HARROW SONGS.* .

THESE songs may well be popular with Harrovians, for even to those who are not Harrovians they will give a very lively plea- sure. They are full of humour, life, and even pathos. Studies and games, boys and teachers, Harrow heroes and Harrow legends, are all touched off with a lightness and vivacity which make this thin little volume delightful reading even to the aliens who know not Harrow, and who care as little for " Lyon, of Preston, yeoman John," as they do for the Lion King-at-Arms. Mr. Bowen gives us here no " padding." From beginning to end of this minute volume, all is good, and most is very good. The greater number of these songs, we learn, have been set to music, and certainly they all deserve it. For they all have that taking lilt, and that inevitableness of expression, which must tempt the true musician to find an accompaniment such as may soften the fun with melody, and blend the pathos with a strain of hope. Here is a charming song on the legend as to the Elizabethan origin of the school, which is as true a popular song as has been written in our day :- "QUEEN ELIZABETH.

Queen Elizabeth sat one day, Watching her mariners rich and gay, And there were the Tilbury guns at play And there was the bold sea rover ; Up comes Lyon, so brisk and free, Makes his bow, and he says, says he, Gracious Queen of the land and sea, From Tilbury fort to Dover—' Queen Elizabeth, &c.

Marry, come up,' says good Queen Bess, Draw it shorter and prose it less ; Speeches are things we chiefly bless When once we have got them over ; Spenser carries you well along,

And the Swan of Avon is rich in song—

Still, we have sometimes found them long, I and the bold sea rover!'

Queen Elizabeth, &c.

' Queen,' he says, I have got in store, A beautiful school from roof to door ; And I have a farm of acres four,

And a meadow of grass and clover: So may it please you, good Queen B., Give me-a charter, firm and free ; For there is Harrow, and this is me,

And that is the bold sea rover!'

Queen Elizabeth, &e.

• Harrow Songs, and other Verse?. By Edward E. Bowen. London Longman and Co. 1886.

Bad little boys,' says she, 'at school Want a teacher to rode and rule ; Train a dunce, and you find a fool ; Cattle must have their drover : By my halidome, I propose You be teacher of verse and prose— (What's a halidome, no one knows, Even the bold sea rover !)' Queen Elizabeth, &c.

And this is my charter, firm and free, This is my royal, great decree— "Hits to the rail shall count for three, And six when fairly over :"

And if auy one comes and makes a fuse, Send the radical off to us,

And I will tell him I choose it thus, And so will the bold sea rover !' Queen Elizabeth, &c."

But the principal charm of the book is given by the humorous sympathy with which Mr. Bowen enters into the troubles of the

young learners, and the skill with which he paints them in all

the colours of a brilliant fancy. We have never met with any- thing so good in its way as the song on "Euclid,"—more especially on the Asses' Bridge,—with its masterly picture of the "little black demon" who makes his home in one of the angles at the base, and who waits till you think you understand the demonstration, and then actively exerts himself to make you forget it again by preaching to your inner mind a whole code of treason to the principles of Euclid's postulates, axioms, and definitions. We should not be surprised to hear that the following poem had got itself translated into as many languages as Euclid himself has been rendered into, nor to hear that the " little black demon" had become a familiar of all the students of geometry in all lands. He deserves such fame, at least as much as the famous Pons Asinorum itself :—

" EUCLID.

O have you, with Euclid before you, Full often despairingly sat,

The Fifth Proposition to floor you,

Your mind getting blank as your hat ? To the little black demon you owe it, The corner at C is his den; He waits till you fancy you know it, Then makes you forget it again.

For he sits, a sight for to dream on, In-his black boots, tall and thin ; And some people call him a demon, And others a hobgoblin.

0 worse than the rock to the seaman, 0 worse than the blight to the tree, Is the face of the little black demon, Who lives in the corner at C.

He bops and he jumps without reason All over and under and through, And grins as he teaches his treason To logic, and Euclid, and you.

For he sits, &c.

How sides, by a curious juggle, Together are less than the base ; How parallel lines, with a struggle, Succeed in enclosing a space ; Then mixing up angle and angle, Puts lines where no line ought to be And leaving your mind in a tangle, Goes back to his corner at C.

For he sits, &c.

But I up and I went and I took him,

All capering under and o'er, And didn't he cry as I shook him, And didn't I shake him the more, And taught him respect for his betters, And thumped on his black little head, And squeezed him the shape of all letters, And finally left him at Z !

For he sits, &c.

And often as, nightly or daily, He dares to annoy you the least, You have only to rush at him gaily, Away goes the black little beast ; And all the bad creatures forsaken, That live on the page or the pen, Can't bear to be worried and shaken, And run away home to their den, For he sits, Ste."

"St. Joles," too, is delightful, though we should like to have had a scholium on the saint and his origin. The song on Byron and Peel (who, as our readers will remember, were schoolfellows at Harrow) is very lively, but we prefer to quote the poem on " Grandpapa's Grandpapa," who is supposed to have been a con- temporary at Harrow of both James Bruce, the celebrated Scotch traveller, and of Rodney, the naval commander who defeated the French fleet under De Grasse; though, as a matter of fact, nobody was a contemporary of both at Harrow, as Brace was born in the year in which Rodney left Harrow to enter the Navy. " Grandpapa's Grandpapa," who has a light heart and no great mission, finds the two boys too full of their future destiny to accommodate themselves to his humour :—

" GRANDPAPA'S GRANDPAPA. Do you know grandpapa's grandpapa

Had of study so unquenchable a thirst, That he went off to Harrow, fa Is la!

And was placed in Lower Lower First. How the buttons on his blue frock shone !

How he carolled and be sang, like a bird ! And Rodney, the eailor boy, was one,

And Bruce, who travelled far, was the third.

For you know, &c.

Then to Bruce grandpapa's grandpapa

Said, Bruce' (who travelled far) come along,

We are ten summers old, fa la la!

So to hoops, and to merriment, and song !'

'Oh no! though I mourn,' he said, in truth, G.'s G., merry rollicking to mar, What's hoops, and effusiveness of youth, To a lad who has got to travel far !'

For you know, &c.

Then to Rodney grand papa's grandpapa Said, ' Rodney, sailor boy, up away !

And with marbles, and with tops, fa la la!

'Mid the merry folks from town, pass the day.'

But Rodney, sailor boy, ' No,' said he, Brace tackles, and avast, and alas!

No marbles and jollity for me ; I have got to beat the French and de Grasse !'

For you know, &c.

Then, then, grandpapa's grandpapa Went revelling away, in and out, 'Mid the merry folks from town, fa la la!

While the marbles and the tops flew about.

And of all the merry folks, fa la la!

In buttons and in blue frocks drest, Why be sure, grandpapt's grandpapa Was the topmost and merriest and best!

For you know, &c."

But we must give some specimen of the genuine Harrovian patriotism in the description of the cricket-match of 1873. There is no doubt that the poet describes the feeling as it is really felt, when he says that when at last Harrow had won, the Harrovian lookers-on "breathed as divers breathe, all spent, who rise to the air and sun ;" but it is certainly a wonderful thing that esprit de corps can put such passion as this into the feelings of comrades :-

" LORD'S, 1873.

Tell them, Harrow has won again!

Shoat with a heart and will !

Shout till it float across the plain, And echo around the hill !

Four sad years of a long defeat

Over and gone to-day ; Flash the news till the gladness greet Continents far away; Say how, honour and fame at stake, Somebody played for the old School's sake.

True as the speeding bullets go, Quick as the fencer's wrist, Eton played to the fast and slow, Be it break, or rise, or twist; Faint and feeble we hung the head ; Hope in the heart sank low •

'Seventy-three, we surely said,

Will be just like 'seventy-two :-

Then was the turn of the wizard's wand—

Somebody, somebody, bowled left-hand!

Two of us all too soon are gone— Hark to the Eton cheer!

One that we put our hopes upon Had chosen to wait a year.

Slow we counted them—run for ruo,— How many more to tie 2 Loud we boasted the cut for one, And treasured the single bye— Somebody ! cover—or longatop—or- Somebody's hitting about for four.

And somebody bowled them straight and strong, And somebody high and true, And somebody threw to an inch along, Till somebody's hands were blue ; And when at the lust we trembling said, Can anyone now be found To keep, with valour of hand and head,

For a hundred runs, his ground ?'

Somebody—ah! he would, we knew,—

Somebody played it steady through !

To the ropes the last hit gaily went, As the first to the ropes had gone,

And we breathed as divers breathe, all spent, Who rise to the air and sun.

And ever when Harrow toils in vain, And the Harrow hopes are low, May patience come to the rescue then, And pluck with the patience go And in all, and more than all, our play, Somebody do as he did to-day !"

Yet, good as this is, Mr. Bowen's more pathetic lyrics are even better than his lays of cricket and rifle-shooting. The five pieces called " Songs," " An Episode of Balaclava," " P. L. C.," " Shemuel," and " R. G.," are amongst the best in the book ; and of these we will choose " Shemuel,"—the shepherd who, as he was watching by a sick-bed, was not with the shepherds who saw the great vision of Christmas. We choose it not because it is better than all the others, but because, as being wholly un- connected with Harrow, it will give some measure of Mr- Bowen's power when he is not inspired by his favourite theme. It seems to us a very beautiful little poem:- " SIIENIVEL.

Shemuel the Bethlehemite, Watched a fevered guest at night ; All his fellows fared afield, Saw the angel host revealed ; He nor caught the mystic story, Heard the song, nor saw the glory.

Through the night they gazing stood, Heard the holy multitude ; Back they came in wonder home, Knew the Christmas kingdom come, Eyes aflame, and hearts elated ; Shemuel sat alone, and waited.

Works of mercy now, as then, Hide the angel host from men ; Hearts atone to earthly love Miss the angel notes above ; Deeds, at which the world rejoices, Quench the sound of angel voices.

So they thought, nor deemed from whence His celestial recompense.

Shemuel, by the fever bed, Touched by beckoning hands that led, Died, and saw the Uncreated ; All his fellows lived, and waited."

If all poets would, like Mr. Bowen, give us only their best, and weed out their second-best, there would be a great deal less of weary wading through poor verse in the world, and a great many more delightful little books.