Now you want a moral to my song,

To know what is right and what is wrong, Don't get champagne upon the brain,

Or else instead of speaking plain,

You'll say U-pi-Dee-I-Day, U-pi-Dee-I-Day.

Night passed, and in the morning gray,
He was found fast asleep by Policeman A,
He asked his name, he turned him round
In the pocket of his coat a card was found;

It was U-pi-Dee-I-Day, U-pi-Dee-I-Day.

About a quarter past six the next forenoon,
A man accidentally getting up soon,
Heard utter'd above mid snow and ice,
This remarkable song in a very weak voice,

U-pi-Dee-I-Day, U-pi-Dee-I-Day,

He's dead, defunct, without any doubt
The lamp of his life is entirely out,
In the snow and the ice he now is laying,
So it aint any use any more to be saying,

U-pi-Dee-I-Day, U-pi-Dee-I-Day.

This old fashioned comic song, written by F. C. Burnand, was sung in the Burlo-Drama of Julius Cnaeser at the Royalty Theatre. The chorus has here been somewhat abbreviated, as its wit was not in proportion to its length. A parody, having a similar refrain, appeared in Volume 1, Parodies, page 101.

[The Echo in a recent article pictures Mr. Maskelyne starting off in search of Mr. Irving Bishop to recover the ten thousand pounds awarded him by the Jury in the libel suit.] Air-Excelsior."

THE mail train blew its final blast,
When, dashing frantically past
The barrier, rushed a breathless man,
Who muttered ever as he ran—

"Ten thousand pounds!"

His cheek was flushed, his eyeballs seemed
To burn like fire, so bright they gleamed;
And as all watched him disappear,
The echo of a voice rang clear-

"Ten thousand pounds!"

All Europe soon he searched-in vain

He climbed each mountain, scoured each plain,
Alas! he found not him he sought,

And vocal grew the luring thought-
"Ten thousand pounds!"'

"Off to the east I'll go," he cried :
"I'll roam the deserts far and wide,
I'll search the Sphynx, the rivers swim,
To get my damages from him—

"Ten thousand pounds.'

One day the Mahdi's army saw
A man armed with a writ of law,
And as in terror wild they fled,

They heard the mystic words he said-
"Ten thousand pounds."

Tradition doubtless will declare

He's been seen here, there, everywhere;
And unborn savages will speak

Of him who ceases not to seek-
Ten thousand pounds.

Funny Folks, January 31, 1885.

THE GREAT DEMONSTRATION. SHOULD you ask me why this hubbub, Why this motley-garbed procession, Filled with parties somewhat blatant, Bearing sundry gaudy banners

66

Like to banners borne by supers
Why these strains of weird-like music
Fill the air on Easter Monday?—
I should answer, I should tell you,
"Tis the partisans of Orton-
(Orton, that much-suffering martyr),
Headed by their chief, Kenealee,

Better known as Doctor "Dewdrops ❞—
He who represents the people

In the senate of St. Stephen.

Often has he swayed his "gingham
When orating from the platform.
Oh, the wicked judges fear him,
And the Press with terror trembles
When he mightily denounces
Sundry falsehoods journalistic!

See, they stay at Nelson's column
Waiting for the great contingent :
Followers of Magna Charta

From the Eastern plains of Shoreditch,
From the Western Seven dials,

From the Southwark Southern suburb,
From the Northern wilds of Hoxton !
Yea, assembled in their thousands
(Well, we'll say about two thousand),
Enter they the gates of Hyde-park,
And Kenealee, from his chariot,
Speaks to them in silvery accents.
Lo! they make a conflagration
With an execrated journal,
And the crowd, dispersing slowly,
Seek the publics close adjacent,
There to quaff their pots of porter-
Porter, their beloved liquor;
There to puff their shag-tobacco,
And, amid the fumes ascending,
They will prate of him in Dartmoor.
When the time shall come for quitting,
They'll depart with gait unsteady,
Shouting in their native jargon,
We the people har of Hingland!

Fun, April 26, 1876.

PAHTAHQUAHONG.

4 Lyric after Longfellow.

"

(The Rev. Henry Pahtaquahong Chase, Hereditary Chief of the Ojibway Indians has arrived in England. Vide Press.)

SHOULD you ask me whence this Chieftain ?—
Whence this Henry Pahtahquahong?—

I should answer, I should tell you-
From the realms of lake and forest,
Where the mighty Saskatchàwan
And the Kaministaquoiah

Drain the happy hunting valleys;

Where the Mas-ka-gaws and Saulteaux,

Surcees, Pay-gans, Bloods, and Blackfeet,

Ottoes, Dog-ribs, Crees, and Beavers,
Hunt the Wapiti and Musquash ;
From the lakes of Manitoba,
Winnipeg and Winnipags,
Pickcògasi and Pàquash,
Doobiaunt, Wéenisk, Wheldyàhad,
From the shores of Athabasca,
From the Land of the Ojibways.

Should you ask me what he looks like-
Wears he feathers and mocassins,

Belt of wampum, coat of war-paint,
Wields he tomahawk and scalp-knife,
Musket quaint or modern rifle,
Like to sitting Bull or Big Snake,
Chingachgook, or Outalassi,
Leather stocking'd Natty Bumppo,
Hiawatha, Paw-puk-kewis,
Shaw-wa-nos-soway, whose rival
Muck-e-tock-e-now (Black Eagle)
Died thro' wooing sweet Awh-mid-way
Beautiful as Minnehaha ?-

I should answer. I should tell you-
Pahtahquahong Chase, the chieftain,
Wears no feathers nor mocassins,
Wields no tomahawk nor scalper,
But a black suit and white choker,
On his head a silk broad brimmer,
In his hand a stick for walking,

He has turn'd him from the war-path,
He has buried deep the hatchet,

Gives us sermons 'stead of war-whoops,
And the Pale-face is his brother;
Welcome then, O Pahtahquahong
From the realms of Lake and forest,
From the happy hunting valleys,
From the land of the Ojibways.

WALTER PARKE,

The Bath and Cheltenham Gazette, March 30, 1881.

Soon as a "distinguished stranger,"
He will gaze down on the Commons-
Gaze upon his friends and patrons-
While beside him Shepstone Junior,
Meekly nameth each one thusly,
In a sort of Zulu English;
Yonder sits the aged chieftain,
Gran-dole-man-o, whom the To-rees-
Wicked race, who love their country!-
Liken to the eel that wriggleth.
Near him bideth Dil-ki-kilkee,
Speaker of the thing which is not,
With the mighty Ver-no-narker,
Like some would-be dignified hip-
Popotamus by your rivers,
Far away see Carlisle's Willfee
Pal o'-yours, my Cetewayo,
Who's so very fond of water
That he puts it in his speeches,
Till he drowns all his ideas,

And his hearers think he has none."

THE SONG OF CETEWAYO.

(WITH APOLOGIES TO THE NOBLE HIAWATHA.)

FAR across the big-sea-water

Which is sometimes termed the ocean

To the lodges of the pale-face

Comes the gentle Cetewayo.

(Lady Florence trisyllabic

Makes the name of her odd hero;

But, to suit this bards convenience,
And his transatlantic measure,

Pray let him say

66

66

Cet-e-wayo.")

If you ask me Why the gentle ?'" I shall answer, I shall tell you,

I shall pity you and tell you,

'Tis because he is a savage,
Who by force compelled his people
To become a tribe of cut-throats.
Furthermore, because our brothers

He has slaughtered by the hundred.
Now, however, being captive,
Very small and mild he singeth-
Talks no more his spears of washing
In our blood, or eating us up.
That is why we call him " gentle,"
And a lot of names as pretty,
("We" are Lady Florence Dixie,
And Natal's least Christian Bishop,
Arithmetical Colenso;
Also aqueous Sir Wilfred,
And a varied mob of other
Dames hysteric of both sexes.)
So we bring him o'er the ocean-
Otherwise the big-sea-water-
Feed him up like any porker;
Lodge him, and the British uni
Form encourage him to scoff at.

Gone to pay the toiling printer,
Gone to pay the paper-maker,
Gone to pay the landlord's tribute,
Gone to pay the clerk and devil,
Gone to pay the faithful mailer,
Gone to pay old Uncle Samuel-
Uncle Sam, the rowdies call him-
Gone to pay for beef and Bridget,
Gone to pay the faithful parson.
Sad it is to turn our ledger,
Turn the leaves of this old ledger,
Turn and see what sums are due us,
Due for volumes long since ended,
Due for years of pleasant reading,
Due for years of anxious labour,
Due despite of patient waiting,
Due despite of constant dunning,
Due in sums from two to twenty.
Would you lift a burden from us?
Would you drive a spectre from you?
Would you have a pleasant slumber?
Would you have a quiet conscience?
Would you read a paper paid for?
Send us money! Send us money
Send us money! Send us money!
Send the money that you owe us.

'Ride! Ride! Ride!

Till my boots are rusty and worn !

And ride, ride, ride!

Till my breeches are tattered and torn ;
Plain, and gully, and range,
Range, and gully, and plain,

Till over the saddle I fall asleep,
To waken and ride again.

Oh! Squatters with beautiful runs!

Oh! Squatters with fattening plains
Not feet alone are you wearing out,
But you're sowing rheumatic pains!
Twitch! Twitch! Twitch!

I feel it in all my bones,
Sowing at once with a double stitch,
Colonial experience and groans.

"But why do I talk of rheumatics?
That phantom of aching bone;
I hardly fear his terrible shape,
It seems so like my own-
It seems so like my own,
Because of the spills I reap.*

Oh! that runs should be so dear,
And overseers so cheap!

Ride Ride! Ride!

My labour never flags :

And what are its wages? Forty a year,
And these two wretched nags,

This mutton chop and this damper queer

A stretcher, a 'possum rug,

And so wretched all that the traveller here
But seldom shows his mug!

"Count! Count! Count!

The thousands of every flock,

Count, count, count!

Till I've counted my master's stock; Ewes, and wethers, and lambs,

Lambs, and wethers, and ewes,

Till the eyes are dazzled, the hurdles smashed, And my shins are all in a bruise.

Snip! Snip! Snip !

When the shearing season's come,

And snip, snip, snip!

But never a keg of rum!

Curse, and squabble, and row,

Row, and squabble, and curse,

Till my eyes are blackened, my 'claret' drawn,

As well as my private purse.

"Oh ! but to breathe the breath
Of the Royal Hotel in town;
A prime manilla in my mouth,
Whilst I knock my earnings down!
Oh! but for one short month,
To spree as I used to spree,
Before I knew the super's berth,
In the days when I was free!

*Clark's Horses were notorious buck-jumpers.

"Your attention has been drawn to this pestilential source of disease, and to the consequence of heaping human beings into contracted localities* and I again revert to it because of its great importance, not merely that it perpetuates fever and the allied disorders, but because there stalks side by side with this pestilence a yet deadlier presence, blighting the moral existence of a rising population, rendering their hearts hopeless, their acts ruffianly, and scattering, while society averts her eye, the retributive seeds of increase for crime, turbulence and disorder."-See Report of Dr. Letheby, Medical Officer of Health.

*"Of the many cases to which I have alluded there are some that have commanded my attention by reason of their unusual depravity, cases in which three or four adults of both sexes, with many children were lodging in the same room, and often sleeping in the same bed. I have notes of three or four localities where 48 men, 73 women, and 59 children are living in 34 rooms. They are distributed as follows:-2 men, 2 women, and 3 children in one room; 1 man, 2 women. and 3 children; 1 man, 4 women, and 2 children; 2 men, 3 women, and 1 child; 2 men, 1 woman, and 2 children; 1 man, 4 women, and 1 child; 1 man and 3 women; 2 men and 3 women; and so on.-Vide Repo*1.

Stench, and fever, and death,

Where huddle the young and old, Where the beggars brat is rocked to sleep By the side of the corpse just cold ! †

"Oh! men with thousands a year,

Oh! men with mothers and wives,

Oh! read that report, and think of our sort, Oh! think of our bestial lives.

Dirt! Dirt! Dirt!

Can such as we grow good,

When filth is around us, night and morn, In sleep, work, drink and food?

"But why do I talk of dirt,

Where nothing else is known?

I hardly know the foul thing's form,
It seems so like my own.

It seems so like my own

While three in a bed we sleep, Till filth doth grow to the poor man dear, While water and soap are cheap.

Dirt! Dirt! Dirt!

We cannot sleep on the flags,
So together we herd in our fetid dens,
And fever nurse in our rags,-
Small-pox, fever, and cough,

Where the slimy vapour doth reek,
Where children are born near the livid corpse,
That cholera killed last week?

Dirt! Dirt! Dirt!

In the cold December night,
And dirt, dirt, dirt
When summer days are bright,
When God's blessed winds do blow,

Like a message from bygone years,
From the broad green fields at home,
Till I wash my face with tears!

"Oh, for one breath of air,

Away from this sick'ning smell,
Where the only flowers we ever see,

Are the flowers we cannot sell,

Which we hawked in the street all day,

Till hunger our cheeks doth blench,

And we bring 'em home to wither and die,
And fragrance fades into stench!

Tait's Magazine, 1858.