Chateaux d'Espagne, an 1872 Parody of the Raven

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In the Carols of Cockayne, a volume of elegant verse by the late Henry S. Leigh, published in 1872, was a parody on The Raven, styled Chateaux d'Espagne, "A Reminiscence of David Garrick and The Castle of Andalusia." The following stanzas show the spirit of the piece :—

Once upon an evening weary, shortly after Lord
Dundreary
With his quaint and curious humour set the town in
such a roar,
With my shilling I stood rapping—only very gently
tapping—
For the man in charge was napping—at the money
taker's door.
It was Mr. Buckstone's playhouse, where I linger'd at
the door;
              Paid half-price and nothing more.

I was doubtful and uncertain, at the rising of the
curtain,
If the piece would prove a novelty, or one I'd seen
before;
For a band of robbers drinking in a gloomy cave and
clinking
With their glasses on the table, I had witnessed o'er
and o'er;
Since the half-forgotten period of my innocence was o'er;
              Twenty years ago or more.

Presently my doubt grew stronger. I could stand the
thing no longer,
"Miss," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I
implore.
Pardon my apparent rudeness. Would you kindly
have the goodness
To inform me if this drama is from Gaul's enlighten'd
shore?
For I know that plays are often brought us from the
Gallic shore:
               Adaptations—nothing more!

So I put the question lowly: and my neighbour
answer'd slowly.
"It's a British drama, wholly, written quite in days of
yore.
Tis an Andalusian story of a castle old and hoary,
And the music is delicious, though the dialogue be
poor!"
(And I could not help agreeing that the dialogue was
poor;
               Very flat and nothing more.)

But at last a lady entered, and my interest grew
center'd
In her figure and her features, and the costume that
she wore.
And the slightest sound she utter'd was like music;
so I mutter'd
To my neighbour, "Glance a minute at your play-bill
I implore.
Who's that rare and radiant maiden? Tell, oh, tell me!
I implore.
                Quoth my neighbour, "Nelly Moore!"

Then I asked in quite a tremble—it was useless to
dissemble—
"Miss, or Madam, do not trifle with my feelings any
more;
Tell me who, then, was the maiden, that appear'd so
sorrow laden
In the room of David Garrick, with a bust above the
door?"
(With a bust of Julius Caesar up above the study door.)
                Quoth my neighbour, "Nelly Moore."

I've her photograph from Lacy's; that delicious little
face is
Smiling on me as I'm sitting (in adraught from yonder door),
And often in the nightfalls, when a precious little light falls
From the wretched tallow candles on my gloomy second
-floor,
(For I have not got the gaslight on my gloomy second floor,)
               Comes an echo, "Nelly Moore!"

Carols of Cockaynt, by Henry S. Leigh (John Camden Holten, London, 1872.)