Vae Victis After Gilles Menage And Thomas Hood Faithless Nellie Gray Poem by Jonathan ROBIN

Good people all, with one accord
lament for David Wren,
who never wanted a good word –
from those his praise did pen.

He strove all of this House to please
with manners wondrous winning;
and never followed wicked ways –
except when he was sinning.

At meals, in slacks and jackets neat,
with smile of monstrous size;
he sat up straight upon his seat –
for ladies, though, he’d rise.

His love was sought, the little wren,
by twenty birds and more;
where e’er he went they followed him
to Annesley’s shady shore.

So let us sigh, in sorrow sore,
for South House well may say;
had he but slaved in school some more,
he had not sobbed today.

14 December 1969

Faithless Ben Simon

Ben Simon was a broker bold
who’d turned his share of crashes,
the recent slump his stumps had bowled
with shares returned to ashes.

Then as they hammered him from ‘Change,
he stammered “with a spread
I might my spread keep, not exchange
my blue bloods, in the red! ”

Head watch-dogs dogged his tracks before
he suddenly made tracks,
and headed south ahead of four
headlines in weekend tracts.

Though contracts signed seemed so well heeled, -
the heel – but yet inside a
good deal of each deal he had wheeled
were bad contacts insider!

Although he swore an open book
each trade was ‘fore bear raid,
betrayed, he soon was brought to book
and in the dock arrayed.

The moral of this tale, who knows?
Fools’ gold will e’er attract,
but details missed, or jealous foes
woe’s tales tell, ‘tis a fact.

27 July 1991

An Elegy The Happy Man

La Palisse now I wish to touch;
Droll air! if I can strike it,
I'm sure the song will please you much;
That is, if you should like it.

La Pallisse was indeed, I grant,
Not used to any dainty
When he was born – but could not want,
As long as he had plenty.

Instructed with the greatest care,
He always was well bred,
And never used a hat to wear
But when 'twas on his head.

His temper was exceeding good,
Just of his father’s fashion;
And never quarrels broil’d his blood,
Except when in a passion.

His mind was on devotion bent;
He kept with care each high day,
And Holy Thursday always spent
The day before Good Friday.

He liked good claret very well,
I just presume to think it;
For ere its flavour he could tell
He thought it best to drink it.

Than doctors more he loved the cook,
Though food would make him gross,
And never any physic took
But when he took a dose.

O happy, happy is the swain
The ladies so adore;
For many followed in his train,
Whene’er he walk’d before.

Bright as the sun his flowing hair
In golden ringlets shone;
And no one could with him compare,
If he had been alone.

His talents I cannot rehearse,
But everyone allows,
That whatsoe’er he wrote in verse,
No one could call it prose.

His powerful logic would surprise,
Amuse, and much delight:
He proved that dimness of the eyes
Was hurtful to the sight.

They liked him much - so it appears
Most plainly - who preferred him;
And those did never want their ears
Who any time had heard him.

He was not always right, 'tis true,
And then he must be wrong;
But none had found it out, he knew,
If he had held his tongue.

He argued with precision nice,
The learnèd all declare;
And it was his decision wise,
No horse could be a mare.

He was not always right, ‘tis true,
And then he must be wrong;
But none had found it out, he knew,
If he had held his tongue.

Whene'er a tender tear he shed,
'Twas certain that he wept;
And he would lie awake in bed,
Unless, indeed, he slept.

In tilting everybody knew
His very high renown;
Yet no opponents he o'erthrew
But those that he knocked down.

At last they smote him in the head –
What hereo ever fought all?
And when they saw that he was dead,
They knew the wound was mortal.

And when at last he lost his breath,
It closed his every strife;
For that sad day that seal’d his death,
Deprived him of his life.


Gilles MENAGE 1613_1692
Translator Unknown sometimes in 9 verses only ‘amuse’ variation ‘amaze’


Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog

Good people all, of every sort,
Give ear unto my song;
And if you find it wondrous short,
It cannot hold you long.

In Islington there was a man
Of whom the world might say,
That still a godly race he ran—
Whene'er he went to pray.

A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes;
The naked every day he clad—
When he put on his clothes.

And in that town a dog was found,
As many dogs there be,
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,
And curs of low degree.

This dog and man at first were friends;
But when a pique began,
The dog, to gain some private ends,
Went mad, and bit the man.

Around from all the neighbouring streets
The wond'ring neighbours ran,
And swore the dog had lost its wits
To bite so good a man.

The wound it seemed both sore and sad
To every Christian eye;
And while they swore the dog was mad,
They swore the man would die.

But soon a wonder came to light
That showed the rogues they lied, —
The man recovered of the bite,
The dog it was that died!

Oliver GOLDSMITH 1728_1774 The Happy Man



Elegy on the Glory of her Sex Mrs Mary Blaize

Good people all, with one accord
Lament for Madam Blaize,
Who never wanted a good word, —
From those who spoke her praise.

The needy seldom passed her door,
And always found her kind;
She freely lent to all the poor, —
Who left a pledge behind.

She strove the neighbourhood to please
With manners wondrous winning;
And never followed wicked ways, —
Unless when she was sinning.

At church, in silks and satins new,
With hoop of monstrous size,
She never slumbered in her pew, —
But when she shut her eyes.

Her love was sought, I do aver,
By twenty beaux and more;
The king himself has followed her, —
When she has walked before.

But now her wealth and finery fled,
Her hangers-on cut short all;
The doctors found, when she was dead, —
Her last disorder mortal.

Let us lament in sorrow sore,
For Kent Street well may say
That had she lived a twelvemonth more,
She had not died today.

Oliver GOLDSMITH 1728_1774 gold1_0003_mena1_0001
Parody from the French Gilles Ménage Elegy - The Happy Man

Faithless Nellie Gray

Ben Battle was a soldier bold,
And used to war's alarms;
But a cannon-ball took off his legs,
So he laid down his arms.

Now as they bore him off the field,
Said he, 'Let others shoot;
For here I leave my second leg,
And the Forty-second Foot.'

The army-surgeons made him limbs:
Said he, 'They're only pegs;
But there's as wooden members quite,
As represent my legs.'

Now Ben he loved a pretty maid, -
Her name was Nelly Gray;
So he went to pay her his devours,
When he devoured his pay.
But when he called on Nelly Gray,
She made him quite a scoff;
And when she saw his wooden legs,
Began to take them off.

'O Nelly Gray! O Nelly Gray! '
Is this your love so warm?
The love that loves a scarlet coat
Should be a little more uniform.

Said she, ' I loved a soldier once,
For he was blithe and brave;
But I will never have a man
With both legs in the grave

'Before you had those timber toes
Your love I did allow;
But then, you know, you stand upon
Another footing now.'

'O Nelly Gray! O Nelly Gray!
For all your jeering speeches,
At duty's call I left my legs
In Badajos's breaches.'

'Why, then, ' said she, 'you've lost the feet
Of legs in war's alarms,
And now you cannot wear your shoes
Upon your feats of arms! '

'O false and fickle Nelly Gray!
I know why you refuse:
Though I've no feet, some other man
Is standing in my shoes.

'I wish I ne'er had seen your face;
But, now, a long farewell!
For you will be my death' – alas!
You will not be my Nell! '

Now when he went from Nelly Gray
His heart so heavy got,
And life was such a burden grown,
It made him take a knot.

So round his melancholy neck
A rope he did intwine,
And, for his second time in life,
Enlisted in the Line.

One end he tied around a beam,
And then removed his pegs;
And, as his legs were off - of course
He soon was off his legs.

And there he hung till he was dead
As any nail in town;
For, though distress had cut him up,
It could not cut him down.

A dozen men sat on his corpse,
To find out why he died, -
And they buried Ben in four cross-roads
With a stake in his inside.


Thomas Hood Parody from the French Gilles Ménage Elegy - The Happy Man and Oliver GOLDSMITH – Elegy on the Glory of her Sex, Mrs. Blaize

Faithless Sally Brown

Young Ben he was a nice young man,
A carpenter by trade;
And he fell in love with Sally Brown,
That was a lady's maid.

But as they fetched a walk one day,
They met a press-gang crew;
And Sally did faint away,
Whilst Ben he was brought to.

The Boatswain swore with wicked words,
Enough to shock a saint,
That though she did seem in a fit,
'Twas nothing but a feint.

'Come, girl, ' said he, 'hold up you head,
He'll be as good as me;
For when your swain is in our boat,
A boatswain he will be.'

So when they'd made their game of her,
And taken off her elf,
She roused, and found she only was
A coming to herself.

'And is he gone, and is he gone! '
She cried, and wept outright:
'Then I will to the water side,
And see him out of sight.'

A waterman came up to her,
'Now, young woman, ' said he,
'If you weep on so, you will make
Eye-water in the sea.'

'Alas! they've taken my beau Ben
To sail with old Benbow; '
And her woe began to run afresh,
As if she'd said Gee woe!

Says he, 'They've only taken him
To the Tender ship, you see; '
'To the Tender ship, ' cried Sally Brown,
'What a hard-ship that must be!

'Oh! would I were a mermaid now,
For then I'd follow him;
But oh! I'm not a fish-woman,
And so I cannot swim.

'Alas! I was not born beneath
The Virgin and the Scales,
So I must curse my cruel stars,
And walk about in Wales.'

Now Ben had sailed to many a place
That's underneath the world;
But in two years the ship came home,
And all her sails were furled.

But when he called on Sally Brown,
To see how she went on,
He found she'd got another Ben,
Whose Christian name was John.

'O Sally Brown, O Sally Brown,
How could you serve me so?
I've met with many a breeze before,
But never such a blow.'

Then, reading on his 'bacco box,
He heaved a bitter sigh,
And then began to eye his pipe,
And then to pipe his eye.

And then he tried to sing 'All's Well, '
But could not though he tried:
His head was turned, and so he chewed
His pigtail till he died.

His death which happened in his berth,
At forty-odd befell:
They went and told the sexton, and
The sexton toll'd the bell.

Thomas Hood 1799_1845 hood1_0005_mena1_0001 Parody Gilles MENAGE - The Happy Man Oliver GOLDSMITH – Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog

The Cold-Water Man

It was an honest fisherman,
I knew him passing well,
And he lived by a little pond,
Within a little dell.

A grave and quiet man was he,
Who loved his book and rod,
So even ran his line of life,
His neighbours thought it odd.

For science and for books, he said,
He never had a wish,
No school to him was worth a fig,
Except a school of fish.

He ne’er aspired to rank or wealth,
Nor cared about a nae,
For though much famed for fish was he,
He never fished for fame.

Let others bend their necks at sight
Of Fashion’s gilded wheels,
He ne’er had learned the art to “bob”
for anything but eels.

A cunning fisherman was he,
His angles all were right;
The smallest nibble at his bait
Was sure to prove “a bite.”


John Godfrey SAXE 1816_1887

Pygmalion

There was an ancient classic swell,
An interesting alien,
His kinsfolk called him “Piggy”, but
His full name was Pygmalion.

Like many a high artistic Greek,
He got his bread by chiselling;
I don’t mean running into debt
and then by moonlight mizzling.

I don’t mean billiars, cards or dice,
At which the sharper garbles
Some spooney flat – the only game
Pymalion played was marbles.

He chiselled marble into forms
Defying competition;
And won no end of Kudos at
Each R.A. Exhibition.

One eve, he’d worked the whole day long,
And felt used up and wearied;
His subject was a Grecian Bend,
Or Lady of the Period.

Now Piggy was a lonely man,
Since he had never mated;
But always kept a celibate,
Although so celebrated.

So when he laid his chisel down
And saw his fair creation,
He said, - as critics often say –
“She lacks but animation! ”

And straightway Love and Phantasy,
Like disobedient vassals,
Heedless of Reason, in his brain
Wen building Spanish castles.

He thought it would be very nice
Each morning could he see
Presiding at his breakfast-board
Just such a Mrs. P.

He pictured her at parties, fêtes,
In pinery or grapery,
Looking as she was looking then –
Plus just a little drapery.

He bent on her a steadfast gaze
(Mesmeric ‘twas, I’m thinking)
And straight her sympathetic lids
Moved like – yes, just like – winking.

She breathed – she lived – she came to him,
And he embraced her quick;
“You are not stone! ” he fondly cried –
“You are a little brick! ”

His vision thus was realised:
Next morning he was able
To see that partner exquisite
Presiding at his table.

He ordered in no end of ‘things”,
He thought it but his duty;
Since, even for that antique age,
Too ‘unadorned’ her beauty.

And knowing well that spinsters prim
Would make her case a handle
For rude remark, he put a stop
Effectually to scandal.

For shortly in the Morning Post
This won the Monde’s regards –
“Mr. Pygmalion, R.A., -
Married Miss Stone. No cards.”

And many an artist, since that day,
Has found his sighs love-laden
Warm into animated clay
The coldest ‘marble maiden.”

Author Unknown The Hornet c.1890 PSho1_0005_mena1_0001

Elegy

“Great Britain makes a difficult sacrifice of principle by promising to bring the question of the recognition of the sovereignty of Ethiopia before the League of Nations”
The Times 18 April 1938


Good People all of every kind,
Unto my song give ear,
Of how the nations late combined
To make aggressors fear,

Of eight-and-fifty sheep-dogs, bound
No more to bark or bite,
And tainted wethers to impound
With full collective might.

A wolf in sheepskin was disclosed,
A lurking beast of prey.
The league his brigandage opposed,
A mouton enragé –

And more in sorrow than in ire
Put on the sanctions screw
To make the peacebreakers retire,
As they were sworn to do.

The killer ravaged, undismayed
By their coercive thrust,
The justice of his force outweighed
The forces of the just.

Their logic was confounded quite
As fact with theory vied,
The wolf recovered from the bite;
The League it was that died.

Olga Miller Katzin 1896_1987

To Add
BENSON Gerard 1931_20xx bens2_0004_mena1_0001 PWX_DXX Ben Barley_Ben Barley was a barman stout

FAGG Martin fagg1_0003_mena1_0001 PWX_DXX Elegy on Thomas Hood_O spare a tear for poor Tom Hood