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

Parodies

What else? Here's to you!
                  Which he sold of his feet
                At five hundred, 'tis true,
                  And the same I repeat:
                But acquaintances, friends,
                  They likes to divert,
                And the tale never ends
                  Of Sam and his shirt,
    And to stop it from goin' he'd give all his dirt!

    _Diversions of the Echo Club._

       *       *       *       *       *

The following admirable parody of Bret Harte's pathetic poems on miner's
life in California was written by Mr. Charles H. Ross, the Editor of
_Judy_. It is a favourite recitation with Mr. Odell, the popular actor:--


THE BLOOMIN' FLOWER OF RORTY GULCH.

    It war Bob war the Bloomin' Flower,
      They know'd him on Poker Flat;
    He'd gouged a few down Gilgal way,
      But no one complained o' that.
    He scored his stiffs[7] on the heft of his knife--
      Forty I've heern 'em say;
    It might have been more--Bob kept his accounts
      In a loosish sorter way.

    Bob warn't a angel ter look at,
      And the Bible it warn't _his_ book;
    He swore the most oaths that war swor'd in the camp,
      Or blarmedly I am mistook;
    But he warn't a outen-out bad 'un,
      And he'd got a heart you could touch;
    And he never draw'd iron[8] on boy or man
      As didn't pervoke him much.

    And you can't say fair as drinking
      War counted among his sins;
    For at nary a sittin' would he put down
      More nor fifteen whisky skins.
    But one day we was drinkin' and jawin',
      Round Haggarty's bar, and I fear
    That Haggarty riled him, bein' so slow,
      So he jist sliced off Haggarty's ear.

    Then Haggarty went for him savage,
      Instead of a-holding his jor;
    And Bob went for his 'leven-inch knife,
      And scatter'd Hag's scraps on the floor.
    One of Hag's friends then drew upon Bob,
      And shot Joe Harris instead;
    And I take it the bar floor got at last
      'Bout knee-deep in red.

    But when the fun was over in there,
      Bob ran a-muck in the street;
    And he speared and potted each derned cuss
      As he chanced to meet.
    And quiet folks shut up their doors--
      They thought it safer, you see--
    All but a man with his wife and child,
      That was settin' down to tea.

    Into their parlour rushed Bloomin' Bob,
      To that father and mother's surprise:
    Jobb'd his bowie through one, and took
      The tother between the eyes.
    Then he clutched the innocent slumb'rin' babe,
      Jist meanin' to knock out its brains;
    But at that moment there reach'd his ear
    Some long-forgotten strains.

           *       *       *       *       *

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

What else? Here's to you!
                  Which he sold of his feet
                At five hundred, 'tis true,
                  And the same I repeat:
                But acquaintances, friends,
                  They likes to divert,
                And the tale never ends
                  Of Sam and his shirt,
    And to stop it from goin' he'd give all his dirt!

    _Diversions of the Echo Club._

       *       *       *       *       *

The following admirable parody of Bret Harte's pathetic poems on miner's
life in California was written by Mr. Charles H. Ross, the Editor of
_Judy_. It is a favourite recitation with Mr. Odell, the popular actor:--


THE BLOOMIN' FLOWER OF RORTY GULCH.

    It war Bob war the Bloomin' Flower,
      They know'd him on Poker Flat;
    He'd gouged a few down Gilgal way,
      But no one complained o' that.
    He scored his stiffs[7] on the heft of his knife--
      Forty I've heern 'em say;
    It might have been more--Bob kept his accounts
      In a loosish sorter way.

    Bob warn't a angel ter look at,
      And the Bible it warn't _his_ book;
    He swore the most oaths that war swor'd in the camp,
      Or blarmedly I am mistook;
    But he warn't a outen-out bad 'un,
      And he'd got a heart you could touch;
    And he never draw'd iron[8] on boy or man
      As didn't pervoke him much.

    And you can't say fair as drinking
      War counted among his sins;
    For at nary a sittin' would he put down
      More nor fifteen whisky skins.
    But one day we was drinkin' and jawin',
      Round Haggarty's bar, and I fear
    That Haggarty riled him, bein' so slow,
      So he jist sliced off Haggarty's ear.

    Then Haggarty went for him savage,
      Instead of a-holding his jor;
    And Bob went for his 'leven-inch knife,
      And scatter'd Hag's scraps on the floor.
    One of Hag's friends then drew upon Bob,
      And shot Joe Harris instead;
    And I take it the bar floor got at last
      'Bout knee-deep in red.

    But when the fun was over in there,
      Bob ran a-muck in the street;
    And he speared and potted each derned cuss
      As he chanced to meet.
    And quiet folks shut up their doors--
      They thought it safer, you see--
    All but a man with his wife and child,
      That was settin' down to tea.

    Into their parlour rushed Bloomin' Bob,
      To that father and mother's surprise:
    Jobb'd his bowie through one, and took
      The tother between the eyes.
    Then he clutched the innocent slumb'rin' babe,
      Jist meanin' to knock out its brains;
    But at that moment there reach'd his ear
    Some long-forgotten strains.

           *       *       *       *       *

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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