Letter To Ph From A Disappointed Writer - Parodies William Mackworth Praed – A Letter Poem by Jonathan ROBIN

A Letter to PH from a Disappointed Writer


Dear PH, I leave you this letter
after writing from ten until nine
for a site I’d delight to know better,
for a smile that my heart can’t decline.
Yet one finds after wearily pacing,
for replies in the cold, for some sign,
that that heart which with hope had been racing
to darkest despair must incline.

Dear PH from twelve to eleven
each night I would knock at your door
in hope that an angel from heaven
could show me the light, - but no more
will I screed in my need if no answer
effective can echo joy’s store -
I can’t act as a puppet-stringed dancer,
not even for one I adore!

Dear PH the time have I waited
day in and day out by grief torn,
all write up down written, ill-fated
as my consonants vowed my vowels scorn.
The wonder my dunderhead brought you
tonight may steal thunder at morn,
but the blossoms whose beauty besought you
fade as fast as last season’s drenched corn.

As on Thursday applauseless, defeated,
so on Friday all clauseless I’m spurned,
is the cycle of love thus completed,
is this all the thanks that I’ve earned?
It is hard for a fool to be taken -
its a sign that one’s soft in the head, -
but the reason that slept must awaken,
and the spirit, restored, won’t be lead!

I’d have offered you all in my power,
to cherish, to share, to be kind,
I’d have nurtured emotions to flower
and found wings for soul unresigned.
It is not just the whim of an hour
but a lifetime with no chains to bind,
in a warm, in a warm, tender bower
with blank verse, even worse, left behind!

How can I be present tomorrow,
bear false witness with stanzas prewrit?
once again less “in anger than sorrow”
I will try to bar love from my wit.
I will try to contain my emotion -
or go through the motions to ease
the emptiness born from devotion
to one who my [he]art pleased to tease.

Good luck with your plans to continue
support for the wor[l]d caught in art!
Good luck for the talent that s[w]ings you!
Good luck for a applause the stats chart!
I’ll return into cold hibernation
all alone til your smile shines bright through
the slough of despondent elation,
these Elysean fields cropped by few.

Dear PH, ignore to this last letter
should sentiments biased appear,
yet I shall be ever your debtor -
who taught me to share and feel near.
Intuitions are fine for romantic,
inner feelings that flower in dreams,
but a chasm as deep as Atlantic
drowns my talent, it seems, PH, Dear!

So sometimes recall that I follow
your footsteps as forward they flow,
and the shadow which seems to be hollow
is an echo which helps me to know
how the sun shines for YOU as Apollo
his steeds urges onwards, - and though
forgetful nights daily verse swallow
tomorrow dawn’s brightness will glow!

© Jonathan Robin Parody written 12 April 2005 revised 19 November 2006


A Letter of Advice - Epistle to an Orphan



They tell me you’re promised a mother,
to cuddle, to cosset, to care.
Take care for she may try to smother,
to cover her inner despair.
The experts agree that another
could just as well clinch the affair, -
and beware that you never discover
the father who’s no longer there.


© Jonathan Robin Parody written 31 October 1990


A Letter of Advice to Margaret Thatcher



You tell me you’ve taken a lover, -
the Serpent - to suckle at breast,
what took you so long to discover
its worth, that you seemed to detest?
Is it fears of the new German eagle,
which now flies in the skies, to and fro?
Is it fear you’l appear far less regal?
Prime Minister, Maggie, say ‘No! ’

You so often set foot in the City
among the stockbrokers and Jews,
until now no-one noticed that pity
assisted in making the News.
Lip service you paid as a token
to E.E.C. – more ‘stop’ than ‘go’ –
would you now betray promises spoken?
Prime Minister, Maggie, say No! ’

Dixit Maggie:
The arguments strongly defended
won time – though for whom no-one knows,
the endergy fiercely expended
I now do reverse with my prose!
Don’t think that I’m not sympathetic
to common wealth causes, but so
urgently must I seem more magnetic, -
Prime Ministers learn to say ‘No! ’

Exports are the life of the nation,
and spendthrifts throw eggs from the nest,
why would you now import inflation
why risk fresh electoral test?
You constancy prized, never faltered,
what further can grandeur bestow?
My heart is the same, is your’s altered?
Prime Minister, Maggie, say No! ’

Beware or you’ll face resignation
from the ranks of conservative friends,
for instransigence breeds indignation –
a sign that your time nears its end.
Will you bend, or back down from your folly.
On your knees beg to Brussels, kow-tow?
Or defend precious pound, British lolly,
or become ‘Lady Diehard, Soho’? ...

Dixit Maggie:
Our infantile logic was stupid,
and once we admitted its flaws,
to Snake turned like Eve to a Cupid –
a fig for Conservative bores!
A policy firm and effective
must govern though markets sink low,
while a girl learns a sense of perspective
at times when she simply says ‘No! ’


© Jonathan Robin Parody written 7 October 1990

Parody Winthrop Mackworth PRAED – A Letter of Advice




A Letter of Advice




From Miss Medora Trevilian at Padua
to Miss Araminta Vavasour, in London

Enfin, monsieur, un homme aimable;
Voilà: pourquoi je ne saurais l'aimer. Scribe


You tell me you're promised a lover,
My own Araminta, next week;
Why cannot my fancy discover
The hue of his coat and his cheek?
Alas! if he look like another,
A vicar, a banker, a beau,
Be deaf to your father and mother,
My own Araminta, say 'No! '

Miss Lane at her Temple of Fashion,
Taught us both how to sing and to speak,
And we loved one another with passion,
Before we had been there a week:
You gave me a ring for a token;
I wear it wherever I go;
I gave you a chain - is it broken?
My own Araminta, say 'No! '

O think of our favourite cottage,
And think of our dear Lallah Rookh!
How we shared with the milkmaids their pottage,
And drank of the stream from the brook:
How fondly our loving lips faltered
'What further can grandeur bestow?
My heart is the same; - is yours altered?
My own Araminta, say 'No! '

Remember the thrilling romances
We read on the bank in the glen;
Remember the suitors our fancies
Would picture for both of us then.
They wore the red cross on their shoulder,
They had vanquished and pardoned their foe -
Sweet friend, are you wiser or colder?
My own Araminta, say 'No! '

You know, when Lord Rigmarole's carriage
Drove off with your sister Justine,
You wept, dearest girl, at the marriage,
And whispered 'How base she has been! '
You said you were sure it would kill you,
If ever your husband looked so;
And you will apostatize, - will you?
My own Araminta, say 'No! '

When I heard I was going abroad, love,
I thought I was going to die;
We walked arm in arm to the road, love,
We looked arm in arm to the sky;
And I said 'When a foreign postillion
Has hurried me off to the Po,
Forget not Medora Trevilian:

My own Araminta, say 'No! '
We parted! but sympathy's fetters
Reach far over valley and hill;
I muse o'er your exquisite letters,
And feel that your heart is mine still;
And he who would share it with me, love -
The richest of treasure below -

If he's not what Orlando should be, love,
My own Araminta, say 'No! '
If he wears a top-boot in his wooing,
If he comes to you riding a cob,
If he talks of his baking or brewing,
If he puts up his feet on the hob,
If he ever drinks port after dinner,
If his brow, or his breeding is low,
If he calls himself 'Thompson' or 'Skinner',
My own, Araminta, say 'No! '

If he ever sets foot in the City,
Amongst the stockbrokers and Jews,
If he has not a heart full of pity,
If he don't stand six feet in his shoes,
If his lips are not redder than roses,
If his hands are not whiter than snow,
If he has not the model of noses, -
My own Araminta, say 'No! '

If he speaks of a tax or a duty,
If he does not look grand on his knees,
If he's blind to a landscape of beauty,
Hills, valleys, rocks, waters, and trees,
If he dotes not on desolate towers,
If he likes not to hear the blast blow,
If he knows not the language of flowers, -
My own Araminta, say 'No! '

He must walk - like a god of old story
Come down from the home of his rest;
He must smile - like the sun in his glory
On the buds he loves ever the best;
And oh! from its ivory portal
Like music his soft speech must flow! -
If he speak, smile, or walk like a mortal,
My own Araminta, say 'No! '

Don't listen to tales of his bounty,
Don't hear what they say of his birth,
Don't look at his seat in the county,
Don't calculate what he is worth;
But give him a theme to write verse on,
And see if he turns out his toe;
If he's only an excellent person, -
My own Araminta, say 'No! '




Winthrop Mackworth PRAED 1802_1839




THE TALENTED MAN

Letter From A Lady In London To A Lady At Lausanne

Dear Alice! you'll laugh when you know it, -
Last week, at the Duchess's ball,
I danced with the clever new poet, -
You've heard of him, - Tully St. Paul.
Miss Jonquil was perfectly frantic;
I wish you had seen Lady Anne!
It really was very romantic,
He is such a talented man!

He came up from Brazen Nose College,
Just caught, as they call it, this spring;
And his head, love, is stuffed full of knowledge
Of every conceivable thing.
Of science and logic he chatters,
As fine and as fast as he can;
Though I am no judge of such matters,
I'm sure he's a talented man.

His stories and jests are delightful; -
Not stories or jests, dear, for you;
The jests are exceedingly spiteful,
The stories not always quite true.
Perhaps to be kind and veracious
May do pretty well at Lausanne;
But it never would answer, - good gracious!
Chez nous - in a talented man.

He sneers, - how my Alice would scold him! -
At the bliss of a sigh or a tear;
He laughed - only think! - when I told him
How we cried o'er Trevelyan last year;
I vow I was quite in a passion;
I broke all the sticks of my fan;
But sentiment's quite out of fashion,
It seems, in a talented man.

Lady Bab, who is terribly moral,
Has told me that Tully is vain,
And apt - which is silly - to quarrel,
And fond - which is sad - of champagne.
I listened, and doubted, dear Alice,
For I saw, when my Lady began,
It was only the Dowager's malice; -
She does hate a talented man!

He's hideous, I own it. But fame, love,
Is all that these eyes can adore;
He's lame, - but Lord Byron was lame, love,
And dumpy, - but so is Tom Moore.
Then his voice, - such a voice! my sweet creature,
It's like your Aunt Lucy's toucan:
But oh! what's a tone or a feature,
When once one's a talented man?

My mother, you know, all the season,
Has talked of Sir Geoffrey's estate;
And truly, to do the fool reason,
He has been less horrid of late.
But to-day, when we drive in the carriage,
I'll tell her to lay down her plan; -
If ever I venture on marriage,
It must be a talented man!

P.S. - I have found, on reflection,
One fault in my friend, - entre nous;
Without it, he'd just be perfection; -
Poor fellow, he has not a sou!
And so, when he comes in September
To shoot with my uncle, Sir Dan,
I've promised mamma to remember
He's only a talented man!

Winthrop Mackworth Praed 1802_1839


A Letter




Dear Kitty,
At length the term's ending;
I 'm in for my Schools in a week;
And the time that at present I'm spending
On you should be spent upon Greek:
But I'm fairly well read in my Plato,
I'm thoroughly red in the eyes,
And I've almost forgotten the way to
Be healthy and wealthy and wise.
So 'the best of all ways' - why repeat you
The verse at 2.30 a.m.,
When I 'm stealing an hour to entreat you
Dear Kitty, to come to Commem.?

Oh, come! You shall rustle in satin
Through halls where Examiners trod:
Your laughter shall triumph o'er Latin
In lecture-room, garden, and quad.
They stand in the silent Sheldonian -
Our orators, waiting - for you,
Their style guaranteed Ciceronian,
Their subject - 'the Ladies in Blue.'
The Vice sits arrayed in his scarlet;
He's pale, but they say he dissem-
-bles by calling his Beadle a 'varlet'
Whenever he thinks of Commem.

There are dances, flirtations at Nuneham,
Flower-shows, the procession of Eights:
There's a list stretching _usque ad Lunam_
Of concerts, and lunches, and fetes:
There's the Newdigate all about 'Gordon, '
- So sweet, and they say it will scan.
You shall flirt with a Proctor, a Warden
Shall run for your shawl and your fan.
They are sportive as gods broken loose from
Olympus, and yet very em-
-inent men. There are plenty to choose from,
You'll find, if you come to Commem.

I know your excuses: Red Sorrel
Has stumbled and broken her knees;
Aunt Phoebe thinks waltzing immoral;
And 'Algy, you are such a tease;
It's nonsense, of course, but she _is_ strict';
And little Dick Hodge has the croup;
And there's no one to visit your 'district'
Or make Mother Tettleby's soup.
Let them cease for a se'nnight to plague you;
Oh, leave them to manage _pro tem_.
With their croups and their soups and their ague)
Dear Kitty, and come to Commem.

Don't tell me Papa has lumbago,
That you haven't a frock fit to wear,
That the curate 'has notions, and may go
To lengths if there's nobody there, '
That the Squire has 'said things' to the Vicar,
And the Vicar 'had words' with the Squire,
That the Organist's taken to liquor,
And leaves you to manage the choir:
For Papa must be cured, and the curate
Coerced, and your gown is a gem;
And the moral is - Don't be obdurate,
Dear Kitty, but come to Commem.

'My gown? Though, no doubt, sir, you're clever,
You 'd better leave fashions alone.
Do you think that a frock lasts for ever? '
Dear Kitty, I'll grant you have grown;
But I thought of my 'scene' with McVittie
That night when he trod on your train
At the Bachelor's Ball. ''Twas a pity, '
You said, but I knew 'twas Champagne.
And your gown was enough to compel me
To fall down and worship its hem -
(Are 'hems' wearing? If not, you shall tell me
What is, when you come to Commem.)

Have you thought, since that night, of the Grotto?
Of the words whispered under the palms,
While the minutes flew by and forgot to
Remind us of Aunt and her qualms?
Of the stains of the old _Journalisten_?
Of the rose that I begged from your hair?
When you turned, and I saw something glisten -
Dear Kitty, don't frown; it _was_ there!
But that idiot Delane in the middle
Bounced in with 'Our dance, I - ahem! '
And - the rose you may find in my Liddell
And Scott when you come to Commem.

Then, Kitty, let 'yes' be the answer.
We'll dance at the 'Varsity Ball,
And the morning shall find you a dancer
In Christ Church or Trinity hall.
And perhaps, when the elders are yawning
And rafters grow pale overhead
With the day, there shall come with its dawning
Some thought of that sentence unsaid.
Be it this, be it that - 'I forget, ' or
'Was joking' - whatever the fem-
-inine fib, you'll have made me your debtor
And come, - you _will_ come? to Commem.


Green Bays Parody 1893 Arthur QUILLER-COUCH
Parody - Winthrop Mackworth PRAED – A Letter of Advice

A Nice Correspondent


'There are plenty of roses' (the patriarch speaks)
'Alas not for me, on your lips and your cheeks;
Fair maiden rose-laden enough and to spare,
Spare, spare me that rose that you wear in your hair.'


The glow and the glory are plighted
To darkness, for evening is come;
The lamp in Glebe Cottage is lighted,
The birds and the sheep-bells are dumb.
I'm alone, for the others have flitted
To dine with a neighbor at Kew:
Alone, but I'm not to be pitied -
I'm thinking of you!

I wish you were here! Were I duller
Than dull, you'd be dearer than dear;
I am dressed in your favorite color -
Dear Fred, how I wish you were here!
I am wearing my lazuli necklace,
The necklace you fastened askew!
Was there ever so rude or so reckless
A Darling as you!

I want you to come and pass sentence
On two or three books with a plot;
Of course you know 'Janet's Repentance'!
I am reading Sir Waverley Scott.
That story of Edgar and Lucy,
How thrilling, romantic, and true!
The Master (his bride was a goosey!)
Reminds me of you.

They tell me Cockaigne has been crowning
A Poet whose garland endures; -
It was you that first told me of Browning, -
That stupid old Browning of yours!
His vogue and his verve are alarming,
I'm anxious to give him his due;
But, Fred, he's not nearly so charming
A Poet as you!

I heard how you shot at The Beeches,
I saw how you rode Chanticleer,
I have read the report of your speeches,
And echoed the echoing cheer.
There's a whisper of hearts you are breaking,
Dear Fred, I believe it, I do!
Small marvel that Folly is making
Her Idol of you!

Alas for the World, and its dearly
Bought triumph, - its fugitive bliss;
Sometimes I half wish I were merely
A plain or a penniless Miss;
But, perhaps, one is blest with 'a measure
Of pelf, ' and I'm not sorry, too,
That I'm pretty, because it's a pleasure,
My Darling, to you!

Your whim is for frolic and fashion,
Your taste is for letters and art; -
This rhyme is the commonplace passion
That glows in a fond woman's heart:
Lay it by in some sacred deposit
For relics - we all have a few!
Love, some day they'll print it, because it
Was written to You.

Frederick Locker-Lampson 1821_1895
Parody Winthrop Mackworth Praed 1802_1839 – A Letter of Advice




HER LETTER - Francis Bret Harte to William Mackworth Praed

I'm sitting alone by the fire,
Dressed just as I came from the dance,
In a robe even you would admire, -
It cost a cool thousand in France;
I'm be-diamonded out of all reason,
My hair is done up in a cue:
In short, sir, 'the belle of the season'
Is wasting an hour upon you.

A dozen engagements I've broken;
I left in the midst of a set;
Likewise a proposal, half spoken,
That waits - on the stairs - for me yet.
They say he'll be rich, - when he grows up, -
And then he adores me indeed;
And you, sir, are turning your nose up,
Three thousand miles off, as you read.

'And how do I like my position? '
'And what do I think of New York? '
'And now, in my higher ambition,
With whom do I waltz, flirt, or talk? '
'And isn't it nice to have riches,
And diamonds and silks, and all that? '
'And aren't they a change to the ditches
And tunnels of Poverty Flat? '

Well, yes, - if you saw us out driving
Each day in the Park, four-in-hand,
If you saw poor dear mamma contriving
To look supernaturally grand, -
If you saw papa's picture, as taken
By Brady, and tinted at that, -
You'd never suspect he sold bacon
And flour at Poverty Flat.

And yet, just this moment, when sitting
In the glare of the grand chandelier, -
In the bustle and glitter befitting
The 'finest soiree of the year, ' -
In the mists of a gaze de Chambery,
And the hum of the smallest of talk, -
Somehow, Joe, I thought of the 'Ferry, '
And the dance that we had on 'The Fork; '

Of Harrison's bar, with its muster
Of flags festooned over the wall;
Of the candles that shed their soft lustre
And tallow on head-dress and shawl;
Of the steps that we took to one fiddle,
Of the dress of my queer vis-a-vis;
And how I once went down the middle
With the man that shot Sandy McGee.

Of the moon that was quietly sleeping
On the hill, when the time came to go;
Of the few baby peaks that were peeping
From under their bedclothes of snow;
Of that ride, - that to me was the rarest,
Of - the something you said at the gate.
Ah! Joe, then I wasn't an heiress
To 'the best-paying lead in the State.'

Well, well, it's all past; yet it's funny
To think, as I stood in the glare
Of fashion and beauty and money,
That I should be thinking, right there,
Of some one who breasted high water,
And swam the North Fork, and all that,
Just to dance with old Folinsbee's daughter,
The Lily of Poverty Flat.

But goodness! what nonsense I'm writing!
(Mamma says my taste still is low) ,
Instead of my triumphs reciting, -
I'm spooning on Joseph, - heigh-ho!
And I'm to be 'finished' by travel, -
Whatever's the meaning of that.
Oh, why did papa strike pay gravel
In drifting on Poverty Flat?

Good-night! - here's the end of my paper;
Good-night! - if the longitude please, -
For maybe, while wasting my taper,
Your sun's climbing over the trees.
But know, if you haven't got riches,
And are poor, dearest Joe, and all that,
That my heart's somewhere there in the ditches,
And you've struck it, - on Poverty Flat

Francis Bret Harte 1830_1902


Song of a Plebutante


Oh Mumsy, it’s the starters of the Season
And here I am with not a thing to wear;
If I’m lucky I may stumble
On a T-shirt in a jumble
That won’t look too outrageous in Sloane Square.

I know we really can’t afford a party,
With unions pushing Britain down the drain,
And I’m sorry poor old Daddy
Has to borrow from his caddie
And cycle to the City in the rain.

I’ve had a teeny tête-à-tête with Tanya;
She couldn’t fit me in at her boutique,
So I’ve joined the ranks of labour
With an office job at Faber,
And they’re starting me at forty pounds a week.

Oh, getting up at eight won’t be too ghastly,
(Fiona says that filing can be fun) ,
But the times they are a-changing
And the marriage you’re arranging
Will have to wait until I’m twenty-one.

Oh, Mumsy, please stop crying, there’s a darling,
Oh, Daddy, I can’t bear it if you shout;
But if Quentin Crisp can do it
There can’t be that much to it,
And nothing’s going to stop me coming out!


Roger WODDIS 1917_1993
Parody Winthrop Mackworth PRAED – A Letter of Advice




A Letter of Advice, to My Godson






Small bundle, envelopped in laces,




Author Unknown
Parody William Mackworth PRAED