Part 1 — C. Wolfe's Ode.

SCARCE a sound was heard, not a word was spoke, As a van down the back way they hurried; For some tenants were bolting, not paying their rent, And looking confoundedly flurried. They'd packed up in silence at dead of night, And, having no thought of returning, Had nailed up the shutters to keep in the light Of the paraffin-lamp left a-burning. But just as they'd got the loading done, And with the last chair were retiring, They heard the butcher (that son of a gun) At the door for his money inquiring. Sharp and short was the answer he got— They told him "It gave them much sorrow; It wasn't convenient to settle just then, But they'd certainly do so to-morrow." Slowly and sadly they hurried away From that snug little house of one storey, Chucked the key in the water-butt, out of harm's way, And left it alone in its glory. Loudly they'll talk of the tenants now gone, And the landlords will say they were rum 'uns; But little they'll care if he lets them alone, And don't find them out with a summons. ANONYMOUS.

NOT a laugh was heard, not a topical joke, As its corpse to oblivion we hurried, Not a paper a word in its favour spoke On the pantomime going to be buried. We buried it after the Boxing night, The folks from our galleries turning, For we knew that it scarcely would pay for the light Of the star in the last act burning. No useless play-bill put forth a puff, How splendid the public had found it. But it lay like a piece that had been call'd "Stuff," With a very wet blanket round it. Stoutly and long all the audience hiss'd, When they found neither sense nor reason; But we steadfastly dwelt on the points we had miss'd And we bitterly thought of next season. We thought, when we felt it was really dead, As we pass'd old Covent Garden, That Opera and Ballet would take up its place, And we not be worth half a farden. Loudly old gentlemen still will prate, As they always do, of past actors; But we know that poor Mathews' and Howell's fate Was as bad as a malefactors. Slowly and sadly we laid it down, For we knew that we couldn't make bad well, And we felt that the prestige was vanish'd at last, But we drank to the health of poor Bradwell. The Man in the Moon, Volume 1.

NOT a house was drawn—not a five-pound-note— So his run to its closing we hurried; Not a listener could follow his hazy plot, So the dreary abortion we buried. We buried him, sadly, one Friday night, For our hopes were gone past returning; And the manager's pangs were a moving sight, By the foot-lights dimly burning. All bare and exposed to the critics lash, On that luckless stage we found him— On that stage where he deemed he should cut such a dash, With armour and mobs around him. Few were the words which the manager said, To soothe the tragedian's sorrow; But they glared at each other with looks which made Us hope they would fight on the morrow. They doubtless thought, though their tongues they held, That of all the dreadful messes, A sadder than Philip Van Artevelde, Had never disgraced the Princess's. Loudly the manager told what he spent— And he said that Macready had made him— Ah! little attention the "Eminent" paid, But coolly let Maddox upbraid him. But now was our dreary duty done— Our sleep-moving drama retiring, From the distant jeer and the cutting pun, Which the foe were constantly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid it down That a poem, which is famed in story, Be it writ in a book, be it carved on a stone, Should be left there alone in its glory. The Man in the Moon, Volume 3.

NOT a joke was heard, not a troublesome vote, As the bills into limbo they hurried; Not e'en INGLIS discharged a farewell shot, O'er the grave where the Jew-Bill was buried. They buried them darkly at dead of night, For bed all the members yearning; With the aid of the Speaker to keep them right, And GREEN'S parliamentary learning. No vain discussion their life supprest, Nor did truth nor talk confound them; They passed a few, and as for the rest, They burked them just as they found them. For most of the Session's task was done, The supplies marked the hour for retiring; And as August drew near, each son of a gun, At the grouse, in his dreams, was a-firing. * * * * So they settled the Bills—other folks' and their own— Never destined to figure in story; They shed not a tear, and they heaved not a groan, But they burked them alike, Whig and Tory! Punch, 1850.

NOT a cackle was heard, or matitudinal crow, As the cask to the orchard they barrowed; And gently and tenderly laid him below, Where some ground had been recently harrowed. The tears trickled slowly down Emma's fair check, While Ned sobbed aloud in his fustian, And Marian's feelings forbade her to speak For fear of spontaneous combustion. They gazed on his coat of cerulean blue, Ana silently gauged his dimensions, Then covered him up with a hurdle or two To balk the sly foxes' intentions. Then slowly and sadly they turned them away, With their hearts overladen with sorrow: Said Emma, "Bedad! he is safe for to-day." Said Ned, "We must tap him to-morrow." Alas! Ere the dawn of another to-day, There only was weeping and wailing; That beautiful tub had been carried away, Or had leaked through a gap in the pailing. And the Beaks, when applied to, just wagged their old heads, And said, "Since for advice you must ask us," Don't bury your casks in your strawberry beds, Lest men take them by Habeas Caskus!" JOHN E. ALLEN.