Part 1 — ENOCH ARDEN,

Not by the "LAUREAT,"—but a timid hand That grasped the Poet's golden lyre, "and back Recoil'd,—e'en at the sound herself had made."

So Enoch died, as he had lived so long. Alone—alone! for Miriam Lane had pass'd To an adjoining chamber; but she heard Those joyous dying words, "A sail! a sail! I'm sav'd," and hurried back to comfort him; But wist not that the "sail" his spirit saw Was God's own ark, propell'd by angel wings Towards the Ocean of Eternity. "Ah well!" she said; "poor Enoch! he is gone; God rest his soul: give him more joy in Heaven Than he had found on earth,—at least of late: I thought he had not long to linger here, The sea made such a moaning all the night: It sounded like his death-wail; and methought I saw the corpse-light dancing in the fen. Now will I tell the neighbours who he was: They'll wonder how Dame Miriam knew the truth, But kept it close, because she loved her friend Enoch:—they cannot call me gossip now." It chanced that day, that Philip left his mill Earlier than wont: the nutting-time was come,— That season of the year so closely link'd To Philip's destiny;—it seem'd to stir His pulse to quicker beat, and send a thrill Of strange mysterious feeling thro' his veins. He knew not how, or why: but Philip hurried on That he might keep the promised holiday With all the children—his, and hers, and theirs— All dear to him; nor least the bonny Ralph, That last wee prattler, climbing to his knee. And all were ready with their nutting crooks; And Annie Ray, his own, his wife at last,— His "beam of sunshine," as he called her oft. But as he left his mill, the passing-bell, With its first startling boom, tolled on his ear. It is a sound that enters at the brain, A saddening augury of woe, and strikes The inmost chord of sympathising hearts That fondly breathe an echoing sigh of pain. Sudden it falls, chilly as winter's frost, Turning to icicles the heart's warm blood. Spoke Philip to the comrade at his side, "Know you for whom that passing-bell is struck? Some full-grown man: it is the minute-toll." "Mayhap the stranger down at Miriam Lane's; I heard that he was dying yester-e'en. The tide has turn'd but now: 'tis running out; Whoe'er he was, his soul upon the shore Waited the ebbing tide to ebb away." Then came they to a little knot of men (Fishers in dark-blue knitted woollen vests) Hard by "the idle corner,"—so 'twas called,— The blacksmith's forge. The honest gossippers, As Philip pass'd along, hushed their voices. Could he have read their looks, he might have known Some dark o'er-clouding sorrow was at hand, More nigh than he could think for, and more hard. Then passed a woman from the ale-house door, And, all unwitting Philip was so near, Cried, "Have you heard who died just now? 'Twas Enoch Arden,—lost, but late returned; And Miriam Lane has known it all along!" As if some hand had struck a sudden blow, Philip seemed stunned: the blood forsook his cheek, The big cold drops stood out upon his brow, As on the victim's, stretched upon the rack. His comrade laid his hand on Philip's arm, And uttering no word (what could he say?) Led him, as one half-blinded, step by step, Until they reached the home, where Annie Ray, Poor widow-wife, sat watching his return; He stagger'd towards her, caught her in his arms: God help me,—kiss me darling,—wife look up! "My wife—his wife—I know not what I say: If we did sin it was unwittingly; O, Annie! darling, one more fond embrace, E'er it be said our wedded love was wrong." Then, as she wonder'd, gazing on his face, And twined her loving arms around, he told,— Yes, told her all—how Enoch had returned. Then Philip's comrade, who had linger'd near, Beckon'd the children out, and closed the door: There Miriam met them, with the lock of hair: But, loth to interrupt the sorrowers, She led the children to the house of death; And took a key from off the wooden peg, Beside the settle, where she used to hang The skeins of twine to mend the fishing nets: Then gently led them up the narrow stair, That creaked beneath their stealthy-moving tread. Sacred the silence that we ever keep, When death is in the house! we speak, we walk, With muffled tone and step, as if the dead Could be disturb'd, and waken out of sleep. Then Miriam turn'd the key;—that jarring click! How harsh it grated on the children's ear! As do the pebbles on the boat's sharp keel. Cold thro' the open casement came the breeze: There stood the bed—and on the sacking lay, Distinct beneath the sheet, a rigid form— The feet so prominent, the arms close down!— The children clung together, half afraid, While Miriam turned the coverlid aside. They dar'd not stoop to kiss the pallid face; But gaz'd awhile, then slowly left the room. Once they had seen their brother, as he lay Dead in his little cot: but he had look'd So beautiful asleep, you might have thought Death's angel had but gently turned him round, To rest more quietly: the tiny hands Were clasp'd together, and the face bent down, As resting on the pillow—not like this,— So stiff, so cold, so utterly alone. Now, as the twilight fell the second day, Another mourner came: she spoke no word: Miriam had put the key within her hand, Turning aside, to dash away her tears: The widowed woman went up-stairs alone. One moment gazing on her Enoch's face, She stoop'd to kiss it, putting back the hair, As she had done in life: then kneeling down She pray'd,—"forgive me,—pity me,—Oh God." She touch'd his marble-cold, pale, hand with hers, That bore e'en then the double wedding rings. She laid her aching head upon his breast,— When from her lips came forth a cry,—a shriek, Like to a hare's when shot: and Miriam came, And bore her senseless from the room of death. 'Twas strange how quick the widow's glance had caught Each little circumstance of the chamber, And noted in her loving memory,— How on the table lay his Bible—closed: No need had Enoch now of Holy Writ, No need of Gospel Message; for he stood In presence of his SAVIOUR, and his GOD. But had she open'd where the much-worn page Told of the frequent reading, she had seen The marks of blistering tears upon that text, "Whose shall she be in Heav'n? there they marry Not, nor give in marriage, but are angels." There was a fly upon the window pane Whose low monotonous hum she scarcely heard, And that unconscious; but in after years The buzzing of a summer fly recall'd, E'en in her happiest hours, that day, That lonely visit to the bed of death; And cast a moment's shadow o'er her heart. More keenly she remarked the remnant store Of lulling anodynes: ah! bootless all To soothe the fever of his aching brain: The Wise Physician healed him with a touch, (E'en as we lay our hand on ringing glass To still the sound that careless fingers make), And sent a loving angel as his guide Through the dark valley to the realms of joy. There lay his watch, his big round silver watch, Whose constant tick had sadly echoed "Home" In all his wanderings; now its pulse was hushed: No need of Time for him: he had Eternity. * * * * Then Philip left the village for awhile: And when once more the nutting-season came, And yellow "rust-spots" on the autumn leaves, He and his Annie were again at home! They'd learnt the lesson God had set them, "Wait:" And now the time of their reward was come: In Faith's strong soil Patience had taken root, And brought forth Hope and Joy, as bloom and fruit.

PART I. In a fair village on the English coast There dwelt a lad—they called him Hunky Sam. He was but young—three years, or may be four, But manly for his age; his appetite For bulls'-eyes, "coker"-nuts, and such light fare Was something awful, even for a boy; But better far than even coker-nuts, He loved a maiden of surpassing grace— Of humble parentage, but very fair, Whose name euphonious was Susan Ann. The parents of these twain were fisher-folk Of low degree, but honest to a fault. They would not steal the veriest pin, unless They were quite certain they would not be caught. Now Hunky's love for peerless Susan Ann Was felt by her, and given back to Hunk; And as the twain upon the yellow sands Would play, young Sam would say, "Now let us be, As grown-up folks, and we'll pretend we are A wedded pair, and I will be a man, And you, dear Susan Ann, my little wife; And you, go sit within yon gloomy cave, Which we will make believe to be our house, And I'll come staggering in like daddy does, And you can belt me on my flaxen head With this small stick, which we will call a broom— For that's the way my dad and mammy do." And so they played upon the seashore sand Till Susan Ann had got the thing down fine. And time sped on, and Sam and Susan Ann Were married, and the twain became one flesh. PART II. Sam went to sea, and whilst upon a voyage, He read of Enoch Arden and his woes; And so he soon resolved to do the same As in the book he read that Enoch did. To carry out his plan he sent word home, By trusty shipmate, to his Susan Ann, That he was drowned. He really did not care A great deal for his once-loved Susan Ann, Who, when the knot had but been tied a year, Had clearly showed that she could be the boss. So time sped on, and artful Hunky Sam In foreign climates had a jolly time For several years. "I think I'll homeward sail," One day he said, "and see how Susan Ann Gets on; like Enoch, I will softly glide Towards the cottage there upon the cliff, And see how she makes out with her new man, For she is doubtless wedded once again, Just like that Mrs. Arden in the book." Away he sailed across the sounding surge (A good expression that, but not my own), And soon he reached his village on the coast. 'Twas night. He crept towards the little cot Where once he'd dwelt. A light was burning clear; He peered in through the window. Susan Ann Was there, but t'other fellow was away. His wife glanced up: she saw the faithless Sam; She sprang towards him—grabbed him by the hair And held him there, whilst with her other arm She dealt him myriad thwacks with broomstick stout. "You would," she cried—"you would say you were dead, And with your foreign gals go cuttin' up; And leave me here to take in washing—eh? You wretch! take that, and that, and that, and that!" Each "that" being followed by a sickening thud. PART III. The curtain falls on this delightful scene, As space is precious and will not permit Of further details; but this goes to show That things don't always turn out just the same As those we read about in poets' yarns. Another thing it shows—that Susan Ann Had learned a trick when playing at being wed Upon the seashore in her youthful days That stood her in good stead in after years— The wielding of the broomstick here is meant. Scraps, August 1884.

And Willy, with Franchise horn, is gone to blow in the North! Sturdy, though white, and strong on his legs, bravely holding forth; And Willy's wife is with him—she ever was true and wise, Always a wife for Willy—he often takes her advice. For madame, you see, is clever; she loves her Franchise Bill, And he can talk so ready, and manage the Scots with skill. Pretty enough, very pretty! I won't say against it for one. Eh! but my Lords shall fear him—when Willy his task has done. Willy, my beauty, my chieftain true, the flower of the flock, Never a lord can move him, for Willy stands like a rock. He has always a word for the weak, for crofter and fellaheen too; There ne'er was his like in the land, since Eighteen-thirty-two. Strong for the right, and strong in the fight, strong still in his tongue; And peers shall go down before him, though the "feller" is not young. Welcome him back, my brothers, from the North land far away, Soon shall we liberty see, brothers, when Willy has won the day. JAMES G. MEAGHER.

I STEAL by lawns, to check the train Of meditations started By seeing duns that come in vain For happy men departed. By empty rooms I hurry down, So stumbling down the staircase; The cads within the sleepy town Think mine a very rare case. I hail a boat, and down I row Along the lonely river, For other lucky men may go, But I seem here for ever. I murmur under moon and stars, I feel in lunar phrenzy, I chide the cursèd fate that bars My exit from B. N. C. I slope, I slouch, I speed, I stop, And scan the empty High Street, I turn me into Boffin's shop, To cheer me with an ice-treat, Till ice and sad reflection slow My diaphragm make quiver, For other lucky men may go, But I seem here for ever. I roam about, and in and out Poke eyes with envy yellow, And here and there I spy a scout, And here and there a fellow. And here and there a good mamma, Her squalling baby nursing, Looks on me pitying, with an "Ah, Poor fellow, how he's cursing!" For, sailor like, I storm and "blow My eyes" and "timbers shiver," That other lucky men may go, But I seem here for ever. BRASENOSE COLLEGE, Oxford.

WITH many a care my life's beset, My charms are growing mellow, And I have not secured as yet An eligible fellow. I sing, I play, and through the dance I skim like any swallow; The ladies look at me askance, And say I'm vain and shallow. I chatter, chatter as I go, And some pronounce me clever. But the men that come they're awfully slow, And pop the question never, never. Pop the question never, never, Pop the question never. I gad about, and in and out My hopeless fate bewailing; And think with secret pain and doubt Of youth and beauty failing. A youth there is for whose dear sake To distant lands I'd travel; I thought he would an offer make One evening on the gravel. He spoke in accents soft and low, But word of love came never. The men that come are sure to go, And some take leave for ever, Some take leave for ever, ever, Some take leave for ever. I strive by many cunning plots, Their feelings to discover, And sometimes sweet forget-me-nots Present to backward lover; And though with costly gems from far, I deck my shining tresses, And though I sing of love and war, And sport becoming dresses, 'Tis all in vain this idle show, I'll gain their favour never. For men may come and men may go, But I'm stuck fast for ever, I'm stuck fast for ever, ever, I'm stack fast for ever.

Flow down, old river, to the sea, Thy tribute-muck deliver! But lake this comfort, Thames, from Me, This shan't go on for ever! Punch, August 23, 1884.

"'I COME from haunts of coot and hern,' From 'neath green ferns I sally; But into me they quickly turn The sewage of my valley! "By fifty sewer mouths I pass— My surface black with midges; And bubbles huge of sewage gas Float down beneath my bridges. "When first I babble o'er the lea, As crystal clear I chatter; But twenty towns soon poison me With foul organic matter. "Till last by Barking Creek I go, A thick, pestiferous river; And tides may ebb, and tides may flow, But I smell on for ever! "I fill with scum my little bays, I coat with slime my pebbles; The mud I leave on winter days The summer drought soon trebles. "With many a stench the air I fill, With many an odour fetid; And epidemics I distil Throughout the dog-days heated. "I churn contagion as I go, A foul, filth-sodden river; For tides may ebb, and tides may flow, But I smell on for ever! "I wind about, and in and out, With here a dead cat floating, And here a party seized, past doubt, With sickness whilst they're boating. "And Water Companies extract My water as I travel, Till I for miles am nought, in fact, But banks of mud and gravel. "In short, if they thus pump me dry, And list to reason never, Whilst Londoners are talking, I Shall just flow off for ever! "As 'tis, the fish are well nigh killed In all my urban reaches; And places once with gudgeon filled Are now too dry for leeches. "I ruin lawns and grassy plots By foul deposits spreading; I blight the sweet forget-me-nots From Twickenham to Reading. "I crawl, I creep, I smell, I smear, Amongst my oozy shallows; I so pollute the atmosphere It quite knocks-up the swallows. "I grow each season more impure, As every one's remarking; I am an open running sewer From Teddington to Barking. "And so upon my course I go, A foul, pestiferous river, And tides may ebb, and tides may flow, But I smell on for ever!" Truth, July 31, 1884.

'Tis an ill wind thus blows me out, From home I must be sailing, Whilst here the rest will chase, no doubt, The grouse with zest unfailing. * * * * I'm sent to watch by Nile's swift flow. Confound that ancient river! M.P.'s may come, M.P.'s may go; Must I toil on for ever? Punch, August 16, 1884.

PEERS, idle Peers, I know not what they do. Peers from the depths of their luxurious chairs Rise in the Clubs, and saunter into the House, In-looking on the happy Hugh, Lord Cairns, And thinking of the Bills that are in store. Sure as the hammer falling at a sale, That makes us travel by the Underground, Sad as the feeling when our bargains prove Not quite the treasure which we hoped to find; So sad, so sure, the Bills that are to bore. Ah, sad (not strange) as on dreary winter morns. The surliest knock of half-impatient dun To drowsy ears, ere, watched by drowsy eyes, The tailor slowly goes across the square; So sad, so very sad, the bills that are in store. Drear as repeated hisses at your Play. And drear as dreams by indigestion caused To those that take hot suppers; dull as law, Dull as dry law, and lost without regret; O House of Lords, the Bills that are a bore. Punch, March 7, 1868.

"Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea; The cloud may stoop from Heaven and take the shape, With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape; But O too fond, when have I answer'd thee? Ask me no more." * * * * * TENNYSON (The Princess).

ASK me no more: I've had enough Chablis; The wine may come again, and take the shape, From glass to glass, of "Mountain" or of "Cape;" But, my dear boy, when I have answered thee, Ask me no more. Ask me no more: what answer should I give, I love not pickled pork nor partridge pie; I feel if I took whisky I should die! Ask me no more—for I prefer to live: Ask me no more. Ask me no more: unless my fate is sealed, And I have striven against you all in vain. Let your good butler bring me Hock again: Then rest, dear boy. If for this once I yield, Ask me no more. ANONYMOUS.

LAY the stern old warrior down, Deeply in his narrow bed, Ere the conqueror sack the town, Ere the foeman o'er him tread. They who checked the battle-tide— Hoary warriors weeping said, "Foremost where the bravest died, Foremost where his country bled." Low they laid the Pride of War, Soldiers sternly round him mourned: "Glorious was our battle-star, Glorious when the battle burned." Loudly crashed the fierce farewell— This of all his toil the crown: Falling where his country fell, Falling by the fallen town. Turning from the warrior's side, Spake a chieftain often proved: "Nobly for our land he died, Nobly for the land he loved." A. R. Exeter Coll., Oxford.

HOME they brought her husband—"tight," She nor moved, nor uttered cry, But the Peeler, winking said, "Won't he get it by-and-bye." Then they placed him on the bed, Called him "Jolly dog," "old boy!" Placed the pillows 'neath his head— Yet she showed nor grief, nor joy. Stole her daughter from her seat Up to where her father slept, Pulled the boots from off his feet, Yet she neither moved nor wept. Then the "Bobby" took his purse, Placed it empty on her knee, Rose her voice as if to curse— "Not one sixpence left for me!"

Home the "worrier" comes! We read All his words, nor uttered sigh; But the Tories, sneering, said, "He must talk or he would die." Then we praised his speeches long, Called them worthy to be heard— Brilliant thoughts and language strong; Still the Tories cried, "Absurd!" Stole Lord Random from his place, Lightly to the "worrier" stept; Tried to fool him to his face— Back into his hole he crept. Came a host of stupid peers, Swore the franchise should not be; Like rolling thunder rose our cheers— Grand Old Man, success to thee! ALFRED C. BRANT.

"They now to fight are gone, Armour on armour shone: Drum now to drum did groan; To hear was to wonder; That with the cries they make, The very earth did shake, Trumpet to trumpet spake, Thunder to thunder."

With half a score, Half a score, Half a score rings bedight, Through the great lecture room Staggered Professor Light. He had been asked to speak Fifth of December bleak, Could he deny his squeak? Had he not heaps of cheek? As on the dais Swaggered Professor Light. Kinsfolk to right of him, Kinsfolk to left of him "Buttons" in front of him, Listened and wondered! Conceited without a doubt, Sing-song he brought it out, Had he not learnt to spout, Rolling his eyes about, Amongst the two hundred. Was not the lecture good, His for great minds the food! See how erect he stood. Teaching his Townsmen, Whilst Horncastle wondered! Surrounded by Kith and Kin, Did he not give it in? "Light" was the very thing Whereon our faith to pin. Misled by Forbes Winslow, The Doctor who blundered— Then he sat down amid Cheers from two hundred. Kinsfolk to right of him, Kinsfolk to left of him, No one behind him Listened and wondered. Other orbs, great and small, Took fresh light, one and all, In the great lecture hall From Light's special envoy. These were but few, indeed, Of the two hundred. Honour Professor bold, Long shall the tale be told; Aye, when our babes be old, How he enlightened us!

I. HALF a yard—half a yard— Half a yard onward, Through the first crush-room Pressed the Four Hundred. Forward—the Fair Brigade! On to the Throne, they said: On to the Presence Room Crushed the Four Hundred. II. Forward, the Fair Brigade! Was there a girl dismayed? E'en though the chaperons knew Some one had blundered. Theirs not to make complaint, Theirs not to sink or faint, Theirs—but words cannot paint Half the discomfiture Of the Four Hundred. III. Crowds on the right of them, Crowds on the left of them, Crowds all in front of them, Stumbled and blundered: On through the courtier-lined Rooms—most tremendous grind— Into the Presence-Room, Leaving their friends behind, Passed the Four Hundred. IV. Flushed all their faces fair, Flashed all their jewels rare, Scratched all their shoulders bare, Thrusting each other—while Outsiders wondered: Into the Presence Room, Taking their turn they come,— Some looking very glum O'er trains sore-sundered:— Kiss hand, and outwards back, Fagged, the Four Hundred! V. Crowds to the right of them, Crowds on the left of them, Crowds all in front of them, Stumbled and blundered— Back through more courtier-lined Rooms—O, tremendous grind!— Débutantes thirsty pined For ice or cup o' tea: No sofas horse-hair lined, Not a chair or settee, Poor dear Four Hundred! VI. Mothers to rage gave vent, Husbands for broughams sent, While at mismanagement Both sorely wondered. Not till the sun had set, Not till the lamps were lit, Home from the Drawing Room Got the Four Hundred. VII. Some, I heard, in despair Of getting stool or chair, Took to the floor, and there Sat down and wondered. Now, my Lord Chamberlain, Take my advice. Again When there's a Drawing-room, Shut doors, and don't let in More than Two Hundred. Punch, May 30, 1874.

Snowballs to right of them, Snowballs to left of them, Snowballs in front of them, Shattered and sundered. "Forward the Blue Brigade! Run 'em in! Who's afraid?" Less easy done than said: Not in the least dismayed, Every bold student stayed, And at the Blue Brigade Volleyed and thundered. Flashed every truncheon bare, Helmets were tossed in air, Robert gets quite a scare, While every student there Hooted and pelted. * * * * Stormed at with jeer and yell, Truncheon and helmet fell, Back rushed they all, pell mell,— How the force wondered; Many a pretty maid, Down in the area shade, Weeps for her Bob betrayed, Weeps for her Blue Brigade, Knowing they blundered. Funny Folks, December 25, 1875.

PAYING sight! Left and right, Crowds pressing onward,— Sharp Alexandra Board Dines the Two Hundred! "Free passes grant them all!" Veterans, short and tall— Sharp Alexandra Board— (Profits will not be small)— Dines the Two Hundred! "Go it, the Light Brigade!" Toast-Master, sore dismayed, Queered by those heroes' chaff, Boggled and blundered. Theirs not to speechify, Still less to make reply; Theirs but to drain all dry,— Into the drinkables Walked the Two Hundred! Bottles to right of them, Bottles to left of them, Bottles in front of them, While the band thundered; They knew no "Captain Cork"— Boldly they went to work, After the eatables Fell to their knife and fork,— Thirsty Two Hundred! À La Russe might surprise, Still they knew joints and pies, Clearing the dishes there, Relevés and entrées, while Scared waiters wondered; Then, plunged in 'bacca smoke, Glasses and pipes they broke— Comrades long sundered, Big with old lark and joke, Gleefully met again— Jolly Two Hundred! Trophies to right of them, Trophies to left of them, CARDIGAN'S charger's head, Piously sundered! Back they reeled, from the spread, Straight as they could, to bed— They that had dined so well— Nothing to pay per head— Happy Two Hundred! When shall their glory fade? O, what a meal they made! Cockneydom wondered. Honour the Charge they made— Bravo the Light Brigade! Hearty Two Hundred! Punch, November 6, 1875.

HALF a mile, half a mile, Half a mile onward, On to the skating rink Came the fair trio. "Skates for the fair trio, Oil them well before they go," Over the smooth rink Slide the fair trio. Forward the fair trio! Was a false step made? No! Not tho' they all knew Some one had tumbled. Theirs but to give a sigh, Theirs but to let him lie, Theirs but to pass him by, Away o'er the rink Glide the fair trio. Admirers to right of them, Admirers to left of them, Admirers in front of them, Wonder'd and wonder'd. "Outside edge," and never fell, Boldly they skate and well, "Treble threes and Q.'s." Any step you choose,— Over the smooth rink Glide the fair trio. Flash'd all their eyes so bright, Flash'd as they turned in air, Wounding every fellow there, With a glance to left and right, Other girls envying. "Waltzing" and "Mercury stroke," Straight through the line they broke, Whirling and twirling, Light as the fairy folk, Twisting and turning,— Then they skate back, but not, Not alone the fair trio. Admirers to right of them, Admirers to left of them, Admirers on all sides of them, Wonder'd and wonder'd. Refreshed with coffee and tea, Sweet cake, but no "Cherry B." They whom none excel, They who deserve so well, They who no scandal tell, Away o'er the rink Glide the fair trio. "When can their beauty fade?" Oh! the grand show they made, All the rink wonder'd; Applaud all the skill displayed, Admire the fair trio, Charming fair trio. The Figaro, April 10, 1876.

"HALF a duck, half a duck, Guests do not shirk ye; Eat, 'tis the Christmas luck, Eat a whole turkey!" Little thought they of pain, Killed they the plate again, Why would ye not refrain? On to death, onward! Death was to right of them, Death was to left of them, Death right in front of them, Death in that conger! Long did they feast, and well, How long I cannot tell, Till they began to yell, "Cannot eat longer!" Ate they the tables bare, Swept they the platter clear, While the host wondered. Wrapped in the pudding's smoke, Right through its midst they broke, Mince pies were sundered! Then sank they back; but not— Not the same hundred. Judy, January 16, 1884.

Muswellian Palace far over the lea, ALEXANDRA! Eastern and Western and South are we, But all of us North in our welcome of thee, ALEXANDRA! Welcome it, Times and Telegraph fleet; Welcome it, Echo, that sells in the street; Break, Daily News, into rhetoric's flower; Make "copy," O Standard, and new budded Hour! Blazon advertisements, concert and play, Ballet, with Lancers, sportive and gay; Bertram and Roberts, famed for supply, Cut from the joint, or savoury pie, Ices and jellies and nourishing things; Speckman's wonderful Hall of the Kings; Warble, O bugle, and trumpet blare, Flags flutter out upon turrets and towers, Clash, ye bells, in the rainy May air— Welcome, welcome, this Palace of ours! Palace of corridor, vestibule, hall, Lofty in roofing, with pillars so tall, Meet for dining and dancing; and, O! Fireworks—the brightest that mortal may know; Reach to the roof sudden rocket, and higher, Melt into stars for the crowd's desire; Flash, ye rockets, in showers of fire, Flaming comets shoot swift on the wire— Welcome it, welcome it, land and sea; O joy to the populace yet unknown, We come to thee, love, and make thee our own— For Camden, Camberwell, Bloomsburee, Highgate, Belgravia, or Battersea, We are all of us Muswell in welcome of thee, ALEXANDRA! Funny Folks, May 15, 1875.

"Flower in the Crannied Wall." TERRIER in my Granny's hall, I whistle you out of my Granny's; Hold you here, tail and all, in my hand, Little terrier: but if I could understand What you are, tail and all, and all in all, I should know what "black and tan" is. C.

Wild whispers on the air did flit, Wild whispers, shaped to mystic hints, When bright in breadths of public prints Shone that great name "Ozokerit." And much the people marvelled when That embryon thing should leap to view! And "what is it," and "whereunto?" Rang frequent in the mouths of men. "This babbler! is he not to blame? Or will he, in the cycled course Of Time, with circumstance and force Invest this nothing of a name?" And one his thought would thus declare, "Our fooling makes this fellow blithe, He joys to see conjecture writhe And flutter in the wordy snare." Thereat one wiselier—"Watch and see (When Time be ripe, which now is rathe) His Titan-touch unfold the swathe That darkly wraps the great 'To be.'" Shine forth yet undiscovered star! Shed largess of all precious balms! We dimly grope with vacant palms And wondering wait thy Avatar. Thou cam'st by Prejudice withstood In vain, and lulling doubt to sleep: But one—yet two in one—the cheap Divinely wedded to the good. A thing of beauty, form combined With soul phlogistic, sent to cloy Our Æon, with Promethean joy:— A joy from central darkness mined. Of regions haunted by the Hun; Thence baled with cost of countless gold To Lambeth's marish, and in mould Of seeming-waxen tapers run: Whose radiance is as that of moons Innumerous, making day of night; With most intensity of light, Emblazing fashion's gay saloons. When sound of midnight morrice rings On floor and roof, and all is noise, Of jubilant Ophicleids, hautboys, Clear twanging harp, and fiddle strings. And shapes of silver-bosomed girls, In bacchant revel wheeling, trace The waltz with sweet disordered grace Of twinkling feet and flashing curls.

I count it true which sages teach— That passion sways not with repose, That love, confounding these with those, Is ever welding each with each. And so when time has ebbed away, Like childish wreaths too lightly held, The song of immemorial eld Shall moan about the belted bay, Where slant Orion slopes his star, To swelter in the rolling seas, Till slowly widening by degrees, The grey climbs upward from afar, And golden youth and passion stray Along the ridges of the strand— Not far apart, but hand in hand— With all the darkness danced away!

WRING out the clouds in that damp sky, Which all this year so drear have made, If, for the weather's clerk, her trade A weather-washerwoman ply. Wring out the old, wring in the new, Wring, weather-washerwoman, so, That wet shod if the Old Year must go The New may damps and dumps eschew. Wring out the wet that stands in clay, Rots the potatoes in their bed, Fingers and toes gives swedes instead Of bellies in the usual way. Wring out my mouchoir, damp with flow Of constant cold through warp and woof, Bring in a patent waterproof, Through whose seams raindrops will not go. Wring out the shirts, wring out the skin, To which I've been wet many times; Ring out the raindrops' pattering chimes, And bring some drier weather in! Punch, December 28, 1872.

Ring out, glad bells! with clappers strong; Ring out the year that dies to-night! Ring in the new year with the light! Ring in the right, ring out the wrong. Ring out the squabbles at the Zoo! Ring opera boxes in my reach, And "natives" at a penny each! Ring out Ward Hunt, whate'er you do. Ring out the tax collector's knocks— The Hebrew usurer—the dun! Ring coals in at a pound a ton, Ring out the women's "tie-back" frocks! Ring out th' oppressors of the poor— The rinderpest and Ouida's books! Ring in some housemaids and some cooks, Ring out the Reverend Edward Moore. Ring out all rates without delay! Ring in the Law Courts, if you can! Ring out, ring out, the Englishman! Ring out Kenealy, right away! O. P. Q. P. Smiff, in The Figaro, January 5, 1876.

Ring out fools'-bells to limbo's dome, Which copes the neo-Tory clique! The man is coming whom they seek! Ring out fools'-bells, and let him come! Ring out the old, ring in the new. Ring jangling bells a Bedlam chime; 'Tis the true Simon Pure this time; Ring in the chief of Gnatdom's crew! * * * * Ring out old pride in race and blood, That kept the fierce old fighters right; Ring in crude slander and small spite, The urchin love of flinging mud. Ring out the gentleman! Ring in The narrow heart, the rowdy hand. Ring out the brave, the wise, the grand! Ring in the Coming Mannikin! Punch, November 19, 1881.

I. I HATE the dreadful hollow behind the dirty town, At the corner of its lips are oozing a foul ferruginous slime, Like the toothless tobacco-cramm'd mouth of a hag who enriches the crown By consuming th 'excised weed,—parent of smuggling crime! II. 'Tis night; the shivering stars, wrapt in their cloud-blankets dreaming, Forget to light an old crone, who to cross the hollow would try; But watchful Aldebaran, in Taurus's head swift gleaming, Like a policeman, to help her, turns on his bull's-eye. III. There's a hovel of mud, and the crone, mudded and muddled, Knocks, and an oxidized hinge creaks a rusty "Come in." There are now in the hovel,—a woman in bed-gear huddled, A careworn man, and a midwife, her functional fee to win. IV. Midwives are hard as millstones: Expectant father's emotions Are dragg'd by the heart's wild tide, like seashore shingle, Shrieking complaint, when the fierce assaults of the ocean Beat them all round, without an exception single.

1. DARKNESS! Darkness! Darkness! Ebon carved idol of wickedness! Guilty deeds do love thee, Innocent childhood fears thee; Therefore these do prove thee An unbless'd thing!—Who hears thee, Grisly, gaunt, and lonely,— Darkness! Darkness! Darkness! Thy brother Silence only! 2. Lightness! Lightness! Lightness! Great quality in small things, A pudding, above all things! Great quality in great things, And, not to understate things, Thou art the essence of sunshine, Lightness! Lightness! Lightness! Whose brightness— And whiteness— Are but lackness Of blackness. Therefore, Darkness! Darkness! Ebon-carved idol of wickedness! Let those who love you And Silence, prove you And seek! Not I! For why?—for why?—for why? I'll speak! * * * * Falling is the snow, Every frosty flake Making the round world Like a wedding-cake. What is't makes the snow? Is it frost? No, no! Petals of the rose That in the heaven grows, Thrown by angels down, In Elysian play, Make the snow, I say, To produce a crown For the bridal day. * * * * Rival Rhymes, in Honour of Burns, 1859.

CHIRRUP, chirp, chirp, chirp twitter, Warble, flutter, and fly away; Dicky birds, chickey birds—quick, ye bird, Shut it up, cut it up, die away. Maud is going to sing! Maud with the voice like lute strings, (To which the sole species of string I know of that rhymes is boot-strings). Still, you may stop, if you please; Roar as a chorus sonorous, Robin, bob in at ease; Tom-tit, prompt it for us. Rose or thistle in, whistlin', (What a beast is her brother!) Maud has sung from her tongue rung; Echo it out, From each shoot shout, From each root rout— "She'll oblige us with another."

I am a hearthrug— Yes, a rug— Though I cannot describe myself as snug; Yet I know that for me they paid a price For a Turkey carpet that would suffice (But we live in an age of rascal vice). Why was I ever woven, For a clumsy lout, with a wooden leg, To come with his endless Peg! Peg! Peg! Peg! With a wooden leg, Till countless holes I'm drove in. ("Drove," I have said, and it should be "driven" A hearthrug's blunders should be forgiven, For wretched scribblers have exercised Such endless bosh and clamour, So improvidently have improvised, That they've utterly ungrammaticised Our ungrammatical grammar). And the coals Burn holes, Or make spots like moles, And my lily-white tints, as black as your hat turn, And the housemaid (a matricide, will-forging slattern), Rolls The rolls From the plate, in shoals, When they're put to warm in front of the coals; And no one with me condoles, For the butter stains on my beautiful pattern. But the coals and rolls, and sometimes soles, Dropp'd from the frying-pan out of the fire, Are nothing to raise my indignant ire, Like the Peg! Peg! Of that horrible man with the wooden leg. This moral spread from me, Sing it, ring it, yelp it— Never a hearth-rug be, That is if you can help it.

BIRDS in St. Stephen's garden, Mocking birds, were bawling— "Lord, Lord, Lord, John!" They were crying and calling. Where was John? In a fix! Gone to Vienna, whither They'd sent him out of the way,— Tories and Whigs together. Birds in St. Stephen's sang, Chattering, chattering round him— "John is here, here, here, Back too soon, confound him!" They saw his dirty hands! Meekly he bore their punning; John[13] is not seventy yet, But he's very little and cunning. He to show up himself! How can he ever explain it? John were certain of place, If shuffling could retain it. * * * * Look, a cab at the door, Dizzy has snarled for an hour; Go back, my Lord, for you're a bore, And at last you're out of power. Our Miscellany.

COMRADES, leave me here a little, while as yet 'tis early morn, Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the dinner horn. 'Tis the place, and all about it, as of old, the rat and mouse Very loudly squeak and nibble, running over Granny's house;— Granny's house, with all its cupboards, and its rooms as neat as wax, And its chairs of wood unpainted, where the old cats rubbed their backs. Many a night from yonder garret window, ere I went to rest, Did I see the cows and horses come in slowly from the west; Many a night I saw the chickens, flying upward through the trees, Roosting on the sleety branches, when I thought their feet would freeze; Here about the garden wandered, nourishing a youth sublime With the beans, and sweet potatoes, and the melons which were prime; When the pumpkin-vines behind me with their precious fruit reposed, When I clung about the pear-tree, for the promise that it closed. When I dipt into the dinner far as human eye could see, Saw the vision of the pie, and all the dessert that would be. In the spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robin's breast; In the spring the noisy pullet gets herself another nest; In the spring a livelier spirit makes the ladies' tongues more glib; In the spring a young boy's fancy lightly hatches up a fib. Then her cheek was plump and fatter than should be for one so old, And she eyed my every motion, with a mute intent to scold. And I said, "My worthy Granny, now I speak the truth to thee,— "Better believe it,—I have eaten all the apples from one tree." On her kindling cheek and forehead came a colour and a light, As I have seen the rosy red flashing in the northern night; And she turned,—her fist was shaken at the coolness of the lie; She was mad, and I could see it, by the snapping of her eye, Saying, "I have hid my feelings, fearing they should do thee wrong,"— Saying, "I shall whip you, Sammy, whipping I shall go it strong." She took me up, and turned me pretty roughly, when she'd done, And every time she shook me, I tried to jerk and run; She took off my little coat, and struck again with all her might, And before another minute, I was free, and out of sight. Many a morning, just to tease her, did I tell her stories yet, Though her whisper made me tingle, when she told me what I'd get; Many an evening did I see her where the willow sprouts grew thick, And I rushed away from Granny at the touching of her stick. O my Granny, old and ugly, O my Granny's hateful deeds, O the empty, empty garret, O the garden gone to weeds, Crosser than all fancy fathoms, crosser than all songs have sung, I was puppet to your threat, and servile to your shrewish tongue, Is it well to wish thee happy, having seen thy whip decline On a boy with lower shoulders, and a narrower back than mine? Hark, my merry comrades call me, sounding on the dinner-horn, They to whom my Granny's whippings were a target for their scorn; Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a mouldered string? I am shamed through all my nature to have loved the mean old thing; Weakness to be wroth with weakness! woman's pleasure, woman's spite, Nature made them quicker motions, a considerable sight. Woman is the lesser man, and all thy whippings matched with mine Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine. Here at least when I was little, something, O, for some retreat Deep in yonder crowded city where my life began to beat, Where one winter fell my father, slipping off a keg of lard, I was left a trampled orphan, and my case was pretty hard. Or to burst all links of habit, and to wander far and fleet, On from farm-house unto farm-house till I found my Uncle Pete, Larger sheds and barns, and newer, and a better neighbourhood, Greater breadth of field and woodlands, and an orchard just as good. Never comes my Granny, never cuts her willow switches there; Boys are safe at Uncle Peter's, I'll bet you what you dare. Hangs the heavy-fruited pear-tree: you may eat just what you like. 'Tis a sort of little Eden, about two miles off the pike. There, methinks, would be enjoyment, more than being quite so near To the place where even in manhood I almost shake with fear. There the passions, cramped no longer, shall have scope and breathing space. I will 'scape that savage woman; she shall never rear my race; Iron-jointed, supple-sinewed, they shall dive and they shall run; She has caught me like a wild-goat, but she shall not catch my son. He shall whistle to the dog, and get the books from off the shelf, Not, with blinded eyesight, cutting ugly whips to whip himself. Fool again, the dream of fancy! no, I don't believe it's bliss, But I'm certain Uncle Peter's is a better place than this. Let them herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of all glorious gains, Like the horses in the stables, like the sheep that crop the lanes; Let them mate with dirty cousins—what to me were style or rank, I the heir of twenty acres, and some money in the bank? Not in vain the distance beckons, forward let us urge our load, Let our cart-wheels spin till sundown, ringing down the grooves of road; Through the white dust of the turnpike she can't see to give us chase: Better seven years at Uncle's than fourteen at Granny's place. O, I see the blessed promise of my spirit hath not set! If we once get in the wagon, we will circumvent her yet. Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to Granny's farm; Not for me she'll cut the willows, not at me she'll shake her arm. Comes a vapour from the margin, blackening over heath and holt, Cramming all the blast before it,—guess it holds a thunderbolt: Wish't would fall on Granny's house, with rain, or hail, or fire, or snow, Let me get my horses started Uncle Pete-ward, and I'll go. Poems and Parodies, by Phœbe Carey. Boston, United States, 1854.

IN blackest gloom he cursed his lot; His breath was one long, weary sigh; His brows were gathered in a knot That only baccy could untie. His oldest pipe was scraped out clean; The deuce a puff was left him there; A hollow sucking sound of air Was all he got his lips between. He only said, "My life is dreary, The Baccy's done," he said, He said, "I am aweary, aweary; By Jove, I'm nearly dead." The chimney-piece he searched in vain, Into each pocket plunged his fist; His cheek was blanched with weary pain, His mouth awry for want of twist. He idled with his baccy knife; He had no care for daily bread:— A single stick of Negro-head Would be to him the staff of life. He only said, "My life is dreary. The Baccy's done," he said. He said, "I am aweary, aweary; I'd most as soon be dead." Books had no power to mend his grief; The magazines could tempt no more; "Cut gold-leaf" was the only leaf That he had cared to ponder o'er. From chair to sofa sad he swings, And then from sofa back to chair; But in the depths of his despair Can catch no "bird's-eye" view of things. And still he said, "My life is dreary. No Baccy, boys," he said. He said, "I am aweary, aweary; I'd just as soon be dead." His meals go by, he knows not how; No taste in flesh, or fowl, or fish; There's not a dish could tempt him now, Except a cake of Caven-dish. His life is but a weary drag; He cannot choose but curse and swear, And thrust his fingers through his hair, All shaggy in the want of shag. And still he said, "My life is dreary. No Baccy, boys," he said. He said, "I am aweary, aweary; I'd rather far be dead." To him one end of old cheroot Were sweetest root that ever grew. No honey were due substitute For "Our Superior Honey-Dew." One little fig of Latakia Would buy all fruits of Paradise; "Prince Alfred's Mixture" fetch a price Above both Prince and Galatea. Sudden he said, "No more be dreary! The dray has come!" he said. He said, "I'll smoke till I am weary,— And then I'll go to bed."

THE Voice and the Pique! It was once a beautiful Voice From a girl with roseate cheek, Who made my heart rejoice. But the Voice—or the girl—ah, which? Against me took a Pique, Because I was not so rich As she thought—and the voice grew a squeak. Hast thou no voice, O Pique? Thou hast, uncommonly shrill: And I know that a Maiden meek May grow to a wife with a will. Ah, misery comes, and miscarriage, To all who wear fleshly fetters; She's made a Capital marriage— I mourn in Capital Letters. Punch, October 17, 1874.

"I SCAMP the joints. I scamp the drains. I am an artful Plumber; You'll feel my hand in winter's rains, You'll sniff it in the summer." "I dig, I delve, I patch, I pry, And lay the pipes so badly, That even bland Surveyors sigh, And tenants chatter madly."

"I build my floors on rags and bones, Or lush organic matter; Or where the grass in swampy zones Grows greener and grows fatter." "My doors are sure to warp in time, My slates let in the water; Take equal parts of dust and slime. And there you have my mortar." "I build my wall with many a trick, So shrewd as to astound one; With here and there a rotten brick, And here and there a sound one."

"The sewer-pipe I love to lay, Connecting with the cistern; And where's the law that dares to say, The tenant should have his turn?"

"Why, here's a Judge who would restrain Our right to scatter fever! Should this decision stand, 'tis plain We can't scamp on for ever!" Punch.

I'VE spouted o'er the land o' Burns, I've made a gushing sally, Although I fear, with true Returns, My speeches will not tally, From town to town I've hurried down, I've talked on hills and ridges; At railway stations played the clown, And gabbled from their bridges. I've chattered over stony ways. I've chattered through the heather, I've doused and soused the Rads with praise, To keep myself together. I chatter, chatter, my words flow As fast as any river; Tho' some men's language may be slow, I can talk on for ever. I wind about, and in and out, I bolster up each failing; But though I wheedle, brag, and shout, There's nothing like plain sailing. Oh! bless me, what a lot of plots My tongue elastic covers; Though Tories ain't forget-me-nots, Nor Rads precisely lovers. The Franchise is my party cry, The Lords my latest craze is, And till they both are settled—why, All things may go to blazes! Yet, still my eloquence shall flow Like some loquacious river; For men may come and men may go, I gabble on for ever. England, September 27, 1884.

I COME from haunts of Smith and Son, I agitate the vapours, I take in Judy, Punch, and Fun, And all the morning Papers; And all the magazines besides, Since Chambers's began, And all varieties of guides, And all degrees of man. I roll away like "thunder live," With half a ship the freight of; Six hundred miles a day at five Times ten an hour the rate of. Twice twenty streets I intersect, And flash o'er twenty runnels. With many loops the towns connect, And vanish in the tunnels. And out again I curve, and so Pursue my destination; For men may come and men may go, And stop at any station. I echo down the mountain pass, I pass fine ruins over, As light as harebell in the grass, Or leveret in the clover. Like Orpheus the trees I charm, And set the hedgerows dancing; With here a forest, there a farm Retiring and advancing. I draw them all along, and thread The counties everywhere, As men must have their daily bread, So I my daily fare. Chambers' Journal.

"Come into my studio Maud, If you've chalk'd your face, my own; Come into my studio, Maud, I am here at the easel alone; And the pot-pourri's odour is wafted abroad, And the scent of the patchouli blown. "For I've shut the bright morning out, With a saffron yellow blind; And I've thrown my brick-dust velvet about, And the sage-green curtain untwined; So haste, my darling, the sun to flout In your rust-red robe enshrined. "All night, as you may have heard, I've toss'd in a fantaisie, Whether to paint my dear little bird As a 'Nocturne' or 'Symphony;' But now I have pass'd my æsthetic word, An 'arrangement' you are to be. "I said to the corpse: 'There is to be one Who'll be ghastly as your cold clay; Aye, bluer than you before I have done, And with hair like glorified hay.' Come, Maud, it is time that we had begun, So hasten, my love, I pray, Or we shan't be able to keep out the sun; Don't bismuth yourself all day. "I said to our surgeon: 'You often go Where women suffer and pine, But I bet that a painted face I'll show Of a love-sick model of mine, That will beat them all for hopeless woe And cadaverous design! "And our surgeon said, 'No doubt you will, For the epicene women you paint Are bilious ghosts in want of a pill, With undoubted strumous taint; So hollow-eyed and cheek'd, no skill Could save them from feeling faint.' "Queen Corpse of my graveyard garden of girls, Come hither, o'er carpets dun, In your rust-red robe and you're soot-black pearls; Queen, spectre, and corpse in one! Shine out, corpse candles, above her curls, And be the picture's sun! "Oh, come! for I've managed to mix A charnel-house-ish hue; Oh, come! that your lord may fix This cholera-morbus blue! The patchouli whispers: 'She's near, she's near!' And her musk-drops say: ''Tis true!' And the creak of her slippers, I hear, I hear, They're the colour of liquid glue. "She is coming, my bilious sweet; I can see her tawny head; Her footsteps are far from fleet, She's tied back till she scarce can tread; But yet shall her face yours meet, When the months of the winter have fled, On the walls of the Grosvenor hung complete In dissecting-room blue and red!" Truth, December 26, 1878.

COME into "the Garden," MAUD! For the Mudford blight is flown; Come into "the Garden," MAUD! I am here by the "Hummums" alone; No garbage stenches are wafted abroad, And the slime from the pavement's gone. For a breeze of morning blows, Yet my hand is not compelled To hold up my handkerchief close to my nose, As it had to be always held, When the shops in the market of old would unclose, And the cry of the porters swelled. All night have the suburbs heard The wheels of the waggons grind; All night has the driver, with seldom a word, His horses nodded behind; And your waggoner is as early a bird As in Babylon one may find. I say to myself, "No, there is not one To block up the street and stay Till the hum of the City hath well begun." I chortle in joyaunce gay. "Now half to the Southern suburbs are gone, And half to the North. Hooray! Low on the wood, and loud on the stone The last wheel echoes away." I say, this is better now, goodness knows, Than it was but a short time syne. Oho! my Lord Duke, I am glad to suppose That much of the credit is thine, And that I need not go softly and hold my nose, Or feel sick like a man on the brine. No scent of rank refuse goes into my blood As I stand in the central hall; And long in "the Garden" I've strolled and stood, Without feeling qualmish at all. And I say, "This is really exceeding good, An improvement that's far from small." The paths, roads, and gutters are almost sweet, And the stodge, like fœtid size, That used to impede one, and foul one's feet, No longer offends one's eyes. 'Tis a pleasantish place for two lovers to meet— Quite an urban paradise. So, sweetest, most sensitive-nostril'd of girls, Come hither!—the stenches are gone. Foul dust blows no more in malodorous whirls, No cabbage-leaves rot in the sun, Damp-reek from choked gutter won't straighten your curls, So come—'twill be really good fun! Punch, December 16, 1882.

I STOOD by a river in the wet, Where trout and grayling often met, And waters were rushing and rolling; And I said: "O Fish, a dainty dish, Is there aught that is worth the trolling?" Fishes enough there are rising, Nibbles so often cajoling, Matter enough for surmising, But aught that is worth the trolling? Waves at my feet were rolling, Winds o'er the Rye were sailing, But, alas! for all my trolling For wily trout and grayling! E. H. RICHES, L.L.D.

BREAK, break, break At thy cold, grey stones, O. C.! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me. O well for the five-toed horse! That his bones are at rest in the clay: O well for the ungulate brute! That he roams o'er the prairie to-day. Thy rocks bear the record of life, Evolved from Time's earliest dawn. But O for the view of a vanished form, And the link that is missing and gone! Break, break, break At thy fossils, and stones, O. C.! But the gentle charm of Uniform Law Can never quite satisfy me.

TEARS, idle tears—a sweet sensation scene— Tears at the thought of that Hyde Park affair Rise in the eye, and trickle down the nose, In looking on the haughty EDMOND BEALES, And thinking of the shrubs that are no more. (Three verses omitted). Punch, August 25, 1866.

"A MAID, blue-stockinged, broke the silence drear, And flashing forth a winning smile, said she: 'Tis long since I have seen a man, come here, Play croquet now with me!'" "She spooned, and cheated, and had ancles thick. I let her win, the game was such a bore, Her bright ball quivered at the coloured stick, Touched—and—we played no more."

THE hale John Sprat—oft called for shortness, Jack— Had married—had, in fact, a wife—and she Did worship him with wifely reverence. He, who had loved her when she was a girl, Compass'd her, too, with sweet observances; His love shone out in every act he did; E'en at the dinner table did it shine. For he—liking no fat himself—he never did, With jealous care piled up her plate with lean, Not knowing that all lean was hateful to her. And day by day she thought to tell him o't, And watched the fat go out with envious eye, But could not speak for bashful delicacy. At last it chanced that on a winter day, The beef—a prize joint!—little was but fat; So fat, that John had all his work cut out, To snip out lean in fragments for his wife, Leaving, in very sooth, none for himself; Which seeing, she spoke courage to her soul, Took up her fork, and, pointing to the joint Where 'twas the fattest, piteously she said: "O, husband! full of love and tenderness! What is the cause that you so jealously Pick out the lean for me? I like it not! Nay! loathe it—'tis on the fat that I would feast; O me, I fear you do not like my taste!" Then he, dropping his horny-handled carving knife, Sprinkling therewith the gravy o'er her gown, Answer'd, amazed: "What! you like fat, my wife! And never told me. O, this is not kind! Think what your reticence has wrought for us: How all the fat sent down unto the maid— Who likes not fat—for such maids never do— Has been put in the waste-tub, sold for grease, And pocketed as servants' perquisite! O, wife! this news is good; for since, perforce, A joint must be nor fat nor lean, but both; Our different tastes will serve our purpose well; For, while you eat the fat—the lean to me Falls as my cherished portion. Lo! 'tis good!" So henceforth—he that tells the tale relates— In John Sprat's household waste was quite unknown; For he the lean did eat, and she the fat, And thus the dinner-platter was all cleared. The Figaro, February 12, 1873.

So through the morn the noise of bustle roll'd About the precincts of the Mansion House, Until at last M'Arthur, the Lord Mayor, Was with his Secretary left alone. Then Mayor M'Arthur to Sir Soulsby spake: "The sequel of to-day doth terminate The goodliest series of civic jaunts Whereof my mind holds record. Of a truth, It was a glorious time! I think that I Shall never more, in any future year, Delight my soul with welcoming to feasts, And taking chairs, as in the year just gone; For my Chief Magistracy perisheth. But now delay not! to the window run, Watch what thou see'st, and lightly bring me word." Then did the bold Sir Soulsby answer make: "No call have I to follow thy behest; Look for thyself—thine eyes are good as mine!" To whom replied M'Arthur, much in wrath: "Ah, miserable and unkind, and untrue, Ungrateful Secretary! Woe is me! Authority forgets the late Lord Mayor, When he lies widow'd of official pow'r That bow'd the will. I see thee what thou art; Thou think'st with thine old master to have done, And wouldst neglect him for the new forthwith. Yet, for a man may fail in duty once And presently repent him, get thee hence: But if thou spare to go and bring me word, I will arise and clout thee with my hands." Then quickly rose Sir Soulsby, and he ran To the great window by the street, and cried: "Your lordship, I perceive a gallant coach, Drawn by four glossy horses, waits below, With well-fed coachman sitting on the box. And gold-laced lackeys hanging on behind." Then groaned M'Arthur, "Take me to the coach," So to the coach they came. There lackeys three Leap'd to the ground, and seized his Lordship's arms, And hitch'd him up, and closely shut the door. Then loudly did the bold Sir Soulsby cry: "Ah! my Lord Mayor M'Arthur, dost thou go? Shall I not show my sorrow in my eyes? For now I see thy glorious time is dead, When every morning brought some famous scheme, And every scheme resulted in success. Such time hath not been since I first became, A sort of fixture in the Mansion House. But now thy term of office hath expired, And I no longer serving thee, must stay To travail 'mong new faces, other minds." Slowly M'Arthur answer'd from the coach: "The old Mayor changeth, yielding place to new, Lest one good citizen have all the fun. Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me? My reign is o'er, nor may it do thee harm If thou dost never see my face again. But now farewell. I am going a long way With these thou see'st—if, indeed, we can (For narrow and becrowded is the route)— Before the new Lord Mayor to Westminster, Where many worthies are awaiting us; Thence the brave Show must citywards return To be dissolved at the famed Guildhall, And I at length in limbo shall repose— Limbo of Aldermen who've passed the chair." So said he; and the gallant coach-and-four Moved off, like some prodigious equipage That seems quite natural in pantomime, But strange in real life. Sir Soulsby stood Long meditating, till the gold cock'd hats Those lackeys wore, looked like a single spark, And down Cheapside the cheering died away. The St. James's Gazette, November 9, 1881.

GARNET the Brave, GARNET the Fortunate, GARNET the Victor, made by Ashantee, Heard once again War's summons to the East, Heard and rejoiced, and straightway set himself To strenuous strife, and subtle shift, to toil All-various, and the crowning of his fame, For from the sand-flats hard by Nilus' shore Arose Rebellion's clamant voice, rang out The cry of slaughtered Britons, echoed soon By thunderous bellowing of brave BEAUCHAMP'S guns. Then peaceful GLADSTONE sudden stood and smote With rounded fist the Council-board, as though It were the Commons' Table, and his foe, DIZZY, once more before him, smote and cried, "By Jingo, this won't do!!!"—lapsing in heat To passing invocation of a name Late odious in his ears. Whereon arose Conflicting chorussings of praise and blame— This atrabilious, half-ironic that— From doubting Tories, dubious Liberals, Much-gibing GREENWOOD, pert, implacable; And peevish PASSMORE, sourly posing sole As Abdiel—with the hump. But GARNET, glad With a great gladness Sand-boys may not match, And cheer beyond the chirping cricket's, set His face toward far Pharaoh-land, where still, Pyramid-perched, the Forty Centuries Of the thrasonic Corsican looked down, Twigging the coming Pocket-Cæsar. * * * * * Punch, October 7, 1882.

WITHIN the limits of well-ordered law They lived, this thrifty squire and eke his spouse; No discord marred the genial dinner hour, Where union rooted in dis-union stood, And tastes divergent served the end in view; What he would not, she would, what she not, he; So in all courtesie the meal progressed And soon the viands wholly passed from sight. J. M. LOWRY, 1884.

"SIR GYPES TOLLODDLE, all an Autumn day, Gave his broad, breezy lands, till set of sun, Up to the Tories."

"Then there were fireworks; and overhead SIR GYPES TOLLODDLE'S aisles of lofty limes Made noise with beer and bunkum, and with squibs."

THOSE that of late had fleeted far and fast To touch all shores, now leaving to the skill Of others their old craft, seaworthy still, Have charter'd this; where mindful of the past, Our true co-mates regather round the mast; Of diverse tongue, but with a common will, Here, in this roaring moon of daffodil And crocus, to put forth and brave the blast; For some descending from the sacred peak Of hoar, high-templed faith, have leagued again Their lot with ours, to rove the world about; And some are wilder comrades, sworn to seek If any golden harbour be for men In seas of Death and sunless gulfs of Doubt.

THOSE low-born cubs who sneaked away so fast, Have picked all the best hats, and left the worst To others. For their craft may they be cursed Who left me this! I mind me of the past— I stalked along, and felt tall as a mast, In my new beaver; with this bashed old pot, Under the shining moon, like seedy sot, I must go creeping forth, or brave the blast Bareheaded. Should I chance to meet the beak, I swear by faith, I'll send him on their trail; The lot we'll follow the old world about, Among their wilder comrades, sworn to seek And find the thief; their doom be, if we fail— Disease and death—long years of mumps and gout!"

I ROSE to show them a half-sovran tail, To turn to chaff their "freedom" on this height, Grim, comic, savage; worse by day and night Than any Turk: yet here, all over scale, I watch the passer as his footsteps fail, With dauntless hundreds struggling main and might To cross,—the one policeman out of sight,— And reach this haven where the strongest quail. O, smallest among steeples! Precious throne Of Freedom! Why, I merely swell the swarm That surge and seethe in curses and in tears! Great Gog and Magog! Never since thine own Odd dodges drew the cloud and brake the storm, Have you produced a mightier crop of jeers! Punch, December 11, 1880.

RAILING, railing, railing, the crowd from town and lea, When William's voice was heard, "O poet a peer to be!" "Why should he call me, I wonder, in that high-born house to go, For my politics won't bear searching, and my creed's rather mixed, you know? "We should be laughed at, my William, 'twould be the jest of the town; Even the knights would jeer, and the press sure to cry it down. Why, I can but rule my own land; when I tried awhile for the stage, I only drew empty houses, in this cynical latter age. "Anything failed again? Nay, what is there left to fail?— 'Harold,' or 'Mary,' or 'May,' or even the 'Lover's Tale?' What am I saying, and why? fails!—that must be a lie! Fails—what fails?—not my faith in play writing, not I. "Why will you call up here?—who are you?—what have you heard That you all sit so solemn and quiet?—nobody's spoken a word. O, to make of me—yes, his lordship! none of the scribbling crew Have crept in by their rhymes before, as I have dared to do. "Ah! you that have lived so soft, what do you know of the spite, The cutting and slashing critiques that the wretched papers write? I have known it; when you were amused in the stalls the first night of a play, And chattered and gossipped together, and forgot it the very next day. "Nay, but it's kind of you, William, to gild my declining life, And make me a peer, a baron, above all this petty strife; But I haven't left off scribbling, and shall not—no, not I; But I'll write whenever I will, for the public's sure to buy. "I whipt Miss Bulwer for jeering, and gave it him, slightly riled, For mocking at me, or my poems, has always driven me wild. To be idle—I couldn't be idle—I do not write for a whim, And a guinea a line is better than a short "Italian Hymn." "So, William, I thank you gladly; I think you meant to be kind; And I will not heed the mob, whilst they'll very quickly find The poems will read as well by a Lord as ever they did before, And the publishers sell more copies, and more, and more, and more. See how it reads for yourself, to be stuck up on every wall, Lord Tennyson's Poems complete, in a specially printed Vol." W.

I. PILLS? talk to me of your pills? Well, that, I must say is cool. Can't bring my old man round? he was always a stubborn old fool. If I hadn't taken precautions—a warning to all that wive— He might not have been dead, and I might not have been alive. II. You would like to know, if I please, how it was that our troubles began? You see, we were brought up Agnostics, I and my poor old man. And we got some idea of selection and evolution, you know— Professor Huxley's doing—where does he expect to go! III. Well, then came trouble on trouble on trouble—I may say, a peck— And his cousin was wanted one day on the charge of forging a cheque— And his puppy died of the mange—my parrot choked on its perch. This was the consequence, was it, of not going weekly to church? IV. So we felt that the best if not only thing that remained to be done On an earth everlastingly moving about a perpetual sun, Where worms breed worms to be eaten of worms that have eaten their betters— And reviewers are barely civil—and people get spiteful letters— And a famous man is forgot ere the minute hand can tick nine— Was to send in our P.P.C., and purchase a packet of strychnine. V. Nay—but first we thought it was rational—only fair— To give both parties a hearing—and went to the meeting-house there, At the curve of the street that runs from the Stag to the old Blue Lion. "Little Zion" they call it—a deal more "little" than "Zion." VI. And the preacher preached from the text, "Come out of her." Hadn't we come? And we thought of the Shepherd in Pickwick—and fancied a flavour of rum Balmily borne on the wind of his words—and my man said, "Well, Let's get out of this, my dear—for his text has a brimstone smell." VII. So we went, O God, out of chapel—and gazed, ah God, at the sea. And I said nothing to him. And he said nothing to me. VIII. And there, you see, was an end of it all. It was obvious, in fact, That, whether or not you believe in the doctrine taught in a tract, Life was not in the least worth living. Because, don't you see? Nothing that can't be, can, and what must be, must. Q.E.D. And the infinitesimal sources of Infinite Unideality Curve in to the central abyss of a sort of a queer Personality. Whose refraction is felt in the nebulæ strewn in the pathway of Mars Like the pairings of nails Æonian—clippings and snippings of stars— Shavings of suns that revolve and evolve and involve—and at times Give a sweet astronomical twang to remarkably hobbling rhymes. IX. And the sea curved in with a moan—and we thought how once—before We fell out with those atheist lecturers—once, ah, once and no more, We read together, while midnight blazed like the Yankee flag, A reverend gentleman's work—the Conversion of Colonel Quagg. And out of its pages we gathered this lesson of doctrine pure— Zephaniah Stockdolloger's gospel—a word that deserves to endure Infinite millions on millions of Infinite Æons to come— "Vocation," says he, "is vocation, and duty duty. Some." X. And duty, said I, distinctly points out—and vocation, said he, Demands as distinctly—that I should kill you, and that you should kill me. The reason is obvious—we cannot exist without creeds—who can? So we went to the chemist's—a highly respectable church-going man— And bought two packets of poison. You wouldn't have done so. Wait. It's evident, Providence is not with you, ma'am, the same thing as Fate. Unconscious cerebration educes God from a fog, But spell God backwards, what then? Give it up? the answer is, dog. (I don't exactly see how this last verse is to scan, But that's a consideration I leave to the secular man). XI. I meant of course to go with him—as far as I pleased—but first To see how my old man liked it—I thought perhaps he might burst. I didn't wish it—but still it's a blessed release for a wife— And he saw that I thought so—and grinned in derision—and threatened my life If I made wry faces—and so I took just a sip—and he— Well—you know how it ended—he didn't get over me. XII. Terrible, isn't it? Still, on reflection, it might have been worse. He might have been the unhappy survivor, and followed my hearse. "Never do it again?" Why, certainly not. You don't Suppose I should think of it, surely? But anyhow—there—I won't.

"Lady Clara Vere de Vere, You put strange fancies in my head! Do you remember that rich silk You wore last year at Maidenhead? Now "velveteen" is all the go; 'Tis richer far, and costs much less, The lion on your old stone gates Is not more ancient than that dress."

"Half a League! Half a League! Half a League, onward! Into Gant's tea shop Walk many hundred. Tea is the people's cry, Which is the kind to buy? Gant's at Two Shillings try, Say many hundred! Tea-men to right of us, Tea-men to left of us, Grocers all round us, Find they have blundered."

AWAKE I must, and early, a proceeding that I hate, And cab it to Trafalgar Square, and ascertain my fate; For to-morrow's the Art-Derby, the looked-for opening day Of the Fine Art Exhibition, yearly shown by the R.A.

AN itch of rhymes has seized the times Till every cobbler's turned a poet, And he who taught the secret ought In justice to be made to know it. Rhyme, brothers, rhyme, vast odes and epics vaster, And post them to the Master, Master, Master. Bards, pour your benison on Baron Tennyson, Who vulgarised the art of rhyming, And set the twaddle that fills each noddle In endless jingle-jangle chiming: Rhyme, brothers, rhyme, each puling poetaster, And inundate the Master, Master, Master. Recitative and Aria: Lord Tennyson. Bards, idle bards, I know not what ye mean! Words powerfully expressive of despair Rise to my lips and flash from out my eyes In looking o'er the reams each post-bag yields. But, mark me, I'll return the stuff no more. When morning sees the groaning board With my baronial breakfast spread— With bacon crisp and snow-white bread, And fragrant coffee freshly poured. I greet with joy the cheerful sight, When, hark! there comes the postman's knock: I thrill as with a lightning shock And bid adieu to appetite. For song and stave and madrigal Make dark to me the opening day, And sonnet, ode, and roundelay Sink on my spirit like a pall. And lunch-time brings another host, At each delivery they throng, While any hour may bring along Three tragedies by parcels-post; And twelve-book epics ton on ton, Each with its laudatory ode Of drivelling dedications, load The vans of Carter, Paterson. I can nor eat, nor drink, nor sleep In peace; I vow that from to-day I'll have them carted straight away Unopened to the rubbish-heap. Call in the dustman!—Lo! 'tis done! The contract signed, I breathe again. Come, load at once thy lingering wain Blest henchman of oblivion! Finale: Chorus of Poetasters. Not return nor e'en acknowledge! Dares he treat our verses thus? Knows he not the might malignant Of a poetaster's "cuss?" Dreads he not our "spiteful letters," Epigrams, satiric skits? Let him learn that would-be poets Also shine as would-be wits. Who is he to scorn our verses? British taxpayers are we; Is he not the Poet Laureate? Don't we stand his salary? Straightway we'll transfer allegiance To some other, blander bard, Whom no paltry peerage renders Uppish, arrogant, and hard. Mr. Browning, for example, Won't treat brother poets thus. Though we may not understand him, Doubtless he'll appreciate us; He'll return with mild laudation Our effusions every one. Poetasters, snap your fingers At the played-out Tennyson! W. A. St. James's Gazette, June 24, 1884.