Sometimes, falls the Burns Night on the number two New Moon, That will open the cacoon of a brand New Year – So the neeps and cock-a-leekie get to share the serving spoon As the beansprouts and the riceballs soon appear. From the docks of old Kowloon to the mists of Brigadoon, So it all goes in the haggis, and the bamboo pipes the tune – As we all sup down together, from New Scotland Yard to Scone, In a typhoon of lampoons and tartan cheer. Now maybe I am nothing but a Sassenach poltroon, From the billabongs of Perth, and through the snows of Saskatoon – But a shortbread in my green tea on a global afternoon, And the paddy-fields of glens are very near.
Can I just say what a wonderfully weird experience it is to hear someone read Address to the Haggis in an unapologetically RP accent ?
Through the village of Longbourn, the undead shuffle, The unemployed and the destitutes. The Luddites who moan in a rustic muffle, Back from Napoleon without any boots. Mr Bennett says he can’t even hear them, So alien is his world to theirs, But they’re getting restless, threatening mayhem – What if it spreads to the staff downstairs ? Don’t worry, Lizzie, here’s bold Mr Darcy With wealth that’s been stripped from the backs of the poor, He knows how to whip should the rabble gets arsey, And put them back down when they dare ask for more. Crush all their groups, and deport the whole crew, This seething horde of the unwashed masses. Best wipe them all out like befell Peterloo – Or the balls overrun with these jumped-up lasses.
When not ignoring the cruelty of the upper classes, Jane Austen liked to describe them at leisure over here.
Jenny von Westphalen & Jenny Lind (both born Johanna). Presumably their J’s were soft.
Next-Jen
Women have answered to ‘Jenny’ far longer than ‘Jennifer’, Whether they’re maidens or maids – A pet form of Janet, Joanna, or even of wrens, She’s really a jack-of-all-trades. Old English had a few Jinifers, sure, But those weren’t Guiniveres, those were Junipers – Then, from nowhere, Jennifer came – From Cornwall, and from a parallel universe.
As the Twentieth Century progressed, The Jennies were pressed into service And switched their allegiance to Jennifer only, And rode her success to over-abundance – Then into the downward curve of redundancy, No longer heroines, neighbours, or queens – But surely we’ll always remember the Jennies, As donkeys, or greenteeth, or spinning machines.
I’ve discussed the unexpected rise of Jennifer over here.
The Impressionists, they started it – The deliberate eschewing of the details of the waterlilies, Slapping on the sunflowers, slacking and half-arsing it, The barmaid blurred by beer-goggles, shorn of intimates and frillies. The Modernists just loved the concept, Loved the new permissiveness to never bother with the hard parts, Far too busy writing manifestos, or just overslept, To ever stoop to spend the years to learn the graft behind the arts. Ah, I guess they have their fans, these Abstract-ists of vapour – And not just money-launderers or the Commie-fighting CIA – Some might look alright in advertising, or as wallpaper, When tossed-off in an afternoon of dribbles, nudes, and squelching clay. But then, the public never get to choose who shall be fruitful, Because we must take whichever trends the critics shall annoint. It’s just…I want my art as something rare and something beautiful, And not a random find, or shocking ugly, just to make a point.
Little wasp, little wasp, Laying eggs upon the tree – Sting the one who would be king, And sting him once again for me. Little worm, little worm, Wriggling in your swollen gall – Bite the one who’s cowering, And bite him twice for one and all.
But oh !, you’ve gone and birthed a hornet, Let loose on us worker bees – And king or queen, or brutal drone, They sting the same – just ask the trees ! To rid us of a coronet Will always leave behind a gall. The buttocks mould to fit the throne – The canker ripens, warts and all.
White men ran the slave trade, true, And I’m a man and also white – But don’t charge me for grievance due, I played no part in the blight. While others wreaked this tragedy, It’s not me, mate, and not my folks – I come from village farmhands, see, From ordinary blokes. While others banked the whole affair, Or clapped the chain or cracked the whip, We never owned a single share, Nor crewed a single ship. So don’t try laying on the guilt For crimes my bloodline never did – The damnable at which you tilt Were not my fam’ly, kid. I bear no blemish on my name, I bear no once-and-future sin – Don’t think that you can judge my blame By the colour of my skin. It’s not me mate, and not my genes, My hands are clean, my soul is light – So spare your wrath for dukes and queens, Not me, mate – get it right ! My ancestors were starved and bruised, And sometimes even outright killed – They all were wage-slaves, much abused By the lords whose lands they tilled. And so were yours – I get it, I do, But they’re not you and they’re not me. But even if my blood were blue, My conscience still blooms free – For the faults of our great-great-grands back when Have died with them, and have passed away – Look, nobody alive back then Is still alive today. For none of us in here’s a slaver, No-one’s whitewashing the trade – So please, just do us all a favour, And find a new crusade.
Amazonian Guaperva Fish by Francis Willughby (at least, I think he did his own illustrations).
Fishes & Physics
Gentle Francis Willughby, To best of his ability Has written us a thriller – see, The History of Fish ! Illustrated lib’rally, Meticulous and jibber-free – No charlatan or fibber, he, But honest, if not swish. The Royal-dubbed Society Have praised his work most high and free, And published with propriety His dense and hearty dish – Examining their parity And countless similarity, To classify with clarity Each finble, scule and gish. His work will lead inex’rably To Karl Linné’s complexity And Darwin’s sexy theory That the bishops try to squish – Yet mocked in perpetuity, His book an incongruity, For lacking the acuity Of Newton’s masterpiece – His grandiose Principia, That makes the heavens trippier And gravity much nippier, Is straining for release. But things are tight financially, With profits down substantially And Newton sees his chances flee Despite the Fellows’ wish – They cannot foot the bill, you see, The budget’s blown on Willughby – But don’t show Frank hostility, He’s not so queer a fish.
detail from Moonlight over the Bosphorus by Edward Hoyer
The Merchantman Shanty
“Work songs were banned in the Royal Navy.”
– Capt A. Bakalarka
I used to sail with the king, I sailed On a Royal Naval brig, But there they wouldn’t let me sing Whene’er we raised the rig
So we hauled away in silence so, We had to heave without a ho, We dare not peep a quick-quick-slow Or the cat would make us holler.
We mayn’t disturb his majesty With a too-rye-ay and a yo-ho-ho, For only lubbers sing at sea So let all singing go.
I used to sail with the king, I sailed On a Royal Naval sloop, But I couldn’t let my whistle ring Whene’er we swabbed the stoop.
So we scrubbed away in silence, see, We had to dumb without a dee, We dare not hum a do-re-mi, Or the cat would make us holler.
We mayn’t disturb his majesty With a too-rye-ay and a yo-ho-ho, For only madmen sing at sea So keep your whistle’ing low.
I used to sail with the king, I sailed On a Royal Naval barque, But I must not pluck a single string Till safely after dark.
So we sailed away in silence, aye, We had to hew without a cry, Unless the roaring wind was high And the cat can’t hear us holler.
We mayn’t disturb his majesty With a too-rye-ay and a yo-ho-ho, For only sirens sing at sea So take your singing below.
The lines in roman are sung by the shanty man, the lines in italics are sung by the crew.
I originally had the line “Whene’er we swabbed the poop”, referring to the poop-deck, but…well, you’ve already sniggered, haven’t you ? So I changed it to ‘stoop’, which sounds like it should be a suitably nautical word even though it isn’t. It’s actually the American term for the front steps upto the front door of a terraced house, often spanning over the area. But then, boats have attached ladders upto the poop-deck, don’t they?
Rhyming Couplets 