Verses From the ‘Daily News’ 1846
I.—THE BRITISH LION
VERSES FROM THE ‘DAILY NEWS,’ 1846
The Daily News, it will be remembered, was founded in January 1846 by Charles Dickens, who officiated as its first editor. He soon sickened of the mechanical drudgery appertaining to the position, and resigned his editorial functions the following month. From January 21st to March 2nd he contributed to its columns a series of ‘Travelling Sketches,’ afterwards reprinted in volume form as Pictures from Italy. He also availed himself of the opportunity afforded him, by his association with that newspaper, of once more taking up the cudgels against the Tories, and, as in the case of the Examiner, his attack was conveyed through the medium of some doggerel verses. These were entitled ‘The British Lion—A New Song, but an Old Story,’ to be sung to the tune of ‘The Great Sea-Snake.’ They bore the signature of ‘Catnach,’ the famous ballad-singer, and were printed in the Daily News of January 24, 1846.
Three weeks later some verses of a totally different character appeared in the columns of the Daily News, signed in full ‘Charles Dickens.’ One Lucy Simpkins, of Bremhill (or Bremble), a parish in Wiltshire, had just previously addressed a night meeting of the wives of agricultural labourers in that county, in support of a petition for Free Trade, and her vigorous speech on that occasion inspired Dickens to write ‘The Hymn of the Wiltshire Labourers,’ thus offering an earnest protest against oppression. Concerning the ‘Hymn,’ a writer in a recent issue of Christmas Bells observes: ‘It breathes in every line the teaching of the Sermon on the Mount, the love of the All-Father, the Redemption by His Son, and that love to God and man on which hang all the law and the prophets.’
THE BRITISH LION
A NEW SONG, BUT AN OLD STORY
Tune—‘The Great Sea-Snake’
Oh, p’r’aps you may have heard, and if not, I’ll sing
Of the British Lion free,
That was constantly a-going for to make a spring
Upon his en-e-me;
But who, being rather groggy at the knees,
Broke down, always, before;
And generally gave a feeble wheeze
Instead of a loud roar.
Right toor rol, loor rol, fee faw fum,
The British Lion bold!
That was always a-going for to do great things,
And was always being ‘sold!’
He was carried about, in a carawan,
And was show’d in country parts,
And they said, ‘Walk up! Be in time! He can
Eat Corn-Law Leagues like tarts!’
And his showmen, shouting there and then,
To puff him didn’t fail,
And they said, as they peep’d into his den,
‘Oh, don’t he wag his tail!’
Now, the principal keeper of this poor old beast,
Wan Humbug was his name,
Would once ev’ry day stir him up—at least—
And wasn’t that a Game!
For he hadn’t a tooth, and he hadn’t a claw,
In that ‘Struggle’ so ‘Sublime’;
And, however sharp they touch’d him on the raw,
He couldn’t come up to time.
And this, you will observe, was the reason why
Wan Humbug, on weak grounds,
Was forced to make believe that he heard his cry
In all unlikely sounds.
So, there wasn’t a bleat from an Essex Calf,
Or a Duke, or a Lordling slim;
But he said, with a wery triumphant laugh,
‘I’m blest if that ain’t him.’
At length, wery bald in his mane and tail,
The British Lion growed:
He pined, and declined, and he satisfied
The last debt which he owed.
And when they came to examine the skin,
It was a wonder sore,
To find that the an-i-mal within
Was nothing but a Boar!
Right toor rol, loor rol, fee faw fum,
The British Lion bold!
That was always a-going for to do great things,
And was always being ‘sold!’
Catnach.