There is a general flavour of parody about most of the ballads.  It does not as a rule amount to more than a rather clumsy mockery of mediaevalism, but the verses prefixed to the Lay of St. Gengulphus are really rather like a fragment of a black-letter ballad.  The book contains only one absolute parody, borrowed from Samuel Lover’s Lyrics of Ireland, and then the result is truly offensive, for the poem chosen for the experiment is one of the most beautiful in the language—­the Burial of Sir John Moore, which is transmuted into a stupid story of vulgar debauch.  Of much the same date as the Ingoldsby Legends was the Old Curiosity Shop, and no one who has a really scholarly acquaintance with Dickens will forget the delightful scraps of Tom Moore’s amatory ditties with which, slightly adapted to current circumstances, Dick Swiveller used to console himself when Destiny seemed too strong for him.  And it will be remembered that Mr. Slum composed some very telling parodies of the same popular author as advertisements for Mrs. Jarley’s Waxworks; but I forbear to quote here what is so easily accessible.

By way of tracing the development of the Art of Parody, I am taking my samples in chronological order.  In 1845 the Newdigate Prize for an English poem at Oxford was won by J.W.  Burgon, afterwards Dean of Chichester.  The subject was Petra.  The successful poem was, on the whole, not much better and not much worse than the general run of such compositions; but it contained one couplet which Dean Stanley regarded as an absolute gem—­a volume of description condensed into two lines:—­

    “Match me such marvel, save in Eastern clime—­
    A rose-red city, half as old as time.”

The couplet was universally praised and quoted, and, as a natural consequence, parodied.  There resided then (and long after) at Trinity College, Oxford, an extraordinarily old don called Short.[31] When I was an undergraduate he was still tottering about, and we looked at him with interest because he had been Newman’s tutor.  To his case the parodist of the period, in a moment of inspiration, adapted Burgon’s beautiful couplet, saying or singing:—­

    “Match me such marvel, save in college port,
    That rose-red liquor, half as old as Short.”

The Rev. E.T.  Turner, till recently Registrar of the University, has been known to say:  “I was present when that egg was laid.”  It is satisfactory to know that the undergraduate who laid it—­William Basil Tickell Jones—­attained deserved eminence in after-life, and died Bishop of St. David’s.

When Burgon was writing his prize-poem about Petra, Lord John Manners (afterwards seventh Duke of Rutland), in his capacity as Poet Laureate of Young England, was writing chivalrous ditties about castles and banners, and merry peasants, and Holy Church.  This kind of mediaeval romanticism, though glorified by Lord Beaconsfield in Coningsby, seemed purely laughable to Thackeray, and he made rather bitter fun of it in Lines upon my Sister’s Portrait, by the Lord Southdown.