“Once on a glittering icefield, ages and ages ago,
     Ung, a maker of pictures, fashioned an image of snow. 
     Fashioned the form of a tribesman; gaily he whistled and sung,
     Working the snow with his fingers, ‘Read ye the story of Ung!’

* * * * *

And the father of Ung gave answer, that was old and wise in the craft,
Maker of pictures aforetime, he leaned on his lance and laughed: 
’If they could see as thou seest they would do as thou hast done,
And each man would make him a picture, and—­what would become
of my son?’”

So far Mr. Kipling.  A parodist writing in Truth applies the same “criticism of life” to commercial production:—­

THE STORY OF BUNG.

Once, ere the glittering icefields paid us a tribute of gold,
Bung, the son of a brewer, heir to a fortune untold—­
Vast was his knowledge of brewing—­gaily began his career. 
Whispered the voice of ambition, “Perhaps they will make thee a peer.”

People who sampled his liquor wunk an incredulous wink,
Smelt it, then drank it, and grunted, “Verily this is a drink!”
Even the Clubman admitted, wetting the tip of his tongue,
“Lo! it is excellent beer!  Glory and honour to Bung!”

  Straightway the doubters assembled, a prying, unsatisfied horde: 
  “It is said the materials used are approved by the Revenue Board;
  It is claimed that no adjuncts are used, the advertisements say it is
     pure;
  True, the beer is good—­and it may be—­but can the consumer be sure?”

  Wroth was that brewer of liquor, knowing the doubters were right,
  User of chemical adjuncts, and methods that bear not the light;
  Little he recked of disclosures, much of the profits he cleared,
  So in the ear of his father whispered the thing that he feared.

  And the father of Bung gave answer, that was old and wise in the craft,
  “If they cast suspicion upon thee, it is nought but a random shaft;
  If others could know what thou knowest, they would do what thou hast done,
  And men would drink of their brewing, and—­what would become of my son?

  “So long as thy beer is best, so long shall thy brewing win
  The praise no money can buy, and the money that praise brings in. 
  And if the majority’s pleased, the majority does not mind
  The how, and the what, and the whence.  Rejoice that the public
     is blind.”

  And Bung took his father’s counsel, and fell to his brewing of beer,
  And he gave the Government cheques, and the Government made him a peer,
  And the doubters ceased from their doubting, loudly his praises they sung,
  Cursing their previous blindness. Heed ye the story of Bung!

But no effort of intentional parody can, I think, surpass this serious adaptation of the “March of the Men of Harlech” to the ecclesiastical crisis of 1898-9:—­