Parodies of the works of English & American authors, vol. III
General
Parodies of the works of English & American authors, vol. III
Parodies
’Tis a law of human nature,
As you all of you must grant,
That of worldly things, the more man has
The more he’s sure to want,
Then wonder not that we, on whom
Such fatness men bestow,
Are in heart sick and sore, and in want, far, far more
Than you who sit below――oh! oh! oh! oh!
That bishops who have been brought up
Regardless of expense,
In luxury must dine and sup,
Seems merely common sense:
And neither few nor far between
Can be their wants, you know,
When in health and at ease their appetites increase
For the good things here below――O! O! O! O!
Then think ye not a bishop’s less
To be envied than be pitied,
Rememb’ring that to meet distress
So little he is fitted.
Nor wonder he for pension wants
Six thousand pounds or so――
Or I fear in a year, tho’ he’s lived like a Peer,
On the parish he would go――o――o――o――Oh!
(_Refrain_) ON THE PARISH HE WOULD GO!
_Punch_. October 11, 1856.
――――
CRINOLINE’S RAGING FURY;
_Or, the Fashionable Female’s Sufferings_.
You rustic maids of England,
Who dress yourselves with ease,
Ah, little do you think how hard
It is French taste to please.
Give ear unto the milliners,
And they will plainly show,
With what care, tight with air,
They our Crinolines do blow.
* * * * *
(_Five verses omitted._)
The husband, and the lover,
May simple gowns prefer,
That fit the form, and, in a storm,
With safety let one stir,
Reproaches fierce, our hearts that pierce,
Against our taste they throw,
Which we poor things endure,
Whilst our Crinolines we blow.
We put on costly merchandise
Of most enormous price,
So much we need of drapery,
To follow this device;
We spend so much in drapery,
Of such a size to show,
And with toil our shape spoil,
When our Crinolines we blow.
_Punch_, January 31, 1857.
――――
YE COMMONERS OF ENGLAND.
Ye Commoners of England,
Who cannot sit at ease
In the house designed by BARRY
Four hundred odd to squeeze,
Your straitened bounds enlarge again
To hold two hundred more,
Who now creep, in a heap,
Through the narrow lobby door,
When division bells ring loud and long,
To the over-crowded floor.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
Reviews
Reviews
No reviews yet
Be the first to share your thoughts on this work.
Elsewhere in the archive
Join the Discussion
Join the discussion
Sign in to leave a comment or review.
Sign InorCreate an account