay moaning sore in bed.
    Drink, drink, drink,
      In poverty, fever, and pain,
    And still he sang of his favourite drink
      'Mid the whirlings of his brain.

    Drink, drink, drink,
      Oh! there's nothing like drink for man,
    Drink, drink, drink,
      Till the head reel round again.
    It's oh! to be a beast,
      Without a soul to save,
    With no fear to stay the drunken feast,
      And no Hell beyond the grave.

    Brandy, and gin, and rum,
      Rum, and brandy, and gin,
    'Till wild delirium come,
      And we rave in the pit of sin.
    Oh! men with children dear,
      Oh! men with starving wives,
    It is not gin you are drinking there,
      But your wives and children's lives.

    Drink, drink, drink,
      Let them all be ragged and bare,
    Drink, drink, drink,
      Is the drunkard's only care.
    Drink, drink, drink,
      Our guzzling never flags,
    And our wages go, and our homes are woe,
      And our children skulk in rags.

    Forced by day to starve or steal,
      By night a floor their bed,
    And all their life is a life of vice,
      And where are they when dead?
    Drink, drink, drink,
      Let us fight and curse and swear,
    Drink, drink, drink,
      'Till our breath pollute the air.

    Brandy, and gin, and rum,
      Rum, and brandy, and gin,
    'Till wasted frame and fever come,
      And the sorrows of Hell begin.
    Drink, drink, drink,
      'Till staggering home we go,
    Drink, drink, drink,
      'Till we blast that home with woe.

    Drink, curses, murder, and shame,
      Make up the drunkard's life,
    With the rags and vice of a starving child,
      And the groans of a sickly wife.
    With body shrivelled and worn,
      With eyeballs glaring and red,
    A savage man in plight forlorn,
      Lay, raving loud on his bed.

    Drink, drink, drink,
      In racking fever and pain,
    And still he raved of his murderous drink,
      'Mid the frenzies of his brain.

       *       *       *       *       *

Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.

Opening the text

General

Parodies of the works of English & American authors, vol. I

Parodies

With Gradus dirty and worn,
      With heavy and weary eyes,
    A Freshman sat who had written an ode
      For the last Vice-Chancellor's prize.
    Wait, wait, wait,
      'Mid Grinders, Lectures, and fines,
    And thus on a lyre of dolorous chord,
    (Would that its tones could reach the Board),
      He sang the Song of the Lines.

    C. P. MULVANY.

_Kottabos_, Dublin (William McGee), 1873.

       *       *       *       *       *

The following imitation was written by Father McCarthy, and appeared in
_The Catholic Herald_ (Jersey), about forty years ago:--


THE SONG OF THE DRUNKARD.

    With body shrivelled and worn,
      With eyeballs bloodshot and red,
    A man in plight forlorn,
      Lay moaning sore in bed.
    Drink, drink, drink,
      In poverty, fever, and pain,
    And still he sang of his favourite drink
      'Mid the whirlings of his brain.

    Drink, drink, drink,
      Oh! there's nothing like drink for man,
    Drink, drink, drink,
      Till the head reel round again.
    It's oh! to be a beast,
      Without a soul to save,
    With no fear to stay the drunken feast,
      And no Hell beyond the grave.

    Brandy, and gin, and rum,
      Rum, and brandy, and gin,
    'Till wild delirium come,
      And we rave in the pit of sin.
    Oh! men with children dear,
      Oh! men with starving wives,
    It is not gin you are drinking there,
      But your wives and children's lives.

    Drink, drink, drink,
      Let them all be ragged and bare,
    Drink, drink, drink,
      Is the drunkard's only care.
    Drink, drink, drink,
      Our guzzling never flags,
    And our wages go, and our homes are woe,
      And our children skulk in rags.

    Forced by day to starve or steal,
      By night a floor their bed,
    And all their life is a life of vice,
      And where are they when dead?
    Drink, drink, drink,
      Let us fight and curse and swear,
    Drink, drink, drink,
      'Till our breath pollute the air.

    Brandy, and gin, and rum,
      Rum, and brandy, and gin,
    'Till wasted frame and fever come,
      And the sorrows of Hell begin.
    Drink, drink, drink,
      'Till staggering home we go,
    Drink, drink, drink,
      'Till we blast that home with woe.

    Drink, curses, murder, and shame,
      Make up the drunkard's life,
    With the rags and vice of a starving child,
      And the groans of a sickly wife.
    With body shrivelled and worn,
      With eyeballs glaring and red,
    A savage man in plight forlorn,
      Lay, raving loud on his bed.

    Drink, drink, drink,
      In racking fever and pain,
    And still he raved of his murderous drink,
      'Mid the frenzies of his brain.

       *       *       *       *       *

Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.

Parodies of the works of English & American authors, vol. I

Parodies of the works of English & American authors, vol. I

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