Part 1 — Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

With kindest friends, each private box Was thickly peopled one and all; The busy tongues fell at the knocks The prompter gave against the wall. The grand tiers' heads look'd old and strange, Unresting was box-keeper's key, For those who something came to see, Within the dismal five-acts' range. She only said, "It readeth dreary; No pathos and no fun." She said, "I am aweary, aweary, Before it hath begun." Her yawns came with the first act even; Her yawns came ere the third was tried. She had been listening from seven, With nought to praise, nor to deride. After the friends forgot to clap, Which very soon they ceased to do, She drew the box's curtains too, And thought, "I'll take a little nap." She only said, "The play is dreary; No pathos, and no fun," She only said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that it were done." * * * * The hazy nature of the plot; The box locks clicking; and the sound Which to the actors on the stage The prompter made, did all confound Her sense; but most she loathed the power Which could get acted such a play, When they would nothing have to say To pieces of the present hour. Then said she, "This is very dreary! This must not be," she said; "Sooner than feel again so weary, I'd go right home to bed." The Man in the Moon, Volume 2, 1848.

WITH black ennui the Exile sits, Watching the rain-drops as they fall; The bluebottle about him flits, That ate the peach on the garden wall. No Times nor Punch, 'tis very strange; Unlifted is the iron latch; Of papers he's without the batch That gives his days their only change. At first he only said, "Oh deary! The post is late," he said; "Of waiting I am rather weary, I would my Punch I'd read." About the middle of the day The postman's form its shadow cast, The door he sought with footsteps gay, The Times and Punch are here at last. Out with them; but 'tis very strange, The envelope is open torn— 'Tis but the Herald of the morn; His paper they have dared to change. He only said, "The Herald's dreary, Dreary, indeed," he said; "It's very look has made me weary; It never can be read." Upon some stones—a hillock small, The Londoner in exile leapt, And over objects large and small A telescopic watch he kept; He saw the postman walk away, He gazed till it was nearly dark, Then only made this sad remark, "Nor Times nor Punch will come to-day." He only said, "'Tis very dreary They do not come," he said; "While I for want of them am weary, They're elsewhere being read." And even when the moon was low, And the shrill winds a game did play, Blowing the sign-boards to and fro, As if 'twould blow them right away; He'd with the spider, as it climbs, Hold converse—asking if 'twould tell Whether the postman dared to sell The weekly Punch and daily Times. He only said, "'Tis very dreary, Dreary, indeed," he said; "Of life I'm almost getting weary, My Times and Punch unread." All day within the dreamy house His shoes had in the passage creak'd; The maid-of-all-work, like a mouse, Out of her master's presence sneak'd, Or from the kitchen peer'd about, Or listen'd at the open doors, To hear his footsteps tread the floors With the short hurried pace of doubt. She only said, "My master's weary, And angry, too," she said; She said, "Oh deary me! oh deary! I wish he'd go to bed." The crickets chirrup on the hearth, The slow clock ticking—and the sound Of rain upon the gravel path That hems the Exile's cottage round; All these, but most of all the power Of sleep after an anxious day, Up-stairs had hurried him away. He paced his chamber for an hour, Then said he, "This, indeed, is dreary, My Times, my Punch," he said, "Without you I am always weary; I'll tumble into bed." Punch, January 22, 1848.

WITH blackest ink the books around Were thickly blotted one and all; The very nails looked half unsound That held the pictures to the wall. The dismal scene was wrapped in gloom, Sported was the unsocial oak: Seedy and torn and thick with smoke The curtains hung athwart the room. He only said, "The schools are dreary: This Euclid racks my head. Of Ethics I am very weary; I shall be ploughed," he said. His sighs came with the lightening heaven, And ever through the day he sighed. He could not play in the Eleven, Or coach the Eight at eventide. After the shutting of the gates, He drew his casement curtain by, And watched along the gleaming High The lovers strolling with their mates. He only said, "The schools are dreary: This Euclid racks my head. Ethics are the reverse of cheery; I shall be ploughed," he said. And half asleep he heard forlorn The caterwauling on the roof; The chapel bell rung out at morn Came to him—but he held aloof. In dreams he seemed to see the Halls, And fatal precincts of the Schools: To watch the crowd of ghastly fools, Who tried in vain to pass their Smalls. He only said, "The schools are dreary: This Euclid racks my brain. Of Ethics I am very weary; I shall be ploughed again." He sat and darkened all the air, With smoke up-wreathing from his weed: All day, half-dreaming in his chair, He sat and read—or seemed to read— Or from the window peered about. His friends still hammered at his door; He heard them on the upper floor; Their voices called him from without. He only said, "The schools are nearing; I cannot come," said he. "Although of Ethics I am wearying, I shall be ploughed, you'll see." For hours he sat, without a pause, And snored o'er Plato's sage debate Of the Republic and the Laws: Both these his brain did obfuscate But most of all he loathed the power Of x + y, whose depths profound Long-winded dons would oft expound, And moralise on by the hour. Then said he, "I am very weary, This Euclid racks my brain. Mansell and Mill are very dreary; I shall be ploughed again!" H. C. I., QUEEN'S COLLEGE, OXFORD

They lifted him with kindly care; They took him by the heels and head; Across the floor, and up the stair, They bore him safely to his bed. They wrapped the blankets warm and tight, And round about his nose and chin They drew the sheets, and tucked them in, And whispered: "Poor old boy, good-night!" He murmured, "Boys, oh, deary, deary, That punch was strong," he said; He said: "I am aweary, weary— Thank heaven, I've got to bed! Australian Paper.

I. YOU must wake, and call me early—call me early—Willie Weir, To-morrow is the glorious Twelfth, that comes but once a year; The cockneys and the keepers will all be out of doors, And I'm to shoot over the moors, Willie—I'm to shoot over the moors. II. There's many a pack of pointers, but none that point likemine; There's Paragon and Pincher—there's Kit and Keelavine, And my little Dandie Dinmont, that stands firm as any house, So I'm to bag all the grouse, Willie—I'm to bag all the grouse. III. I sleep so soundly all the night that I shall never wake, Unless you call me loudly when the dawn begins to break, For I've to put on my philabeg and sporran's foxy tail, To look like a genuine Gael, Willie, to look like a genuine Gael. IV. As I came up the valley, whom think you I should see? Ben Moses of the Minories, he has rented Bonachree! He wished to rent my moor, Willie, but boggled at the price, So I went in by telegram, and nailed it in a trice. V. Shelty Pony shall go to-morrow, to carry two fowls at least, For a cockney on the hillside is a very ravenous beast; And you shall bring the saddlebags to hold the birds I spot, For I'll get my worth of the moors, Willie, at least in the powder and shot. VI. So you must wake me early—call me early, Willie Weir, To-morrow is the glorious Twelfth, that comes but once a year. From Cheapside unto Chelsea, they're envying me at home, For I'm to shoot over the moors, Willie, as far as I can roam. ON THE TWELFTH. I. I bade you wake me early, with my shaving-jug and brogues, But Scotch and English servants are all a pack of rogues. It's the only Twelfth of August in the Highlands I shall see, Yet you snored on your truckle-bed, Willie, and never thought of me. II. Last night I saw the sunset, he looked both wroth and red, As if he knew when dawning came I'd still be lay-a-bed. From crag and scaur and heather I hear the popping shot, And not a single bird, Willie, has fallen to my lot. III. What say you? "'Tis a soft day, the roads are runnin' burns, "The heather's a' wet blankets, ye might droon ye in the ferns; Ye canna see a hand forenent, the mist's sae white and chill, Ye'd sune be bogged amang the muirs, and lost upon the hill." IV. There's not a sportsman on the hills, the rain is on the pane, I only wish to sleep until the sunshine comes again. I wish the mist would lift, and the light break out once more, I long to kill a grouse, Willie, ere the Twelfth of August's o'er. V. I have been stiff and lazy, but I'll up and dress me now, You'll fetch my breakfast, Willie, and my plaid before I go. Nay, nay, you must not brush so hard, my very teeth you jolt, You should not rub me down, Willie, as if I were a colt. VI. I'll bring back dinner, if I can, in a brace of cock and hen, But if you do not see me, you will know I've dined with Ben. If I cannot speak a sober word when I come back from the toddy, Just tuck me into bed, Willie, like a canny Hieland body. VII. Good-bye, you rascal, Willie; call me earlier in the morn, Or I'll thrash you into next week, as sure as you were born; For I must get my money back from grouse and hare and deer, So wake, and call me early—call me early, Willie Weir. Will-o'-the-Wisp, August, 1869.

LATE, late, past ten, so dark the night and chill. Late, late, eleven, but we can enter still. Too late, too late, ye cannot enter now! No thought had we the night was so far spent, And, hearing this, the Bobby will relent. Too late, too late, ye cannot enter now! No beer, though late, and dark, and chill the night. O let us in, and we will not get tight! Too late, too late, ye cannot enter now! A glass of gin to-night would be so sweet. O let us in, that we may have it neat! Too late, too late, ye cannot enter now! Punch, November 16, 1872.

In Hungerford, did some wise man A stately bridge of wire decree, Where Thames, the muddy river, ran, Down to a muddier sea. Above the people rose its piers, Their shadows on the waters fell; Year after year, for many years, All unapproachable! And filmy wires through æther spread, From such proud piers' unfinished head, Kept up a mild communication, Worthy of their exalted station; And many gazers far below, Wafted by the waveless tide, Which 'neath those slender wires did flow, Upturned their eyes, and sighed— "If that air bridge," they whispered low, "Vos broad enough to let us pass, Ve'd not av so much round to go, As now ve av—alas!" Punch, 1844.

With shareholders in anxious lots, The rooms were crowded, one and all, The Barristers stood round in knots,— And quite forsook Westminster Hall. Sections and plans looked odd and strange; And the M.P. at each new batch, Weary and worn, looked at his watch, In hopes the Counsel to derange. He only said, "It's very dreary: He'll never stop!" he said; He said, "I'm a-weary—a-weary, I would I were in bed!" The speech began before eleven, And might go on till eventide; He must be in the House at seven, Upon a motion to divide. The Barristers in white cravats Unto each other gave the lie; The M.P. sadly shut his eye And thought of the Kilkenny cats. He only said, "It's very dreary, They'll never stop!" he said; He said, "I'm a-weary—a-weary, And must not go to bed." Until the middle of the night, He'd heard the Irish Members crow; The House broke up in broad daylight, Heavily he to bed did go, In hopes to sleep; but without change, In dreams, he seemed to hear, forlorn, The Barrister he'd heard that morn; And saw, in slumber, sections strange. He sighed, and said, "'Tis very dreary; I cannot sleep!" he said; He said, "I am a-weary—a-weary, Both in and out of bed." * * * * The hot sun beating on the roof, The slow clock ticking, and the sound Which in opposing lines' behoof The counsel made,—did all confound His sense: then longed he for the hour When their report they came to lay Before the Commons; and the day On which he'd 'scape SIR ROBERT'S power, Then said he, "This is far too dreary: I will retire," he said; He sighed, "I am so weary—a-weary, I'll go to Jail instead." Punch, 1845.

TWO children in two neighbour villages, Playing mad pranks along the healthy leas; Two strangers meeting at a festival; Two lovers whispering by an orchard wall; Two lives bound fast in one with golden ease; Two graves, grass green, beside a gray church-tower, Wash'd with still rains and daisy-blossomed; Two children in one hamlet born and bred; So runs the round of life from hour to hour. A. TENNYSON.

TWO children on Twelfth Night, all mirth and laughter, Obliged to take two powders the day after. Two strangers meeting at a morning call. Two lovers waltzing at a country ball. Two mouths to feed upon an income small. Two "lists to be retained" of various things Wash'd out of town to save home's direst curse. Two babies quite too much for one young nurse; So flies the time of life on rapid wings. The Man in the Moon, Volume 4, 1848.

I BUILT my Cole a lordly pleasure house, Wherein to walk like any Swell: I said, "O Cole, make merry and carouse, Dear Cole, for all is well."

But Cole, C.B., replied, "'Tis long, your story, And here's a Rummy Start; Dilke walks in glory with a Hand that's Gory, While I am not a Bart." SHIRLEY BROOKS.

PART I. I BUILT myself a lordly picture-place Wherein to play a Leo's part. I said, "Let others cricket, row, or race, I will go in for Art!" Full of great rooms and small my Palace stood, With porphyry columns faced, Hung round with pictures such as I thought good, Being a man of taste. The pictures—for the most part they were such As more behold than buy— The quaint, the queer, the mystic over-much, The dismal, and the dry. One seemed all black and grey—a tract of mud, One gas-jet glimmering there alone; Above, all fog; below, all inky flood; For subject—it had none. One showed blue chaos flecked with falling gold. Like Danaë's tower in dark; A painter's splash-board might more meaning hold Than this æsthetic lark. And one, a phantom form with limbs most lank, Adumbrated in ink and soot; The Genius of Smudge, with spectral shank And unsubstantial boot. Nor these alone, but many a canvas bare, Fit for each vacuous mood of mind, The gray and gravelike, vague and void, were there Most dismally designed. * * * * * Or two wan lovers in a curious fix, Wreathed in one scarf by some queer charm, Upon the margin of a caverned Styx Stood shivering arm-in-arm. Or by a garden-prop, posed all askew 'Neath apples bronze, with brazen hair, A chalk-limb'd Eve and snake of porcelain blue Exchanged a stony stare. * * * * * Nor these alone, but all such legends fair As the vagarious Wagner mind Would pick from Mythus' shadowy realm, were there, With ample space assigned. To women weird and wondrous, long of jaw, And lank of limb, and greenish as with mould, And full-red lips and shocks of fulvous hair, And raiments strange of fold. No raven so delighteth in its song, Of sad and sullen monotone, As I to watch those ladies lean and long, And angular of bone. And to myself I said, "All these are mine. Let the dull world take Nature's part, 'Tis one to me; I hold no thing divine Save this Brown-Jonesian Art, "Wherein no ROBINSON shall dare to plant His Philistinish hoof, Who feels no mystic mediæval want, But paints in truth's behoof! "O Mediæval Mystery, be it mine To clasp thee, faint and fain; Sniffing serene at low souls that decline, On sense and meanings plain." Then my eyes filled, my talk waxed large and dim Of BOTTICELLI'S deathless fame: "Quaint immaturity to reach with him," I cried, "is Art's true aim. "To plunge, self-blinded, in the mystic past, That makes the present small: If eyes artistic be not backward cast, Why have we eyes at all?" Punch, July 7, 1877. PART II. YET oft the riddle of Art's real drift Flashed through me as I sat and gazed. But not the less some season I made shift To keep my wits undazed. And so I mused and mooned; for three long weeks I stood it: on the fourth I fell. All trace of natural colour fled my cheeks, And I felt—far from well. * * * * * Hollow-cheeked, hectic, rufus-headed dames, With opiate eyes, and foreheads all As wan as corpses', but with wings like flames, Glared on me from each wall. Those fixed orbs haunted me; I grew to hate Those square and skinny jaws, those high-cheek bones. Nocturnes in soot and symphonies in slate Moved me to sighs and groans. Queer convolutions of dim drapery Inwrapt me like a Nessus-snare. I seemed enmeshed in tangles hot and dry Of copper-coloured hair. I loathed the pallid Venuses and Eves, Nymph-nudity, and Sorceress and Thrall; The Wings prismatic, the metallic Leaves— I loathed them one and all. I howled aloud, "I would no more behold A witch, an angel, or a saint. Aught mediæval-mystic, classic-cold, Or cinque-cento quaint. "It may be that my taste has come to grief, But if the spectral, dismal, dry, Do constitute 'High Art,' 'tis my belief High Art is all my eye." So when four weeks were wholly finishéd, I from my gallery turned away. "Give me green leaves and flesh and blood," I said, "Fresh air and light of day. I pine for Nature, sickened to my heart Of the affected, strained, and queer. What was to me Ambrosia of Art Hath grown as drugged small-beer. "Yet pull not down my galleries rich and rare: When Art abjures the crude and dim, I yet may house the High Ideal there. Purged from preposterous Whim!" Punch, July 14, 1877.

THERE is a sound of thunder afar, Storm in the South that darkens the day, Storm of battle and thunder of war, Well, if it do not roll our way. Form! form! Riflemen, form! Ready, be ready to meet the storm! Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen, form! Be not deaf to the sound that warns! Be not gull'd by a despot's plea! Are figs of thistles, or grapes of thorns? How should a despot set men free? Form! form! Riflemen, form! Ready, be ready to meet the storm! Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen, form! Let your Reforms for a moment go, Look to your butts, and take good aims. Better a rotten borough or so, Than a rotten fleet or a city in flames! Form! form! Riflemen form! Ready, be ready to meet the storm! Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen, form! Form, be ready to do or die! Form in Freedom's name and the Queen's! True, that we have a faithful ally,[9] But only the devil knows what he means. Form! form! Riflemen, form! Ready, be ready to meet the storm! Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen, form! T.

THERE was a sound of "Town" from afar, Town in the High that threaten'd a mill, Storm of town, and thunder of gown, And town have got with them "Brummagem Bill." Gown! Gown! into the Town, Ready, be ready to meet the clown, Into them; into them; into them, Gown. Be not afraid of the peelers' staves, Be not gulled by a proctor's plea, Velvetty arms are for flunkies, my braves, Why should a proctor stop our spree? Gown! Gown! into the Town, Ready, be ready to meet the clown, Into them; into them; into them, Gown. Leave your wines for a moment or so. Double your fists for the State and the Church, Better the purple claret should flow, Than "La Belle Science" be left in the lurch. Gown! Gown! into the Town, Ready, be ready to meet the clown, Into them; into them; into them Gown. Sweep! march ahead, look about, take care, Deal black eyes and the bloody nose; True that we have an excellent mayor, Butt him again, and down he goes. Gown! Gown! into the Town, Ready, be ready to meet the clown, Into them; into them; into them, Gown. College Rhymes, 1861.

I. CAPTAIN FALCON of the Guards, How nice you thought to do me brown; You thought that I'd accept a bill For discount, when you went to town. At me you smiled, but unbeguiled I saw the snare, and I retired: The black-leg of a hundred "hells," Your friendship's not to be desired. II. Captain Falcon of the Guards, I know you thought to get my name; Your cunning was no match for mine, Too wide-awake to play your game. Nor would I write for your delight A name the Jews ne'er saw before— My simple name across a bill Is worth a hundred pounds or more. III. Captain Falcon of the Guards, Some softer pupil you must find, For were you Colonel of your troop, I'd shun you still, and all your kind. You thought to've seen me jolly green; A plump refusal's my reply: The army agents in Craig Court Are not more up to you than I. IV. Captain Falcon of the Guards, You put strange memories in my head; Not thrice the bill had been renewed When I beheld young Pigeon fled. Your crack turn-outs, your drinking bouts, A fine acquaintance you may be; But there was that across the bill, That he had hardly cared to see. V. Captain Falcon of the Guards, When first he met the gov'nor's view, He had the passions of his kind— He spake some certain truths of you. Indeed, I heard one bitter word About a certain game at cards, Which, should it e'er get noised abroad, Would cook your goose at the Horse Guards. VI. Captain Falcon of the Guards, There stands a bailiff in your hall; Tradesmen are knocking at your door: Pigeon no longer pays for all. You held your course without remorse, To make him trust his run of luck, And, last, you fairly stripped him clean, And sought some other bird to pluck. VII. Trust me, Falcon of the Guards, That bill to pay he never meant; The grand old Judge who tried the cause Smiled at your claim for money lent. Howe'er it be, it seems to me These promised pounds are not bank-notes; Gold sovereigns are more than words, And copper pence than paper groats. VIII. I know you, Falcon of the Guards; You're linked with many a scoundrel crew, Whose nights are spent in playing deep— Would that your play was honest too! Be rogue, you must; spurned with mistrust, Cash is no longer raised with ease; Your credit, has it sunk so low, You needs must play such pranks as these? IX. Captain Falcon of the Guards, If tin be needful at your hand, Are there no money lenders left, Nor any Jews within the land? Oh! take the bill-discounters in, Or try the legal shark to do; Pray write a promissory-note— And let the foolish Pigeons go. The Puppet Show, July 8, 1848.

OH, Russian Czar! oh, Russian Czar! On me you shall not play the fool; You thought to make a tool of me Before you occupied Stamboul. You drew your plan en gentleman, But I was not to be deceived; A Russian Czar's a Russian Czar— You are not one to be believed. * * * * Oh, Russian Czar! oh, Russian Czar! Some softer envoy you must gloze, For were you Emperor of the world, I would not stoop to tricks like those. You set a cunning trap for me, But I was cunning in reply; The monjeike at your palace gate Was not more down to you than I. * * * * But trust me, ruthless Russian Czar! Though heaven above be brightly blue, 'Tis writ upon your palace walls— Dark is the doom prepared for you! Howe'er it be, it seems to me The truly great are truly good; God watches o'er those minarets When Christian faith sheds Turkish blood. I know you, haughty Russian Czar! You sigh to leave your frozen towers; Short-sighted are your bloated eyes, Which strain to feast on Moslem bowers. You move by stealth through boundless wealth; Your very nobles are o'erawed; You do so little good at home, You needs must play such pranks abroad. Oh, Russian Czar! oh, Russian Czar! If power be heavy on your hands, Are there no wretches in your realm, Nor any slaves upon your lands? Oh teach your monjeiks how to read, Emancipate your serfs; but no— First pray to have a human heart, And let the turban'd Moslem go. Diogenes, April, 1854.

LADY CLARA Vere de Vere, The country sun has made you brown, And now they tell me that you start To-morrow afternoon for town; Ah! how I sighed when I descried Your lovely form beside the stream The other day when on my way I passed with Farmer Jackson's team! Lady Clara Vere de Vere, I wish that you would change your name For such a humble one as mine: But no—you'd think it quite a shame; So I must be content to take My choice of humbler maiden's charms— Must marry someone who can bake, And has a sturdy pair of arms. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, Some "Lord Dundreary" you must find; Our rustic bread and cheese and beer Would hardly suit your taste refined. If I should write you of my love, And wait outside for a reply, The lion on your old stone gates, Would talk of verdure in his eye. * * * * Lady Clara Vere de Vere, They say—and really p'rhaps they're right— That I had better give you up, And marry pretty Sally White; You are a swell—she loves me well, And then her cooking is so good— Jam tarts are more than coronets, And elder wine than Norman blood! SPHINX, CHRIST'S COLL., CAMBRIDGE.

"LADY Clara Vere de Vere, You whom the Laureate makes attacks on, If your papa were not a peer, If you were not an Anglo-Saxon, In short, if 'twere not too absurd, To think of you where aught of trade is, I'd almost say, upon my word, I'm looking at you now in Cadiz."

"Lady Clara Vere de Vere, I don't believe femme souvent varie, Your sex are all the same, I fear, From Timbuctoo to Tipperary." MAXWELL REILLY.

"Reverend Mr. Mucklestone, Of me you shall not win renown; You thought to have your surplice washed For nothing, but it won't go down. At me you smiled, but unbeguiled, Each time your surplice had a 'rense,' I charged, and felt quite justified, The modest sum of eighteenpence."

IF you're waking, call me early, call me early, mother dear, For to-morrow in the senate-house at nine I must appear: To-morrow for all womankind will be a glorious day, And I'm to be top o' the list, mother, top o' the list, they say. There's many a blue, blue stocking, but none so blue as I; There's not a girl amongst them all with me can hope to vie: There's none so sharp as little Alice, not by a long, long way, And I'm to be top o' the list, mother, top o' the list, they say, I lie awake all night, mother, but in the morn I sleep, And dream of Virgil, Euclid, Dons, all jumbled in a heap, And the letters in the Euclid dance about like lambs at play: O, I'm to be top o' the list, mother, top o' the list, they say. As I came by King's Chapel, whom do you think I saw, But Andrew Jones de Mandeville Fitzherbert Aspenshaw! He thought of that hard problem I gave him yesterday; For I'm to be top o' the list, mother, top o' the list, they say. He thought me such a bore, mother, for he couldn't get it right, To see him puzzle o'er it was such a funny sight; But not on such a dolt as that I'd throw myself away! For I'm to be top o' the list, mother, top o the list, they say. They say he is fond-hearted, but that can never be: He can't get through his "Littlego," then what is he to me? There's many a Senior wrangler who'll woo me in the May, For I'm to be top o' the list, mother, top o' the list, they say. Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the gate, And, till they give the questions out, at the window she must wait; And when she's got them, back to you, mother, she'll haste away, And I m to be top o' the list, mother, top o' the list, they say. In the papers country parsons have been writing lots of trash: They say this scheme for us, mother, is sure to come to smash; And agèd Dons all shake their heads, and say it will not pay; But I'm to be top o' the list, mother, top o' the list, they say. If you're waking, call me early, call me early, mother dear, I'd something more to say, mother, but my head is not quite clear; For I always have a headache when I put my books away; But I'm to be top o' the list, mother, top o' the list they say. * * * * * "I thought to have gone down before, but still up here I am, And still there's hanging o'er me that horrible Exam. They said I should be top, mother; but then I'd such bad luck, Though I went in for honours—I only got a pluck!" X. Y. B., CHRIST'S COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE.

YOU must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear! To-morrow'll be the liveliest time of all the glad New Year; Of all the glad New Year, mother, the maddest, merriest day, For I'm to be Queen o' the Dray, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the Dray. There'll be many a black, black eye, they say, and many a lively shine With Margaret and Mary, and Kate and Caroline; But none can lick this little Alice, in all the court, they say; So I'm to be Queen o' the Dray, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the Dray. I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake If you do not call loud and give me, too, a jolly good shake; As I must buy some bonnet-flowers and sky-blue ribbons gay, For I'm to be Queen o' the Dray, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the Dray. As I came up our alley, whom think ye I should see? But Robin leaning on Chisenhale Bridge, as screwed as he could be; He had been cleaning his harness, mother, and drinking all the day; But I'm to be Queen o' the Dray, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the Dray. You know my Robin drives a dray, a heavy brewer's cart; To-morrow with his handsome team of horses he will start A-roaming up and down the streets, loafing about all day, And I'm to be Queen o' the Dray, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the Dray. To-morrow I'll get out of pawn my bran-new winsey frock, For Robin he is sure to wear a reg'lar snow-white smock; His dray is cleaned and painted up, and now looks very gay, And I must be clean on the Dray, mother, I must be clean on the Dray. The horses' tails all nicely combed, with ribbons will be decked, Upon the shining harness not a smirch you can detect, The very brutes they seem to feel it is the first of May, And I'm to be Queen o' the Dray, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the Dray. Upon the barrels I'll sit perched, the barrels all so full Of smashing stuff they sell for beer, and give you the long pull. My Robin rarely touches beer—for 'Rum's my drink,' he'll say— But I'm to be Queen o' the Dray, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the Dray. Through Lime-street, Lord-street, we'll parade each leading thoroughfare, While the spectators rival teams and turn-outs will compare, On brewers' and on millers' carts the brazen bands will play, And I'll be Queen o' the Dray, mother, I'll be Queen o' the Dray. * * * * * For hours and hours we'll roam about, until the team it tires, And Robin will imbibe more rum than he actually requires; At many a 'public' he will stop a-moistening of his clay, And I'll be the Queen o' the Dray, mother, I'll be the Queen o' the Dray. * * * * * So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear. If I don't seem to hear you, give me a smack upon the ear; To-morrow'll be of all the year, the maddest, merriest day, For I'm to be the Queen o' the Dray, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the Dray.

IF you're waking, call me early, call me early, mother dear, For I would see the sun rise upon the carters' cheer; It is the last of the turn-outs that I may ever see, For Robin he lays me low with a kick—and thinks no more of me. Last May we had a reg'lar spree, we had such a jolly day, And Robin, who drove a brewer's cart, he made me Queen o' the Dray; And we danced and sung and got mad drunk on Walker's sixpenny hops, Till the Charleys come at the row we made, and every one of us cops. And lugs us off to chokee, mother, and keeps us there all night, As drunken and disorderlies—both women and men were tight— And Raffles, the beak, next morning, was in a terrible way— Ten shillin' we had to pay, mother, ten shillin' and costs to pay. And in default of payment,—our cash we had spent in ale,— That Raffles he gave us all a week within sweet Walton gaol, Where soon we learnt to pick oakum (the skin's off my fingers still), And Robin did "Sich a gettin' upstairs" upon the revolving mill. * * * * * The end of it was, he axed me, as I'd been Queen of his Dray, If I would marry a scavenger as never did work by day, And though his wages was but low—a matter o' twenty-five bob— Before the month o' May was out we settled the blessed job. At first my Robin was very kind and gentle, so to speak, He never got drunk and kicked me—not more than twice a week, And of his weekly wages, no matter what else he did, He never would spend on pay-nights more than eighteen bob or a quid. * * * * * And after that—it's a month ago—my Robin got much worse, 'Twould make your hair just stand on end to hear him swear and curse, He never gets drunk as he used to do—that's once or twice in a week— He's never properly sober, on me all his rage he'll wreak. When he comes home of a morning, it's rarely he goes to bed, He takes to drinking about all day, and hammerin' me instead, And well I know my husband's hand, it's weight I often feel, I wouldn't be lyin' so low, mother, if not for my husband's heel. The brewers' carts and the scavengers' to-morrow will be gay, The horses all with ribands decked will walk in grand array, The Corporation carters and their wives will have a spread, And get their annual dinner 'neath the great Haymarket shed. * * * * * Good-night, dear mother, call me before the day is born; I'd like to see the carters a-marching in the morn; The pubs, are closing early, very early, mother dear, So, if you've got any coppers left, just go for a quart of beer!

YOU must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear; To-morrow'll be the tryingest time of all the Spring, this year— Of all the Spring, this year, mother, the dreariest, dreadfullest day; For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. There'll be many a red, red nose, no doubt, but none so red as mine; For the wind is still in the East, mother, and makes one peak and pine: And we're going to have six weeks of it, or so the prophets say say— And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. I sleep so sound all night, mother, I am sure I shall never wake. So you'd better call me loud, mother, and perhaps you'll have to shake: I shall want some coffee hot and strong, before I'm called away, To shiver as Queen o' the May, mother, to shiver as Queen o' the May. As I was coming home to-night, whom think you I should see But DOCTOR SQUILLS! And he saw that my nose was as red as red could be; And he said the weather was cruel sharp, that I'd better stay away,— But I'm chosen Queen o' the May, mother, so I must be Queen o' the May. The honeysuckle round the porch is white with sleety showers, And, though they call it the month of May, the hawthorn has no flowers; And the ice in patches may yet be found in swamps and hollows gray,— Ain't it nice for the Queen o' the May, mother, so nice for the Queen o' the May? The East wind blows and blows, mother, on my nose I follow suit, For my influenza's so very bad, and I've got a cough to boot; Perhaps it will rain and sleet, mother, the whole of the livelong day, Yet, I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother; I must be Queen o' the May. I've not the slightest doubt, mother, I shall come home very ill, And then there'll be bed for a week or more, and a long, long, doctor's bill; And with prices up and wages down however will father pay? But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother—oh bother the Queen o' the May! So please wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear, That I may look out some winter wraps, fit for the spring this year. To-morrow of this bitter "snap," I'm sure 'twill be the bitterest day, For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May." Punch, May 12, 1877.

IF you're waking, call me early, "Boots," not later, please, than four, And if you're passing earlier, pray rat-tat at my door; But stay I have so much to do, that p'rhaps 'twill better be, Not to depend on you at all, but call myself at three. * * * * I cannot, though an Emperor, stay quietly at home, Some impulse irresistibly makes me for ever roam; Each week it holds me tighter still beneath its mystic thrall, Till soon I am afraid I shall not eat or sleep at all. Truth, June 21, 1877.

YOU must come and dress me early, very early, Simmons, mind! For to-morrow'll be the summing-up, and I must not be behind; Of all this jolly trial, I'm told, to-morrow'll be the day, So be sure you call me early, Simmons; now attend to what I say! The judge means hanging, so they say, and when the sentence's pass'd, There's sure to be an awful scene, more curious than the last; P'raps the men will have hysterics—that would be fun to see! And Alice Rhodes may have a fit. Oh! how jolly it will be! So you must wake and call me early, Simmons, call me early, Simmons, mind! Or I'll give you a month's warning if you are at all behind! For to-morrow'll be, of all the trial, the awfullest jolliest day, For I think all four will be hanged, Simmons; all four will be hanged, they say! Truth, October 4, 1877.

IF yer passin', knock me up, Bill; knock me up, old cock, d'yer yere; For to-morrer's Kingsbury meetin', is the last there'll be, I fear; Of all suburbin races, the werry last they say, For that Anderson in Parlyment, 'as contrived to get 'is way. It's ter'ble rough on us, Bill; on us, an' all our pals, As 'asn't got no tickets for that bloomin' Tattersall's; For 'ow without these meetin's our livin's were to get, Is a rayther ticklish problim, as I 'avent worked out yet. Truth, February 21, 1878.

DON'T wake and call me early, pray don't call me, mother dear, To-morrow may be the coldest day of all this cold New Year; Of all this wintry year, mother, the wildest stormiest day, And we have had fires in May, mother, we have had fires in May. I sleep so sound at night, mother, that I don't want to wake, With the horrid thermometer standing at what seems a sad mistake; But none so wise as those who read the weather forecasts, they say; Shall we have more fires in May, mother? must we have more fires in May? A storm is coming across, mother, the New York Herald has said, And, if you please, I'd rather lie as long as I like in bed; So bother the knots and garlands, mother, and all the foolish play, If we're to have fires in May, mother, why—we must have fires in May. Punch, May 28, 1881.

"Semper floreat Poeta Laureate."—HORACE. YOU must wake and call me early, call me early, Filcher dear, To-morrow 'ill be a happy time for all the Freshman's year; For all the Freshman's year, Filcher, the most delightful day, For I shall be in for my May, Filcher, I shall be in for my May! There's many a hot, hot man, they say, but none so hot as me; There's Middlethwaite and Muggins, there's Kane and Kersetjee; But none so good as little Jones in all the lot, they say, So I'm to be first in the May, Filcher, I'm to be first in the May! I read so hard at night, Filcher, that I shall never rise, If you do not take a wettish sponge and dab it in my eyes: For I must prove the G.C.M., and substitute for a, For I'm to be first in the May, Filcher, I'm to be first in the May. As I came through the College Backs, whom think ye should I see But the Junior Dean upon the Bridge proceeding out to tea? He thought of that Ægrotat, Filcher, I pleaded yesterday,— But I'm to be first in the May, Filcher, I'm to be first in the May. There are men that come and go, Filcher, who care not for a class, And their faces seem to brighten if they get a common pass; They never do a stitch of work the whole of the live-long day,— But I'm to be first in the May, Filcher, I'm to be first in the May! All the College Hall, my Filcher, will be fresh and clean and still, And the tables will be dotted o'er with paper, ink, and quill; And some will do their papers quick, and run away to play,— But I'm to be first in the May, Filcher, I'm to be first in the May! So you must wake and call me early, call me early, Filcher dear, To-morrow 'ill be a happy time for all the Freshman's year; For all the Freshman's year, Filcher, the most delightful day, For I shall be in for my May, Filcher, I shall be in for my May!

If you're waking call me early, call me early, Filcher dear, For I'll keep a morning Chapel upon my last New-year. My last New-year before I take my Bachelor's Degree, Then you may sell my crockery-ware, and think no more of me. To-night I bade good-bye to Smith: he went and left behind His good old rooms, those dear old rooms, where oft I sweetly dined; There's a new year coming up, Filcher, but I shall never see The Freshman's solid breakfast, or the Freshman's heavy tea. Last May we went to Newmarket: we had a festive day, With a decentish cold luncheon in a tidy one-horse-shay. With our lardy-dardy garments we were really "on the spot," And Charley Vain came out so grand in a tall white chimney-pot. There's not a man about the place but doleful Questionists; I only wish to live until the reading of the Lists. I wish the hard Examiners would melt and place me high; I long to be a Wrangler, but I'm sure I don't know why. Upon this battered table, and within these rooms of mine, In the early, early morning there'll be many a festive shine; And the Dean will come and comment on "this most unseemly noise," Saying, "Gentlemen, remember, pray, you're now no longer boys." When the men come up again Filcher, and the Term is at its height, You'll never see me more in these long gay rooms at night; When the old dry wines are circling and the claret-cup flows cool, And the loo is fast and furious with a fiver in the pool. You'll pack my things up, Filcher, with Mrs. Tester's aid, You may keep the wine I leave behind, the tea, and marmalade. I shall not forget you, Filcher, I shall tip you when I pass, And I'll give you something handsome if I get a second-class. Good-night, good-night, when I have passed my tripos with success, And you see me driving off to catch the one o'clock "express;" Don't let Mrs. Tester hang about beside the porter's lodge, I ain't a fool, you know, and I can penetrate that dodge. She'll find my books and papers lying all about the floor, Let her take 'em, they are hers, I shall never use 'em more; But tell her, to console her, if she's mourning for my loss. That she's quite the dirtiest bedmaker, I ever came across. Good-night: you need not call me till the bell for service rings, Through practice I am pretty quick at putting on my things; But I would keep a Chapel upon my last New Year, So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, Filcher dear.

I thought to pass some time ago, but hang it, here I am, Having "muckered" in a certain Mathematical Exam. I have been "excused the General," and my reverent Tutor thinks I must take up Natural Science, which is commonly called "Stinks." O sweet is academic life within these ancient walls, And sweet are Cambridge pleasures—boating, billiards, breakfasts, balls; But sweeter far about this time than all these things to me Would be the acquisition of my Bachelor's Degree.

I'll be in the House quite early, you come later, Herbie dear, This night will be the hardest in the Cabinet's career; Of all our mad career, Herbie, the hardest, horridest night, For the Vote of Censure's on us, and the Opposition fight. * * * * * O, sweet's the docile Liberal who never wants to rise. And sweeter still the Radical who shuns the Speaker's eyes, And sweet are dumb majorities, and men who silent stay, For the hardest things to listen to are what our friends all say. * * * * * There's Parnell's lot, my Herbie, that wretched Irish crew; Don't go and say I said so, this is confidence for you: I've done my best to catch them, and gain their solid vote; But Trevelyan's such a blunderer, he's always at their throat. * * * * * So I will go down early, you come down after, Herbie dear; To-morrow may be the saddest day of this our sad fifth year. I've felt some twinges sometimes of conscience and of gout; But the painfullest of all would be to know that we're turned out. The Evening News, February 18, 1884.

YOU must mind and call me early, call me early, JOHN, d'ye hear. To-morrow'll be the nobbiest day of all this blessed year: Of all this wonderful year, JOHN, the scrumptiousest I declare, For I'm to be made Lord Mayor, JOHN! I'm to be made Lord Mayor! There's many an Aldermanic Swell, but none so great as me; I scorn your Common Councillors, such men I will not see; But none so grand as Alderman ELLIS the Liverymen all swear, For I'm to be made Lord Mayor, JOHN! I'm to be made Lord Mayor! I sleep well after a heavy meal, and I shall never wake, If you don't knock at my door, JOHN, when day begins to break; And I must dress in my Sunday clothes, and titivate up my hair, For I'm to be made Lord Mayor, JOHN, I'm to be made Lord Mayor! As I came up to the Mansion House, whom think ye I should see, But FIGGINS and other Aldermen as glum as they well could be, They thought of the coming pageantry, and how I should swagger there, For I'm to be made Lord Mayor, JOHN, I'm to be made Lord Mayor! Then mind and call me early, call me early, JOHN, don't fear To dig me in my illustrious ribs, and shout in my lordly ear; And to-morrow will see me roll along, while all the people stare, For I'm to be made Lord Mayor, JOHN! I'm to be made Lord Mayor! Punch, November 12, 1881.

If you've read Sir Vernon's speech upon the City, daughter dear, You will see that London's downfall from its great estate is near; But one comfort you will gather—not November ends our sway, For I'm to be Mayor till May, daughter, I'm to be Mayor till May! I have said that I will fight the bill, in clause, and line, and word. I may not be the conqueror, but my protests shall be heard— Though that clause my office to extend for six months more may stay, That I may be Mayor till May, daughter, I may be Mayor till May! They do not stop our banqueting, so that clause I don't condemn— Oh, the Ministers won't abrogate the feeds we give to them! And that is about the only good they do not take away— But I'm to be Mayor till May, daughter, I'm to be Mayor till May! * * * * * Can Harcourt think to bribe me by this one continuance clause? He'll see that I shall show the bill to be little else but flaws! This "sop" as he may fancy it, won't affect what I've to say, Tho' I'm to be Mayor till May, daughter, I'm to be Mayor till May! Now tell me your opinion on the matter, daughter dear, For you will be Lady Mayoress as long as we are here; And if it passes, recollect we pass next "Lord Mayor's Day," And I shall be Mayor till May, daughter, I shall be Mayor till May! Funny Folks, May 3, 1884.

You must wake and call me early, call me early, Bumble, dear, I mean to fight with all my might each minute of this year; For a play is in rehearsal now—a tragic, terrible play— And I'm to be Griffin at Bay, Bumble, I'm to be Griffin at Bay! I'll fight from morn till night, Bumble—my soul must never quake— For calipash and calipee and Corporation's sake; And I must don the lion's skin, although I can but bray, For I'm to be Griffin at Bay, Bumble, I'm to be Griffin at Bay! When I was in the Commons, whom think ye I should see, But Harcourt smiling on his seat, just close to William G.? He thought not of the feed, Bumble, we gave him t'other day— But I will be Griffin at Bay, Bumble, I will be Griffin at Bay! They want to wreck, with sinful hand, our great time-honoured powers, And take away the wealth and might which have so long been ours; But I will roar and bluster, in my old accustomed way, For I'm to be Griffin at Bay, Bumble, I'm to be Griffin at Bay! Go, summons all my aldermen, and bid them take their fill, From terror free let them with me all gaily feast and swill; Reform need have no fears for them, so bid them all be gay, For I'm to be Griffin at Bay, Bumble, I'm to be Griffin at Bay!

We must wake and get up early, get up early, brother Grimes, For to-morrow'll be the greatest day of all the modern times; Of all the modern times, brother, the day so long delayed, When we're to be freemen made, brother, we're to be freemen made. There's many a low, low lot, they said, but none so low as we, So sunk in ignorance and vice, in want and penury; But none so stupid as poor Hodge in all the land, they said; But we're to be freemen made, brother, we're to be freemen made. * * * * * So we'll rise and poll us early, poll us early, brother Grimes, For to-morrow'll be the important day of all the glad new times; Of all the glad new times, brother, the day so long delayed, When we're to be freemen made, brother, we're to be freemen made. JAMES FRASER.

If you're going, look in early, look in early, brother peer, To-morrow we'll have the merriest fling we've had for many a year; We've had for many a year, brother—Aha! hip, hip, hooray! For "the measure" comes up, they say, brother, "the measure" comes up, they say. The bishops will go with us, brother, and landlords fat and lean, And they'll vote ditto, brother—the weak-kneed Whigs, I mean; With quiddities and flow'ry quirks we'll whittle the bill away. We'll whittle the bill away, brother, we'll whittle the bill away. And all the law-lords, brother, will use their subtle skill By verbiage and amendment sly to mutilate the bill; Our lordly mashers, too, brother, will meet in grand array, For 'twill be as good as the play, brother, 'twill be as good as the play. We thought to kick it out, brother, but we've found it wouldn't pay; J. B. would never stand it, so we'll better tact display; And we'll hocuss him, you see brother, and mar its clauses dear: So, we'll be early, places taking, we'll be early, brother peer. GERMANICUS.

You must wake up! there'll be such a hurly-burly, Staffy, dear; To-morrow'll be the merriest night the House has had this year; Of all the nights this year, Staffy, the night to be marked with chalk, For I'm to be Cock o' the Walk, Staffy, I'm to be Cock o' the Walk. There's many a clack-clack cry, they say, but none so shrill as mine; There's Peel and Gorst and Drummond, there's Balfour superfine; But none so rare as little Randy in all the House for talk, So I'm to be Cock o' the Walk, Staffy, I'm to be Cock o' the Walk. As I came through the lobby whom think ye should I see But Gladdy poring o'er the bill to set the yokels free. He caught my eye and shook, Staffy—I eyed him like a hawk! But I'm to be Cock o' the Walk, Staffy, I'm to be Cock o' the Walk. The hinds may reap and sow, Staffy, but ere that measure pass, The cows will get the franchise as they munch the meadow grass; There will not be a vote for Hodge, if only the bill we baulk, And I'm to be Cock o' the Walk, Staffy, I'm to be Cock o' the Walk. All the Tories, Staffy, will obstruct it with a will, And the swift foot and the slow foot will mash and maul the bill; And the G.O.M. will fret and fume like fizz when you draw the cork, For I'm to be Cock o' the Walk, Staffy, I'm to be Cock o' the Walk. GOSSAMER.

You must wake me in the morning, rouse me early, wifey, dear; To-morrow'll be a ticklish time at Westminster, I hear; At Westminster, the Franchise Bill will glide upon its way, And I shall have something to say, deary, I shall have something to say. There's many a black-legged Tory who would frustrate our design— There's Northcote and there's Goschen, who was once a friend of mine; But none, I think, will stand their ground if I can get fair play, For they know it is true what I say, deary, they know it is true what I say. I sleep so light of late, wifey, that bedtime comes in vain, They've bored me so with Gordon that I've Egypt on the brain: Yet I'll regain these wasted hours—this loss of time won't pay— And show that I mean what I say, deary, show that I mean what I say. * * * * * JESSIE H. WHEELER.

YOU must call rehearsals early, call them early, KELLY dear! November'll be the merriest month of our dramatic year; November I have fixed it for the Laureate's new play, And I'm to be Promise of May, KELLY, I'm to be Promise of May! There's many a chosen priestess in the wild æsthetic line. There's ELLEN! and there's MARION! whose fingers intertwine! But all the Grosvenor Gallery think none like me, they say; So I'm to be Promise of May, KELLY, I'm to be Promise of May! I'm thinking of the night, you know, both sleeping and awake, And I hear them calling loudly till their voices seem to break; But I must fashion lots of gowns in Liberty silks so gay, For I'm to be Promise of May, my Lad, I'm to be Promise of May! I went down into Surrey—don't laugh, it is no joke— And found the great Bard dramatist wrapt in a cloak—of smoke! He handed me his manuscript, and read it yesterday; So I'm to be Promise of Maytime, I'm to be Promise of May! He said I was ideal, because I kept it up, This mixture of his Dora, and his Camma in the Cup. They call me a replica, but I care not what they say. Now I'm to be Promise of May, you see, I'm to be Promise of May! They say he's pining still for fame; but that can never be. He likes to roar his lyrics, but what is that to me? I'll fill the Globe with worshippers, in the old Lyceum way— For I'm to be Promise of May, my Friend, I'm to be Promise of May! My sisters of the cultus shall attend me clad in green; All the poets and the painters must hail me as their Queen! The great dramatic critics of course will have their say, Now I'm to be Promise of Maytime, I'm to be Promise of May! The Pit with wild excitement will tremble, never fear, And the merry gods above them will greet me with a cheer! There will not be a ribald line in all the Laureate's play, For I'm to be Promise of May, you see, I'm to be Promise of May! All the Stalls will sit in silence, or with cynicism chill Will pick the Bard to pieces, and work their own sweet will; And HAMILTON CLARKE in the orchestra he'll merrily pose and play— For I'm to be Promise of May, my Lad, I'm to be Promise of May! So call rehearsals early, call them early, there's a dear! Bid gipsy-tinted ORMSBY and VEZIN to appear. November'll see what "gushers" call the "sweetest, daintiest play," And I'm to be Promise of May, KELLY, I'm to be Promise of May! Punch, November 4, 1882.

"WE were two daughters of one race: She was the fairest in the face: The wind is blowing in turret and tree. They were together, and she fell: Therefore revenge became me well. O the Earl was fair to see!"