But in the process of development it became usual to find a new word for the end of the fifth line, thus at once securing a threefold rhyme and introducing the element of unexpectedness, instead of inevitableness, into the conclusion.  Thus The Light Green sang of the Colleges in which it circulated—­

    “There was an old Fellow of Trinity,
    A Doctor well versed in divinity;
      But he took to free-thinking,
      And then to deep drinking,
    And so had to leave the vicinity.”

And—­

    “There was a young genius of Queen’s
    Who was fond of explosive machines;
      He blew open a door,
      But he’ll do so no more—­
    For it chanced that that door was the Dean’s.”

And—­

    “There was a young gourmand of John’s
    Who’d a notion of dining off swans;
      To the “Backs” he took big nets
      To capture the cygnets,
    But was told they were kept for the Dons.”

So far The Light Green.

Not at all dissimilar in feeling to these ebullitions of youthful fancy were the parodies of nursery rhymes which the lamented Corney Grain invented for one of his most popular entertainments, and used to accompany on the piano in his own inimitable style.  I well remember the opening verse of one, in which an incident in the social career of a Liberal millionaire was understood to be immortalized:—­

    “Old Mr. Parvenu gave a great ball,
    And of all his smart guests he knew no one at all;
    Old Mr. Parvenu went up to bed,
    And his guests said good-night to the butler instead.”

Twenty years ago we were in the crisis of the great Jingo fever, and Lord Beaconsfield’s antics in the East were frightening all sober citizens out of their senses.  It was at that period that the music-halls rang with the “Great MacDermott’s” Tyrtaean strain—­

    “We don’t want to fight; but, by Jingo, if we do,
    We’ve got the ships, we’ve got the men, we’ve got the money too;”

and the word “Jingo” took its place in the language as the recognized symbol of a warlike policy.  At Easter 1878 it was announced that the Government were bringing black troops from India to Malta, to aid our English forces in whatever enterprises lay before them.  The refrain of the music-hall was instantly adapted with great effect, even the grave Spectator giving currency to the parody—­

    “We don’t want to fight; but, by Jingo, if we do,
    We won’t go to the front ourselves, but we’ll send the mild Hindoo.”

Two years passed.  Lord Beaconsfield was deposed.  The tide of popular feeling turned in favour of Liberalism, and “Jingo” became a term of reproach.  Mr. Tennyson, as he then was, endeavoured to revive the patriotic spirit of his countrymen by publishing Hands all Round—­a poem which had the supreme honour of being quoted in the House of Commons by Sir Ellis Ashmead-Bartlett.  Forthwith an irreverent parodist—­some say Mr. Andrew Lang—­appeared with the following counterblast:—­