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

Parodies

In dark blue coat all braided o’er,
        In ducks of spotless white,
      In bright velvet waistcoat,
        He flashes out at night,
      That coat was braided all by me;
        Those ducks and waistcoat gay
      I made, and am a bankrupt,
        Through trusting Captain Gray.

      I’ve sunk beneath the bailiffs touch,
        I’ve into gaol been cast;
      But my imprisonment is done,
        And I’m white-washed at last.
      Oh, when the court my schedule had,
        My lawyer there did say,
      Th’ insolvent was a bankrupt,
        Through trusting Captain Gray.

                                        ANONYMOUS.

                     ――――

                  ALICK GREY.

      He’s all my fancy painted him,
        He’s all I thought divine;
      But his heart it is decoy’d away,
        He never can be mine:
      Yet I ador’d, and dearly lov’d,
        A love without decay:
      Oh! my heart, my heart is breaking
        For the love of Alick Grey.

      I’ve sunk beneath the summer’s sun,
        And tremble in the blast,
      But now my course is nearly run,
        The weary conflict’s past;
      And when the turf lies o’er my grave,
        May pity haply say,
      Oh! her heart, her heart was broken,
        For the love of Alick Grey.

  From _Wiseheart’s Merry Songster_. Dublin.

                     ――――

      THE SONG OF THE HUMBUGGED HUSBAND.

      She’s not what fancy painted her――
        I’m sadly taken in;
      If some one else had won her heart, I
        Should not have cared a pin.
      I thought that she was mild and good
        As maiden e’er could be;
      I wonder how she ever could
        Have so much humbugged me.

      They cluster round and shake my hand――
        They tell me I am blest:
      My case they do not understand,
        I think that I know best.
      They say she’s fairest of the fair――
        They drive me mad and madder,
      What do they want by it? I swear,
        I only wish they had her.

      ’Tis true that she has lovely locks,
        That on her shoulders fall:
      What would they say to see the box
        In which she keeps them all?
      Her taper fingers it is true,
        ’Twere difficult to match;
      What would they say if they but knew
        How terribly they scratch?

  _Punch._ 1842.

                     ――――

                  KITTY BROWN.

      She’s all the chimney sweep described,
        She’s eats as much as nine,
      But her appetite it is her own,
        And never can be mine;
      Yet eat I more than any man,
        In country or in town.
      Oh! a bullock’s heart I’m frying
        For the lunch of Kitty Brown.

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

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

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