Joe Chamberlain, my Joe, Sir, We’re facing roughish weather; Our only chance of victory, Joe, Seems pulling all together. Though slow the pace, why should you stop? Up hill we all would go, And we’ll meet together at the top, Joe Chamberlain, my Joe! _Punch_, October 3, 1885. ―――― JOE CHAMBERLAIN, OUR JOE. (_A Radical Parody._) [Mr. Chamberlain still adheres to the famous “three points” of the South London speech.] Joe Chamberlain, our Joe, lad, Conservatives may ban, But more and more the rest of us Support the “Grand Young Man.” _We_ do not grumble at your pace, We would not have you slow, So put your best leg foremost still, Joe Chamberlain, our Joe! Joe Chamberlain, our Joe, lad, Though Stanhopes rise and row you, You will not let their silly talk “Three-acres-and-a-cow” you. You wait not for the “jumping cat,” Your mind you seem to know, Which counts for something nowadays, Joe Chamberlain, our Joe. Joe Chamberlain, our Joe, lad, Your colours are attractive, And now you’ve nailed them to the mast, The Whigs will grow more active. Keep up the stride――press home those “points” That rankle in the foe, And leave the polls to do the rest, Joe Chamberlain, our Joe. _Funny Folks_, October 17, 1885. ――――:o:―――― Many short Parodies of Burns’s poems are scattered about in various old periodicals, but comparatively few are worthy of preservation, whilst some of the best, which have appeared in Scotch newspapers, are so broad in their dialect that few English readers would understand them. Trading on this ignorance of the northern dialect, some authors have composed poems, in imitation of Burns, which, whilst retaining some of the sound, contain none of the sense of the original. A good example of this style of Parody is to be found in Cruikshank’s Comic Almanac for 1846, it is entitled:―― AN UNPUBLISHED POEM. By Robert Burns. “_Lilt your Johnnie._” Wi’ patchit brose and ilka pen, Nae bairns to clad the gleesome ken; But chapmen billies, a’ gude men, And _Doon_ sae bonnie! Ne’er let the scornfu’ mutchit ben; But lilt your Johnnie! For whistle binkie’s unco’ biel, Wad haggis mak of ony chiel, To jaup in luggies like the deil, O’er loop or cronnie: You wadna croop to sic a weel; But lilt your Johnnie! Sae let the pawkie carlin scraw, And hoolie, wi’ outlandish craw, Kail weedies frae the ingle draw As blyth as honie; Amang the thummart dawlit wa’ To lilt your Johnnie.