Part 1 — H. W. Longfellow.

TELL me not in mournful numbers, Life Assurance is a dream, And that while the public slumbers, Figures are not what they seem! Really, I am quite in earnest! So would you be. Here's a goal! Come let's have enquiry sternest. It's too bad, upon my soul. Here's a set of fellows borrow Money that they can't repay, Then buy up, till each to-morrow Finds them deeper than to-day. Thus my claim they'll fail in meeting, Though they've taken all I gave! They, not muffled drums, want beating Soundly till they look quite grave. Talk of board rooms' tittle tattle! Stuff! I have insured my life. I'm not dumb, like driven cattle! And I'll make a precious strife! Trust the Future? Come, that's pleasant! Wait until I'm buried—dead? No, I'll make a row at present. On official toes I'll tread! And directors think to blind us! Humbug us just for a time. Till we go to leave behind us Nothing? Why, the thing's sublime! Nothing! Do they think another Will insure, like me, in vain! No! the outcry they'll not smother, Nor catch shipwrecked dupes again! Let us, then, be up and doing, Never mind what be our fate, Each director still pursuing, Shouting out "Investigate!" From The Tomahawk, September 11, 1869.

Tell us not in mournful "numbers" Life is all a ghastly dream! Such as those we have in slumbers When the nightmare makes us scream. Life is dark enough in earnest Without bringing in the gaol, Only readers of the sternest Like their heroines out on bail. Not to swindle, or to borrow Is the reputable way; Not to marry, and to-morrow Kill your bride, and run away. Arson's wrong, and poisoning dreary, And our hearts, though pretty brave Now and then get rather weary Of the gallows, and the grave. In the great domestic battle, In the matrimonial strife, Be not like those Mormon "Cattle," Give your hero but one wife. Wives and Daughters should remind you There are women without crime; Draw them and you'll leave behind you Fictions that may weather time. Fictions free from that Inspector, Who is sent by Richard Mayne, And finds footmarks that affect a Solemn butler in the lane. Let us, then, have no more trials, No more tampering with wills, Leave the poisons in the phials And the money in the tills.

TELL me not that I am pretty— Really don't, now, Mr. Green; I'm the last to think it's witty Not to name things as they seem. Yes; I know my hair is curly, Blacker than the blackest sloe; And I know that you'll be surly With the candour I thus show. That my eyes with fire are glancing I'll admit if that you say: Yet I think that you're romancing When you swear they're bright as day. Then my teeth you state are pearl, Purer than the driven snow; And to touch my lips you'd dare all Dangers from an earthly foe. Please don't be so very minute When my beauties you describe, As, perhaps, your flimsy tribute May appear to be a bribe. To secure my young affections To your nasty little self, And to banish all reflections That you seek not me but pelf. Now, if you'd be bright and happy, Try and don't be what you seem— A wretched, lazy, selfish chappy: There—you have it, Mr. Green. The Modern Athenian.

"I will tell in measured numbers, That our life is not a dream; That the earth we don't encumber; That we are not what we seem. "Man is real—we are earnest; Eve, thy birth is not a fib; Of man thou art, to him returnest; We each are looking for his rib. "No selfishness, not pleasure, Is our only aim below; Or to win wealth and treasure, The only bliss we wish to know. "Life is short, time is fleeting, We should hurry, up and do That which brings a parent's greeting, That which settles us below. "Bring us aid through life to battle Who'll gird her hero in the strife; No longer be mere straying cattle, Find a tender, loving wife, "Beware the future, howe'er pleasant Our fondest dream of it may be; Our freedom, liberty, past and present, Our pleasures we may cease to see. "Do not married men remind us, We, though erring, yet have time, To amend and leave behind us Names unsullied by the crime. "A crime the ladies all declare, Being single through life's rapid run; No victim to their wedded care, Bent on freedom, pleasure, fun. "Let us then be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still in honour's track pursuing, Find a partner, though its late." From Notes and Queries, August 31, 1872.

"Tell us not, in idle jingle, 'Marriage is an empty dream!' For the girl is dead that's single, And things are not what they seem. "Life is real! life is earnest! Single blessedness a fib; Man thou art, to man returnest, Has been spoken of the rib. "Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act that each to-morrow Finds us nearer marriage-day. "Life is long, and youth is fleeting, And our hearts are light and gay; Still like pleasant drums are beating Wedding marches all the day. "In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of life, Be not like dumb-driven cattle! Be a heroine—a wife! "Trust no future, howe'er pleasant; Let the dead past bury its dead; Act—act in the living present, Hoping for a spouse ahead. "Lives of married folk remind us We can live our lives as well, And departing leave behind us Such examples as will 'tell'; "Such examples that another, Wasting time in idle sport, A forlorn, unmarried brother, Seeing shall take heart and court. "Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart on triumph set; Still contriving, still pursuing, And each one a husband get."

Lives of great men misinform us Campbell's Lives in this sublime, Errors frightfully enormous, Misprints on the sands of time.

Of Love or War this is no hour to sing, But I may ease the burden of your fears (Lest you think death to mirth is happening), And quote from wit of past and present years, Till o'er these pages you forget your tears, And smile again, as presently you say Some idle jingle—or forgotten lay. But when a-weary of the hunt for mirth Thro' comic journals with a doleful sigh You feel unkindly unto all the earth, And grudge the pennies that they cost to buy These "weakly comics," lingering like to die, Remember, then, a little while, I pray, The clever singers of a former day. The pomp and power and grand majestic air That marches thro' their poems' stately tread, These idle verses may catch unaware, And by burlesque call back remembered Some rhymes "that living not can ne'er be dead," Though what is meant by that I cannot say— But Mr. Morris wrote it one fine day. Here grouped are strains of parody in rhyme, Now classified and placed in order straight, Let it suffice it for the present time That some be old, while some are born but late, A careful choice, from all the crowd that wait, Of those that in forgotten serials stay, Or are, in passing journals, tossed away. Folks say a wizard to a common King, One April-tide such wondrous jest did show That in a mirror men beheld each thing, Like, yet unlike, and saw the pale nose glow, While rosy face looked white as fallen snow, Each visage altered in such comic way That those who came to court, remain'd to play. So with these many Parodies it is, If you will read aright and carefully, Not scathing satire, nor malicious hiss For lack of beauty in the themes to see, Nor jeerings coarse, at what men prize, as we But jest to make some little changeling play Its pranks in classic robes, all crowned with bay. J. W. GLEESON WHITE, CHRISTCHURCH. March, 1884.

"Born at Portland, U.S.A., February 27, 1807. Died at Cambridge, U.S.A., March 24, 1882."

Tell me not in mournful numbers, Life's one long unending bill— Debts unpaid disturb your slumbers— Tin will fly, do what you will. Meat is high in real good earnest, Far above the hungry soul; Dust thou art, to dust returns, is Very typical of coal. In the weekly market battle, For the cheapest things and best, Be not like dumb-driven cattle, Stand out bravely, all the rest. Not enjoyment, hardly sorrow, Feel we, when small debts we pay; Still, we know that each to-morrow Finds them larger than to-day. Duns are hard, and time is fleeting, Bills are sadly in arrears, And our hearts, tho' brave, stop beating At the aspect of affairs. Bailiffs are not very pleasant, Lock your door and keep the key; Act, act in the living present— Leave your country, cross the sea. Lives of great men, too, remind us, Big debts sometimes clogged their feet; And, like them, we leave behind us Some few bills we cannot meet— Bills that make you try to smother, As you cross the stormy main, Thoughts of love, and home, and mother, Listening for your step in vain. Let us then be up and doing With an eye to making tin, Any likely trade pursuing, Learn to gain your end and win. From The Figaro, December 3, 1873.

Tell us not in mournful numbers Liberal union is a dream: Bright is cranky, Bob Lowe slumbers; Yet things are not what they seem. Opposition must be earnest, Or we shall not win the goal; If for Gladstone still thou yearnest, Thou art a weak-minded soul. Ministerial slips to follow Is our destined end and way, So that we may throw each morrow Stumbling blocks in Dizzy's way. Dizzy's strong, but fame is fleeting; Conservatism, now so brave, In the Bills which we are greeting, Yet may find an early grave. Trust no Forster, howe'er pleasant, Let past premiers bury their dead; Act with Hartington at present, Nor the coming session dread. Hansard's pages all remind us We have but to bide our time; Dizzy some fine day may find us In majority sublime. Gladstone's gone, but till another, Like him takes the helm again, Let us help our leader, brother, Hartington with might and main. Let us then be up and doing, Meeting Dizzy in debate, Tory tactics still pursuing, Find a policy—and wait!

TELL me not in Christmas Numbers Life is but a gourmet's dream! Sure your sense is dead or slumbers: Peptics are not what they seem. Life is serious! Life is solemn! And good grub is not its goal: Menu-making by the column Helps not the dyspeptic soul. Not delight from cates to borrow Is the aim of prudent will, But to eat so that to-morrow Finds us not exceeding ill. Feeds are long and health is fleeting; And old stomachs once so strong, Find that indiscriminate eating Very quickly puts them wrong. In the banquet's dainty battle, At the table's toothsome strife, Feed not like dumb hungry cattle, Wield a cautious fork and knife! Trust no menu, howe'er pleasant; Night-mare-Nemesis is dread; Swig and swallow like a peasant, You'll repent it when in bed! Memories of big feeds remind us Christmas pudding peace can slay; Touch it, and next morn shall find us Indigestion's helpless prey. Pudding that perhaps another, Light of heart and bright of brain, Some strong-stomached younger brother, Eating, sends his plate again. Let us then beware high feeding, Or the love of luscious cate, Still abstaining, ne'er exceeding, Learn to dodge dyspeptic fate! From Punch, December 27, 1879.

Lives of wealthy men remind us That by using Printer's ink, We can die and leave behind us Monstrous piles of golden "chink."

DON'T tell me in cheerful numbers That the jug is full of cream! For the milkman's conscience slumbers, And things are not what they seem! Odd Echoes from Oxford, 1872.

Wives of great men all remind us We may make our wives sublime By departing—leave behind us Widows in the "weeds" of time. Widows that perchance some other Sailing o'er life's solemn main Some forlorn rejected brother, May take heart, and "splice" again.

I KNOW a maiden fair to see, Take care! She can both false and friendly be, Beware! beware! Trust her not. She is fooling thee! She has two eyes, so soft and brown, Take care! She gives a side glance and looks down, Beware! beware! Trust her not, She is fooling thee! LONGFELLOW.

Have you a wife with real estate? Take care! She can "devise, and alienate," Beware! Beware! She has got The whip hand of thee! Too promptly she may take her cue, Beware! And learn she has the "power to sue," Take care! Take care! Thwart her not, She'll be down on thee! Her three per cents are but a snare, Take care! She "holds" as if femme sole she were, Beware! Beware! Has she not The whip hand of thee? You, Darby, who could sponge on Joan, Take care! Henceforth her earrings are her own, Beware! Beware! Touch them not, She'll be down on thee! If this new law be put in force, Take care! Lest th' old mare prove the better horse, Beware! Beware! Marry not, There's a hint for thee! From The Tomahawk.

I KNOW a rink that's fair to see, Take care! It can both kind and cruel be, Beware! Beware! Trust it not, It will injure thee! It has two skates to lend to you, Take care! With wheels that oft want oiling too, Beware! Beware! Trust it not, It will injure thee! It has a surface smooth as glass, Take care! For you can't see what will come to pass, Beware! Beware! Trust it not, It will injure thee. It shows your wondrous grace and skill, Take care! But naught it says about a spill, Beware! Beware! Trust it not, It will injure thee! It tells you much of pleasure there, Take care! 'Tis a delusion and a snare, Beware! Beware! Trust it not, It will injure thee!" Idyls of the Rink, 1876.

I know a statesman fair to hear; Take care! He can make worst the best appear; His "little game" is very clear. Beware! Beware! Trust him not—he is one to fear. He has a conscience—he says so; Take care! He knows how far to let it go (We had a Treaty once, you know). Beware! Beware! Trust him not, though it may be so. He gives thee a mode of trading "fair;" Take care! It is a fool's-cap for thee to wear! A "card" for him, for thee a snare. Beware! Beware! Trust him not, though it sounds so rare. He has one face, and some say two; Take care! And what he says it is not true, He would do good, but not to you. Beware! Beware! Trust him not, or you will rue. Grins and Groans, 1882.

UNDER a spreading chestnut tree The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands. * * * Week in, week out, from morn till night, You can hear his bellows blow, You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, With measured beat and slow, Like a sexton ringing the village bell, When the evening sun is low. * * * LONGFELLOW.

Under the spreading chestnut tree The village blacksmith stands, The smith an awful cad is he With very dirty hands. For keepers and the rural police He doesn't care a hang. He swears, and fights, and whops his wife, Gets drunk whene'er he can; In point of fact, our village smith's A very awful man. He goes on Sundays to the pub' With other festive boys, When drinking beer and goes of rum His precious time employs. Till he gets drunk, and going home He makes no end of noise, Then, with his poor half-starving wife He in a passion flies. He pulls her by the hair, from off The bed on which she lies, And kicks her round the room, and says Bad things about her eyes. Smoking, soaking, bullying, Onward through life he goes, Each morning sees a blackened eye Or else a broken nose. I fear within the County Gaol Calcraft his life will close; Thanks, thanks to thee, thou black blacksmith For the lesson thou hast taught. By Calcraft, or his deputy I never will be caught, And to that end I'll never do The thing I hadn't ought. From Figaro Programme, February 6, 1873.

Beside a noisy tavern door The night policeman stands, And a foaming pot of half-and-half, He clutches with eager hands; But little doth our Robert know He is watched by thievish bands. His voice is thick, his speech too strong For any sober man; His brow is wet with his tall helmet, He drinks whene'er he can; But the merry prig laughs in his face, He arrests not any man. Through the dark night to the broad daylight You can hear him tramp below, Until the serjeant hath passed, and then He soon doth leave his beat to go To visit a sprightly area belle, When the evening star is low. When the burglar, fixing a handy tool, Breaks in through the bolted door, And quickly pockets the notes and gold, And the glittering jewelled store store— Hearing the laugh, as he gaily flies, Come from the kitchen floor. When Robert makes report next morn Of nought but naughty boys, Householders angrily impeach. He hears the inspector's voice; And he knows that his stately form no more Will make the cook rejoice. It sounds to him like a warning voice: Farewell to rabbit pies, And juicy ham and nourishing stout, And the pickles he doth prize. And with his worsted glove he wipes A tear from out his eyes. Shuffling, lying, sorrowing, He takes off his dark blue clothes— Lantern, truncheon, and helmet too, With his cape he sadly throws. Burglaries attempted! Burglaries done! Out of the force he goes. From Funny Folks, May 22, 1875.

Under a spreading chestnut tree The village grog shop stands; The host a thirsty man is he, With large and bloated hands; And the vessels of his beery charms Are bright in pewter bands. His tap is "Watney," "Meux," and "Long," And bitter as the tan; His till is fill'd with ready coin, He cheats whene'er he can, He looks the whole "Bench" in the face, And he trusts not any man. Week in, week out, from morn till night, You can hear the liquor flow; And after hours the bobby's tread, With measured beat and slow, Like a convict working the cheerful mill When his morals have been low. And maidens, not long freed from school, Jot down th' increasing score, They love to see the lab'rers gorge, And hear the rustics roar, And catch th' attempted wits—so "fly," With chaff—from a sawdust floor. He goes in Sessions 'fore the Bench, And sits among the crowd; He hears the "unpaid" jaw and preach, He hears his counsel's voice Pleading with legalic fire; And licensed, has his choice. It makes him think of the Three per Cents. Wherein his money lies! He needs must think of her once more How in the bar she plies, And with his hard rough hands he lifts His beer-mug to the skies. Spoiling—adult'ring—borrowing, Onward through life he goes; Each morning sees some cask begun, Each evening sees its close; Somebody tempted, something won, Has earned the pub's repose." Mirth, March, 1878. F. H. S.

Under the carved-oak canopy Our ermined Justice sits; The Judge, a mighty man is he, With large and varied wits; And nobly to his land and Queen His duty he acquits. His wig is crisp, and gray, and full, And if his face you scan, 'Tis furrow'd deep with lines of thought; 'Twere hard his brow to span. And he looks the whole world in the face, For he fears not any man. Term in, term out, from ten till four, You can hear his accents clear; You can hear him crush deceit and fraud With authority severe, But the innocent and helpless one Has naught from him to fear. And strangers "doing" London sights Look in at the swinging door; They love to see his massive form, And to hear his legal lore, And to catch the pearls of thought that drop From his copious mental store. At four for home he leaves the bench, And 'midst his books and notes His leisure far into the night To "cases" he devotes. Nor counts his nights and mornings lost, If justice he promotes. With patient care he extricates The tangled legal skein; Whilst barristers and clients sleep, Re-links the broken chain, And ere the hour of ten has come Is at his post again. Toiling, re-searching, circuiting, Onward through life he goes; Each morning sees new work begun, But not each night its close; And not till Long Vacation comes Can he expect repose. Thanks, thanks! then, to the English Judge For the lessons he has taught! For a life so earnest and so pure, With good example fraught. And may we all learn this from him,— How duty should be wrought. Truth Christmas Number, 1879.

Under a spreading Gainsborough hat The village beauty stands, A maiden very fair to see, With tiny feet and hands, As stately, too, as if she owned The squire's house and lands. Her hair is golden brown and long, Her brow is like the snow, Her cheeks are like the rosy flush Left by the sunset's glow, She greets the lads with a careless look, She's the village belle, you know. Week in, week out, at morn and night, The young miller comes each day; "'Tis the nearest way to town," he says, But 'tis rather out of his way, And every night he seems to have Plenty of time to stay! And children, coming home from school Look in at the door, and know That the handsome fellow by her side Is pretty Nellie's beau, Who can hardly tear himself away, When he finds 'tis time to go. He goes on Sundays to the Church, And sits in his proper pew, But his eyes wander off to the transept near, Where he sees a charming view, For Nellie sits there, in her Sunday best, With her bonnet of palest blue. He hears the parson pray and preach With his outward ear alone, For he only listens for Nellie's voice, And responds in a dreamy tone, And when she smiles at the carpenter near, He can't suppress a groan. Despairing, hoping, fearing, Onward thro' life he goes; Each morning he sees Nellie, And each evening, at its close; She even haunts him sleeping, And disturbs his night's repose. Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, For the lesson thou hast taught; Thus at the flirting time of life Our fortunes may be wrought, So we cannot be too careful Over every word and thought! L. P.

UNDER St. Stephen's high roof-tree The British M. P. sits: M. P. a mighty man is he, With sharp and seasoned wits, And an eloquence that, once set free, Would give opponents fits. Week in, week out, from noon to night, He must sit in silent woe, Whilst WARTON vents his dullard spite, With measured boom and slow, Or SEXTON soars in furious flight When the morning lights burn low. Boiling and bored, no fight, no fun, Onward the M. P. goes. Each day sees aimless jaw begun, No night beholds its close. Little attempted, nothing done— No work and no repose! Punch, March 24, 1883.

Under the spreading olive tree The peaceful village stands, It's known for its tranquillitee Throughout the neighbouring lands; And it drinks but very weak Bohea, Nor smokes the mildest brands. Its hair is smooth, its patience long, Its biceps, when you span, You find they're more like dimples; and You may hit them where you can, And come off cheap with easy fame, For it fights not any man. Week in, week out, from morn till night, You can hear the humming low Of dogs who like to bark and bite Because their nature's so; And their cocks they're all put out of sight, For the bullies used to crow! Preaching, protesting, sorrowing, Because of Eastern foes, Each morning sees that village dawn, Each evening sees it doze, O'er asses' milk and ginger-beer, And Peter Taylor's prose. Thanks, thanks, to you, O happy vale! It is a cheering thought That somewhere waits a blessed spot For one by yells distraught, Where bray of Jingoes reaches not, And Drummond-Wolff is nought.

Under a spreading chestnut tree The busy Gladstone stands; Ever this restless W. G. Has something on his hands. O'er field or meadow, park or farm, O'er clay or gravelly lands, He takes the sharpened axe in hand With tree-destroying plan; His brow is wet with woodman's sweat, He fells whate'er he can, And looks the proud tree in the face, And cleaves it like a man. Week in, week out, from morn to night, You can hear his hatchet's blow; You can see him swing his heavy axe, Resolved that tree shall go, Like a workman labouring for his pay When his funds are very low; And tourists, wandering o'er the fields, Look aghast at this woodman bold; They shudder at the flashing axe, And mark the upturned mould; They see by the scattered chips that fly That the woodman's strong though old. He goes on Sunday to the church, And reads the lessons there. To hear the parson pray and preach Few to that church repair. But reading in that village church Makes the G. O. M. rejoice, For he loves to hear his own sweet voice In Church or Parliament. But where'er he be he thinks of trees, How many fallen lie, And those who notice him may see A twinkle in his eye. Toiling, rejoicing, brandishing His axe, thus on he goes; Each morning sees some grand old tree, Each evening sees its close; Some branches felled, some trunk laid low— And then he seeks repose. Moonshine, January 19, 1884.

DO you ask me what I think of This new song of Hiawatha, With its legends and traditions, And its frequent repetitions Of hard names which make the jaw ache, And of words most unpoetic? I should answer, I should tell you I esteem it wild and wayward, Slipslop metre, scanty sense, Honour paid to Mudjekewis, But no honour to the Muse. * * * * * "Honour to the Muddyminded!" Who now wears the belt of Wampum, He has stolen it from the Northmen, And he wears it, and shall wear; And hereafter, and for ever, Shall he hold ungrudged dominion Over all the winds that whistle; Call him no more Muddyminded, Call him Longfellow, the Yankee! * * * * * Forth upon a Pitchy Puddle, Gleaming with a fitful phosphor; In a bark of his own making, With a line of his own twisting, Forth to catch a fine new Poem All alone went Muddyminded. At the stern sat Muddyminded, For 'twas windy, and he knew He was heavy, and he trembled Lest he'd sink his grand canoe; Soon he came to where 'twas clearer, And the bottom he could see, So he looked, and saw the bottom, Saw the bottom of the sea. There he saw the song he wanted Lying far beyond his reach, Lying just within his vision, But beyond the reach of boat-hook. There it lay in all its armour, Fenced about with ugly words, Indian names and Indian notions, Painted too, with various colours, Earthy, very earthy, too. Muddyminded cast about him, How he'd bring this song to light:— "Take my bait, you Indian Poem!" Cried he down the depths below, Then sat waiting for an answer, For an answer from below. Quiet lay the Indian Story, Nor would listen to his clamour; Turned he to another tale though,— EUANGLEEN,—six-footed monster, And he bade him take the bait, that Still was dangling to and fro: EUANGLEEN he rose to take it; Muddyminded liked him not, And he shouted through the water, "Pesta! Pesta! shame upon you! You are not a Poem at all, You are one six-footed monster, You are not the song I wanted." Then went downward swift and certain Down the depths of dark oblivion, Disappointed EUANGLEEN. Then the mighty Indian Poem Said to GOLDEN LEG, another, "Take the bait of this great boaster, Break his line, and spoil his trade!" But again did Muddyminded Shout derision as he rose, "Pesta! Pesta! shame upon you! You are but a lame imposture, Fame will never call you Poem, You are not the song I wanted." Then upleapt this Indian Story, Legend rude, but fierce and strong— High enough he leapt, to show us What he might be could we tame him, Could there but a real Magician Disenchant him, and control. His great jaws he op'ed, and swallowed Both canoe and Muddyminded. Down into that dark oblivion Plunged the hapless Muddyminded,— As a log on some black river Down the rapids plunges soon, Found himself in utter darkness, Thought he had been there before, Groped about, and groped, and wondered, Wondered, groped, and groped the more. J. W. M.

I. Drop o' Wather's Childhood. II. Drop o' Wather and Pudgy-Wheezy. III. Drop o' Wather's Fasting. IV. Drop o' Wather's Friends. V. Drop o' Wather's Filching. VI. Drop o' Wather's Wooing. VII. Drop o' Wather's Wedding. VIII. The Ghost of the Star and Garter. IX. Bilking the Runners. X. Paw-Paw-Keeneyes. XI. The Hunting of Paw-Paw-Keeneyes. XII. The Fate of Queershin. XIII. Drop o' Water's Departure.

YE who love the haunts of Town-Life, Love the kennel and the gutter, Love the doorway of the gin-shop, Love the mud about the kerb-stones, And the drippings from the houses, And the splashing of the rain-spouts Through their palisade of gratings, And the thunder of the coaches, Whose innumerable echoes, Roar like sea-waves on the shingle;— Listen to these wild traditions, To this song of Drop o' Wather! Ye who love a nation's legends, Love the ballads of a people, That like voices from afar off Call to us to stop and listen, Speak in tones so hoarse and roopy, Scarcely can the ear distinguish Whether they are hummed or shouted;— Listen to this London Legend, To this song of Drop o' Wather!

Downward through the darkening twilight, In the days long time ago, now, In the last of drunken stages, By the Half-Moon fell poor Norah, On the pavement fell poor Norah, Just about to be a mother. She'd been tippling with some women, Just within the Wine-Vaults' swing-door, When her Gossip, out of mischief, Partly idle, partly spiteful, Pushed the swing-door from behind her, Pushed in twain the Wine-Vaults' door-flap, And poor Norah tumbled backward, Downward through the darkening twilight, On the gangway foul, the pavement, On the gangway foul with mud-stains. "See! a wench falls!" cried the people; Look, a tipsy wench is falling!" There amidst the gaping starers, There amidst the idle passers, On the gangway foul, the pavement, In the murky darkened twilight, Poor drunk Norah bore a boy-babe. Thus was born young Drop o' Wather, Thus was born the child of squalor. He was named, by those who knew him, Out of joke, and fun, and larking, For what's called an Irish reason, Or, by folks who sport the Classics, A lucus a non lucendo, Like, for all it is so unlike, Hold a thing to be another, For the sake of contradiction, Or the sake of droll connection; So the folks who knew our hero, Gave his nickname for this reason,— 'Cause his mother never touched a Drop of Water in her lifetime. At the door on fine spring evenings, Played the little Drop o' Wather; Heard the cry of "Buy my inguns!" Heard the cry "Young raddyshees, yere" Calls of cadger, costermonger; "Bilin'-apples!" said the huckster; "Pies-all 'ot!" still said the pieman. Saw the pot-boy, Wall-eyed Tommy, Trudging through the dusk of evening, With the shrillness of his whistle Piercing all the courts and alleys. And he sang the song of street-boys. Sang the song the pot-boy taught him;— "Wall-eyed Tommy, he's the cove, boys! He's the ranting, roaring blade, boys! He's the lad, the daring fellow! He's the chap, to carry ale-cans, Pots of beer, and all them 'ere boys!" Saw the balls at the pawnbroker's, Balls alike, and three in number, Saw the gold and burnish on them, Bawled, "What are those? I say, mother!" And the fuddled Norah answered, "Once a cricketer, when angry, Seized his ball, and bowling, threw it Up against the shop times threefold, Right against the shop he threw it; 'Tis its tri-ghost that you see there." Saw the gallows near the prison, In the morning sky, the gallows; Bawled, "What is that? I say mother!" And the fuddled Norah answered, "'Tis the gallows-tree, the gibbet; All the naughty boys of London, All the wicked ones and careless, When in town they steal and pilfer, Hang on that 'ere tree above us." When he heard the thieves at midnight, Hooting, laughing in the alley, "What is that?" he cried half frightened; "What is that? Now tell me, mother!" And the fuddled Norah answered, "That's the thieves and prigs together, Talking in their own cant language, Hoaxing, chaffing one another." Then the little Drop o' Wather Learned of all the thieves their language; Learned their slang and learned their by-words, Twigged their nicknames, knew their lodgings, Where they hid themselves from justice; Talked with them whene'er he met them, Called them "Drop o' Wather's Cronies." Of all prigs he learned the language, Learned their gag, and all their secrets. Found out all their haunts and dodges, Picked up where they hid their booty, How they packed the swag so closely, Why they fought so shy and wary; Talked with them whene'er he met them, Called them "Drop o' Wather's Brothers."

Out of childhood into manhood Now had grown young Drop o' Wather, Skilled in all the craft of filchers, Learned in all the slang of robbers, In all ways and means of cribbing, In all knowing arts and dodges. Swift of foot was Drop o' Wather; He could pitch a pebble from him, And run forward with such fleetness, That the pebble fell behind him! Strong of arm was Drop o' Wather; He could fling ten pebbles upward, Fling them with such strength and swiftness, That the tenth had left his fingers Ere the first to ground had fallen. He had bludgeon, Millemlikefun, Good strong bludgeon, made of ash-wood; When into his hand he took it, He could smite a fellow's head off, He could knock him into next week. He had ankle-boots so jemmy, Good strong ankle-boots of calf-skin; When he put them on his trotters, When he laced them up so tightly, At each step three feet he measured. From his lair went Drop o' Wather Dressed for roving, armed for plunder; Dressed in shooting-jacket natty, Velveteen, with pearl-white buttons; On his head a spick-and-span tile, Round his waist a vest of scarlet; In his mouth a sprig of shamrock, In his breast a dashing brooch-pin, Gold mosaic, set with sham stones; With his bludgeon, Millemlikefun, With his ankle-boots so jemmy. Warning said old fuddled Norah, "Go not forth, son Drop o' Wather, To the quarter of the West-End, To the regions, Hyde-Park, May Fair, Lest they nab you (chaps from Bow-street), Lest they clap you into prison." But the daring Drop o' Wather Heeded not her woman's warning; Forth he went along the alley, At each step three feet he measured; Tempting looked the shops about him, Tempting looked the things within them; Bright and fine the showy jewels, Smart and gay the newest fashions, Brown and smooth cigars in boxes, All that set his heart a-longing, Longing with the wish to crib them. * * * *

Now remains for me to tell of How he ended, Drop o' Wather; What befell him, after all his Knowing doings in the course of His career, his life in London. He had run his rigs so clever, He had risked so very closely, He had just avoided Newgate, He had narrowly 'scaped hanging; And a dream he had one midnight, Brought him to a sense of danger. Thus he dreamed; 'twas really awful. Not far off from Bedford Bury, By the muddy Big-Thame-Water, At the doorway of his lodging, Thought he stood one rainy morning, Thought he stood there, lounging idly, Watching fall the sooty raindrops From the eaves and roofs of houses, Watching fill the dirty puddles, Splashed and speckled with the drizzle; Flowed in filthy streams the gutters, Flowed the spouts as they ran over; Pouring, pelting, came the shower. * * * * Through the alley, sudden, briskly, Something in the hazy distance, Something in the misty morning, Came along the dripping pavement, Now seemed hurrying, now seemed hasting, Coming nearer, nearer, nearer. Was it Dingledong, the dustman? Was it Twopenny, the postman? Or the cobbler, Shoe-shoe-mender, Or the milkman, Water-well-it, With the raindrops dripping, dashing Profitably in the milk-cans? It was neither milkman, dustman, Cobbler, postman, none of those men, Coming on that misty morning; But a set of sturdy fellows, Fast advancing up the alley, Striding, splashing through the raindrops, Come with warrant strictly formal, From the distant Police-office, From Marlborough Street that morning, Come with magistrate's command to Apprehend and promptly take up Drop o' Wather for his trial. Then he thought he dreamed the scene of His conviction, condemnation; How he saw the Court dense crowded, Crowded with indignant faces; How he saw the dock, where he stood, How he saw the Bench, where Judge sat, How he saw the box for jury, Where the twelve sat looking fateful; Saw the Judge rise up and cover With black cap his hair of silver; Heard the word of solemn verdict,— "Guilty!" Words of fearful sentence,— "Hanged by neck," and "dead, dead, dead," last. Thought he fainted quite away there, And was carried straight to Newgate; In the dreary cell of felon, In condemned cell chained with fetters, There to 'wait the time appointed For his final execution. Dreamed he saw the black-robed Chaplain Come to speak of consolation; Dreamed he heard the words of comfort Sounding strangely (Ah, how strangely!— Sad to think how very strangely Come those words to ear of culprit, Never taught to seek their lessons, Never taught to know their meaning!) Dreamed he saw the fatal gibbet, Dreamed he saw the upturned faces Of the multitude below him; Dreamed he felt Jack Ketch's fingers Busy round his neck, adjusting Noose of rope that was to hang him Like a dog, not human creature! Dreamed that in that awful moment, Came a shout, a cry, a calling; Dreamed he heard "Reprieve!" loud shouted. Dreamed he heard of transportation Being his commuted sentence. This last thought possessed him wholly When he woke, and found he'd dreamed all. Grave he pondered, till it struck him, That he'd carry out the substance Of that portion of his dreaming, Where he felt relieved from terror. He resolved to seek his fortune In a fresh new scene of action; He determined on the scheme of Nothing less than transportation, Voluntary transportation, Willing, prompt, self-transportation, Most transporting transportation,— In words other,—emigration. And he said to mother Norah, To his wife his Minnie Wather, Better half, his Frisky-Whisky, "I've made up my mind to try and Live a new life, life more dacent; So let's go and try what turns up In the New World over yonder." On the deck stood Drop o' Wather, Turned and waved his hat at parting; On the deck of the good vessel, Outward bound for the long voyage, Stood and waved his hat at parting From the dear old Mother Country. * * * * * * Then a pause; and then he shouted, Shouted loudly Drop o' Wather: "Southward! Southward! now then, Southward!" And the ship went sailing forward On her way of trust and promise, Southward, southward; Drop o' Wather Looking steadfastly before him, As confronting firm the future. And his people gave a loud cheer, Just to cheer him up at parting, As the ship sailed southward, southward; And they cried, "Good-bye, my boy, then! Good bye, Norah! Good-bye, Minnie! Take good care of yourselves, darlints! Let us know how you all get on! Best of all good luck go wid' ye! So God bless ye! and God speed ye!" Thus departed Drop o' Wather, Drop o' Wather, the fine fellow, With his trust of doing better, With, at least, that firm intention. To the regions of the New World, Of the Bay entitled Bot'ny, To the Island of New Holland, To another "New" New South Wales, To the land of hope, Australia!

When the summer night descended, Sleepy, on the White-witch water, Came a lithe and lovely maiden, Gazing on the silent water— Gazing on the gleaming river, With her azure eyes and tender,— On the river glancing forward, Till the laughing wave sprang upward, Upward from his reedy hollow, With the lily in his bosom, With his crown of water-lilies— Curling ev'ry dimpled ripple As he sprung into the starlight, As he clasped her charmed reflection Glowing to his crystal bosom— As he whispered, "Fairest, fairest, Rest upon this crystal bosom!" * * *

When the summer Moon was sleeping On the Sands of Lower-Water— By the Lowest Water Margin— At the mark of Dead Low Water,— Came a lithe and lovely maiden, Crinolina, Wand'ring Whiteness, Gazing on the ebbing water— Gazing on the gleaming river— With her azure eyes and tender,— On the river glancing forward, Till the laughing Wave sprang upward, From his throne in Lower-Water,— Upwards from his reedy hollow, With the lily in his bosom, With his crown of water-lilies— Curling ev'ry dimpled ripple As he leapt into the starlight, As he clasped her charmed reflection Glowing to his crystal bosom— As he whisper'd "Wand'ring Whiteness, Rest upon my crystal bosom! Join this little water party."... Yet she spoke not, only murmured:— Down into the water stept she, Lowest Water—Dead Low Water— Down into the wavering river, Like a red deer in the sunset— Like a ripe leaf in the autumn: From her lips, as rose-buds snow-filled, Came a soft and dreamy music, Softer than the breath of summer, Softer than the murm'ring river, Than the cooing of Cushawa,— Sighs that melted as the snows melt, Silently and sweetly melted; Sounds that mingled with the crisping Foam upon the billow resting:— Still she spoke not, only murmured. From the forest shade primeval, Piggey-Wiggey looked out at her; He the most Successful Squeaker— He the very Youthful Porker— He the Everlasting Grunter— Gazed upon her there, and wondered! With his nose out, Rokey-pokey— And his tail up, Curley-wurley— Wondered what could be the matter, Wondered what the girl was up to— What the deuce her little game was.... And she floated down the river, Like a water-witch'd Ophelia.... FOR HER CRINOLINE SUSTAINED HER.

TWO belated men from Oxford, Members of a nameless college— Pip, the philosophic smoker, And his friend they called the Fluffer— Men belated in the country, Lost their way geologising; Reached the city after midnight, After lawful hour of entry, By the gateway of the college. And they did not rouse the porter, For they knew the dean was wrathful, And had vowed a weighty vengeance, If a man knocked in belated. But they gat them round a back way, Where a wall divides the college From intrusion of the vulgar. Stole they down a lonely footpath, And they halted where a sapling Very near the wall was growing; And above an ancient elm-tree Stretched a downward arm in welcome, To embrace the little sapling. Each in turn his toe adapted, Where a crevice in the stonework, In the worn and ancient stonework, Gave a short precarious foothold While they climbed the little sapling. Pip had scaled the wall, and sitting, Helped the Fluffer struggling upwards, When a Bobby, a policeman, Irreproachable policeman, Came upon them round the corner, And remarked, "Gents, I have caught you; You're a pretty pair of wallflowers!" Then the Fluffer answered briefly, Answered, "Bobby, you have caught us," And the careful Pip, the smoker, From his seat upon the wall-top, Echoed, "I believe you've caught us." But the Bobby, the policeman, Said, "I have not seen you do it— Seen you over any wall get; And perhaps I should not see you, If I happened to be looking In an opposite direction, With my back turned right upon you." Nothing further said the Bobby, Irreproachable policeman, Only grinned, and seemed to linger. Quick then Pip pulled up the Fluffer, And inquired, "Old fellow, Fluffer, Have you any coin about you?" And the Fluffer from his pockets, Brought the bob, the silver shilling, And the piece of six, the tizzy, And the piece of four, the joey, And the double bob, the florin. Down he threw them on the pathway; Then the Bobby, the policeman, Irreproachable policeman, Picked them up, and whispered softly, Somebody had dropped some money; He was lucky to have found it. After that did Pip, the smoker, And his friend they called the Fluffer, Get across the wall securely; But the Bobby, the policeman, Irreproachable policeman, Did not see them get across it; For he happened to be looking In an opposite direction, And his back was turned upon them.

Should you ask me why this meerschaum, Why these clay-pipes and churchwardens, With the odours of tobacco, With the oil and fume of "mixture," With the curling smoke of "bird's eye," With the gurgling of rank juices, With renewed expectorations As of sickness on the fore-deck? I should answer, I should tell you, From the cabbage, and the dust-heaps, From the old leeks of the Welshland, From the soil of kitchen gardens, From the mud of London sewers, From the garden-plots and churchyards, Where the linnet and cock-sparrow Feed upon the weeds and groundsel, I receive them as I buy them From the boxes of Havana, The concocter, the weird wizard. Should you ask how this Havana Made cigars so strong and soothing, Made the "bird's eye," and "York-river," I should answer, I should tell you, In the purlieus of the cities, In the cellars of the warehouse, In the dampness of the dungeon, Lie the rotten weeds that serve him; In the gutters and the sewers, In the melancholy alleys, Half-clad Arab boys collect them, Crossing-sweepers bring them to him, Costermongers keep them for him, And he turns them by his magic Into "cavendish" and "bird's-eye," For those clay-pipes and churchwardens, For this meerschaum, or he folds them, And "cigars" he duly labels On the box in which he sells them. From Figaro, October 7, 1874.

YOU shall hear how once our college, When our boat had done great wonders, And had bumped all boats before it, Gave a great and grand bump-supper. First the scouts, the sherry-swiggers, And the scouts' boys, beer-imbibers, Spread the things upon the table. * * * * And they placed upon the table Champagne-cup and rosy claret. When the lamp-black night descended Broad and dark upon the college, When the reading man, the bookworm, Grinding, sat among his Greek books, With his oak securely sported, And his tea-cup on the table, From their rooms in groups assembled Many guests to this great supper. Came the boating men in numbers, Came the cricketers in numbers, Came the athletes clothed with muscle, Came the singers, and the jesters, And the jokers, funny fellows; Came the active gymnast Biceps, Also Pugilis, his comrade, Very clever with the mittens; Came our sturdy plucky boat's crew, Remex Princeps, and his comrades, And the steerer, Gubernator. All were hungry, all were merry, Full of repartee and laughter. First they ate the slippy oyster, Native oyster, cool and luscious, And the ruddy blushing lobster, And the crab so rich and tasty; Then they ate the cold roast chicken, And the finely flavoured ox-tongue, And the cold roast mutton sheep's flesh, And the pigeon-pie, the dove-tart, And the well stuffed duck and turkey, With the sausages around it. Thus the guests, the mutton munchers, Played the noble game of chew-chew, Game of knife and fork and tumblers, Very popular in Oxford. * * * * Then a man, who came from Cornwall, Sang a song that clearly stated If a person named Trelawny, Should by any hap or hazard, Leave the world by death untimely, Many people in the south-west Part of England would insist on Knowing wherefore he had left it. Then the cheeky smiling Ginger Sang of lovely Angelina, Lady with the Grecian bend, and Of the maiden dressed in azure, With both eyes and hair of darkness. Then the guests said, "Sing some more songs; Sing to us immortal Ginger, Songs of laughter quaint and comic, With a merry roaring chorus, That we all may be more noisy. And the sleeping dons may waken." * * * * * All was shouting, noise, confusion, Till at last the guests exhausted, All departed hot and dizzy, Thus the entertainment ended, Thus the great bump-supper ended, Long to be discussed and talked of, Long to be remembered by the College in the days hereafter.

High among the tribes of Jon-buls, Was a tribe they called the Lor-yahs; Very cunning were the Lor-yahs: They could talk and twist and double Till the other tribes of Jon-buls Scarcely knew if they were standing On their heads or on their sandals. Chief among these learned Lor-yahs Was the great and good Ken-e-li. Brave and handsome, kind and gentle, Soft in voice and smooth in manner, Wise yet simple, strong yet tender, Was the mighty chief Ken-e-li. But the blind and stupid Jon-buls Could not see his many virtues; When he spake they shouted, "Bun-kum!" And they scoffed at good Ken-e-li. * * * * * The poem then describes the gentle manners of the inhabitants of the district An-lee, their mild sports and pastimes, and how they chose the great Ken-e-li to be their talking Em-pee in the council of their nation, and the manner in which he was received there.

Should you ask me of the Beetle, Of the Colorado Beetle!— Properly the Doryphora Decemlineata christen'd— I should answer, I should tell you, "He's a beggar for potatoes, Quite a glutton at potatoes— For he 'wolfs' the common 'murphy.' The Solanum tuberosum. (Thus the savans named the tater!") Should you ask me if the Beetle Were at all like other beetles— Like the 'chafer, for example, Him whom boys impale on pin-point— I should straight reply in this wise: "He, when young, is like the insect Whose abode is always burning, She whose children are departed.[4] But when fourteen days have glided, Then the Beetle is much longer; Very much more pointed-taily, Sharp as to his latter ending, Red thus far has been his colour, Red, the hue of guardsman's tunic, Red, the tint of postal pillars. But, as time and trouble try him, This our insect grows much paler, Fades and fades till he is yellow— Yellow e'en as one dyspeptic, Yellow with black stripes upon him." Should you further ask the poet, How to treat the little stranger? I should answer, I should bid you, "Stamp on him, where'er you find him! In the garden—in the pig-sty— In the parlour or the bed-room— In the roadway or the meadow— Squash the little wretch, confound him! That's the way that I should answer,— That's the sort of man that I am." From Funny Folks.

VERY wrath was Wolsey-Pullsey When he landed at Fort Durban, Hearing all the depredations Of the cunning Cetewayo; Called his captain Giffey-Wiffey, Saying, "Catch this Cetewayo, Muzzle thou this mischief-maker; Not so tangled is the jungle, Not so dark the deepest donga, But that thou canst track and find him." Then in hot pursuit departed Giffey-Wiffey and his soldiers, Through the jungle, through the forest; But they found not Cetewayo— Only found his bed and blanket. From the farthest dingey-donga Cetewayo looking backward, Placed his thumb upon his nostril, Made the sign, the Snookey-Wookey, Made the gesture of derision, Pulling bacon, piggey-whiggey, Hurling at them his defiance. Then cried Giffey-Wiffey loudly, "When I catch you, you black rascal, Cat-o'-nine tails, pussey-wussey, You and she shall be acquainted," Mockingly came back the answer: "When you catchee, when you catchee!" * * * *

Full of anger was Sir Garnet When he came among the Zulus, And found them in a precious muddle, Heard of all the wicked doings, All the luckless Zulus slaughter'd By the savage Cetewayo. Fuming in alarming fashion, Through his thick moustache he mutter'd Dire words of blood and thunder, Raging like an angry tiger— "I will nobble Cetewayo, Bag this horrid rascal," said he; "Not so wide the realm of Zulus, Not so terrible the bye-ways, That my anger shall not nail him, That my vengeance shall not spot him!" Then in hot pursuit departed Marter and the mighty hunters On the trail of Cetewayo. Through the bush where he had hidden, To the hut where he had rested— But they found not Cetewayo; Only in the charcoal embers And the smell of bad tobacco, Found the spot where he had halted; Found the tokens of his presence. Through the bush and brake and forest Ran the cunning Cetewayo, Till a lonely kraal he entered In the middle of the forest! Then the corpulent old sinner Heard the tramp of many footsteps, Heard the sound of many voices, Saying, "He, the white man's coming!" Got into a funk and shivered. Then came Marter, mighty Major, He, of all Dragoons the boldest, To the hut door riding straightway, Saying, "Where is Cetewayo, For his Majesty is wanted?" Then came forth the noble savage, On his breast a scarlet blanket, Proudly wearing à la toga, Gave himself to mighty Marter; Pass'd a captive 'twixt the soldiers! Ended now his strange adventures, Ended all his wily dodges, All his plottings and his schemings, And his hecatombs of Zulus! From Snatches of Song, by F. B. Doveton, 1880.

FROM his shoulder Hiawatha Took the camera of rosewood. Made of sliding, folding rosewood, Neatly put it all together. In its case it lay compactly, Folded into nearly nothing; But he opened out the hinges, Pushed and pulled the joints and hinges, Till it looked all squares and oblongs, Like a complicated figure In the Second Book of Euclid. This he perched upon a tripod— Crouched beneath its dusky cover— Stretched his hand, enforcing silence— Said, "Be motionless, I beg you!" Mystic, awful was the process. All the family in order, Sat before him for their pictures; Each, in turn, as he was taken, Volunteered his own suggestions, His ingenious suggestions. First the Governor, the Father, He suggested velvet curtains Looped about a massy pillar; And a corner of a table, Of a rosewood dining-table. He would hold a scroll of something, Hold it firmly in his left hand; He would keep his right hand buried (Like Napoleon) in his waistcoat; He would contemplate the distance With a look of pensive meaning, As of ducks that die in tempests. Grand, heroic was the notion: Yet the picture failed entirely— Failed because he moved a little, Moved, because he couldn't help it." * * * * Next to him the eldest daughter: She suggested very little, Only asked if he would take her With her look of 'passive beauty.' Her idea of passive beauty Was a squinting of the left eye, Was a drooping of the right eye, Was a smile that went up sideways To the corner of the nostrils."

Finally my Hiawatha Tumbled all the tribe together, ('Grouped' is not the right expression), And, as happy chance would have it, Did at last obtain a picture Where the faces all succeeded: Each came out a perfect likeness. Then they joined, and all abused it, Unrestrainedly abused it, As 'the worst and ugliest picture They could possibly have dreamed of.' * * * * * But my Hiawatha's patience, His politeness and his patience, Unaccountably had vanished, And he left that happy party. Left them in a mighty hurry, Stating that he would not stand it, Stating in emphatic language What he'd be before he'd stand it. Thus departed Hiawatha. From Rhyme? and Reason? by Lewis Carroll, 1883.

I was sitting in my wigwam, Looking from my lofty wigwam, On the fir-clad hill of Dryburgh, O'er the vale of Pepperhanger. Suddenly there came a rapping, The Postman's knock. Double rapping, double tapping, Sounding through the little wigwam, Startling quiet Pepperhanger. Thus the Government Messénjah, Heathen Mythology. Mercury of brazen buttons, Crimson-collared, azure-coated, Blue as when some ancient Briton, As enlightenment came o'er him, Thinking skin was rather shabby, History of England. Went and put a coat of Woad on. He, the carrier of all letters, He the bearer of all tidings To the lofty hill of Dryburgh, To the vale of Pepperhanger. Swiftly then I took the letter; Eagerly I read the message From a hospitable lady Of the vale of Pepperhanger, "Come at four o'clock to tiffin, If no better action urges; In the cool of Tuesday evening, Come and play a game of Tennis On my lawns at Pepperhanger." Thus her letter: then I sallied To her almost hidden wigwam. Which from East and rude Sou'-wester Evergreen the pine-tree shelters; Took my Tennis shoes of rubber, Mocassins of Indian rubber, Racket, too, of Horace Bayley, To the tournament of Tennis On the lawns of Pepperhanger. Lodge's Peerage. Came the lordly Tennyslornah. Came the Reverend B. A. Kander, Clergy List. Came the cute 'un, Charley Pleycynge, Came the smasher, young de Vorley, Came the great Sir V. O. Verandah, Came the warrior, Foragh Biscoe, Sludgeborough-in-the-Marsh. Strangers from a distant countrie, To the tournament of Tennis In the vale of Pepperhanger. There we had a game at Tennis, Outdoor Tennis let us call it, Lest the lords of real Tennis Should invoke a curse upon us; Hotly smote the fierce back-hander, Volleyed toward, also froward, Till the speeding ball appeared as One continuous flash of lightning: Shouted loudly cries of Tennis, "Forty-thirty" and "advantage," Giving fifteen, owing thirty For a bisque, anon half-thirty Owing, giving, taking, wanting, Till the brain was almost reeling, Colenso's Arithmetic. Handicapping calculations All too hard for Pepperhanger! Presently the tea-bell sounded Through the pine-tree-shelter'd gardens To the ne'er inebriating Ever cheering goblet summons. From Pastime, August 24, 1883.

YOU, who hold in grace and honour, Hold as one who did you kindness When he published former poems, Sang Evangeline the noble, Sang the golden Golden Legend, Sang the songs the Voices utter, Crying in the night and darkness, Sang how unto the Red Planet Mars he gave the Night's First Watches, Henry Wadsworth, whose adnomen (Coming awkward for the accents Into this his latest rhythm) Write we as Protracted Fellow, Or in Latin, Longus Comes— Buy the Song of Hiawatha. Should you ask me, Is the poem Worthy of its predecessors, Worthy of the sweet conceptions Of the manly, nervous diction Of the phrase, concise or pliant, Of the songs that sped the pulses, Of the songs that gemmed the eyelash, Of the other works of Henry? I should answer, I should tell you, You may wish that you may get it— Don't you wish that you may get it? * * * * Should you ask me, What's its nature? Ask me, What's the kind of poem? Ask me in respectful language, Touching your respectful beaver, Kicking back your manly hind-leg, Like to one who sees his betters; I should answer, I should tell you, 'Tis a poem in this metre, And embalming the traditions, Tables, rites, and superstitions Of the various tribes of Indians. * * * * I should answer, I should tell you Shut your mouth and go to David, David, Mr. Punch's neighbour, Buy the Song of Hiawatha. Read and learn, and then be thankful Unto Punch and Henry Wadsworth, Punch and noble Henry Wadsworth. Truer poet, better fellow, Than to be annoyed at jesting From his friend, great Punch, who loves him.

"Howlawaya, the quack doctor; Mosieson, the cheap slop seller; Mechisteel and Warrenblacking; Camomile, the Pillofnorton; Marywedlake, oaten bruiser; Doctorjong, the great cod liver; Revalenta, the Dubarrie, Rowlandskalidore, and Trotman's Doubledupperambulator."

MILES STANDISH, old Puritan soldier, courts gal Priscilla by proxy; Gal likes the proxy the best, so Miles, in a rage, takes and hooks it. Folks think he's killed, but he ain't, and comes back, as a friend, to the wedding, If you call this ink-Standish stuff poetry, Punch will soon reel you off Miles. Shirley Brooks on "The Courtship of Miles Standish."

This is the music primeval. The festival singers from Bayreuth, Solemn and stern, with their shirt fronts studded, and swallow-tailed garments, Stand like Druids of old, with voices sad and prophetic, Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms, Loud from its ligneous caverns, the deep-voiced neighbouring organ Moans, and in accents disconsolate answers the orchestra wailing. This is the music primeval, and when it is ended, Herr Wagner Is called to the front, and is crowned with a wreath by the Madame Materna; Then there is hugging and kissing and weeping with Wagner Wilhelmj, And Richter, to whom is presented a bâton—brand new, silver-mounted; But where are the beautiful maidens who solemnly sat in the boxes? Where are the men—tawny swells—who talked of clubs, races, or billiards, Silenced from time unto time by thunders and earthquakes orchestral? Empty are boxes and stalls, the occupants all have departed, And the critic goes—glad to survive the music primeval of Wagner. Funny Folks.

The shades of night were falling fast, As through an Alpine village passed, A youth, who bore 'mid snow and ice, A banner with this strange device, Excelsior! His brow was sad; his eye beneath Flashed like a faulchion from its sheath, And like a silver clarion rung, The accents of that unknown tongue. Excelsior!

"That nightee tim begin chop-chop, One young man walkee, no can stop, Maskee colo! maskee icee! He cally that flag wid chop so nicee Topside Galah! "He too muchee solly, one piecee eye Look see sharp—so fashion—allo same my, He talkee largee, talkee stlong, Too muchee culio-allo same gong— Topside Galah! "Inside that housee he can see light, And evely loom got fire all light. Outside, that icee largee high, Inside he mouf, he plenty cly, Topside Galah! "Olo man talkee, 'No can walkee!' Bimeby lain come-welly darkee, Hab got water, too muchee wide! Maskee! my wantchee go topside— Topside Galah! "'Man-man,' one galo talkee he, What for you go topside look see?' And one tim more he plenty cly, But allo tim walkee plenty high, Topside Galah! "'Take care that spilem-tlee young man! Take care that icee!'" He no man-man; That coolie chin-chin he 'Good night,' He talkee, 'My can go all lite!' Topside Galah! "Joss Pidgin man chop-chop begin That morning tim that joss chin-chin, He no man see, he plenty fear, Cause some man speakee, he can hear Topside Galah! "That young man die—one largee dog see, Too muchee bobbely, findee he; Hand muchee colo, allo same icee, Have piecee flag wid chop so nicee, Topside Galah! MOLAL. "You too much laughee! what for sing? I tink you no savey what ting! Supposee you no b'long cleber inside, More better you go walkee topside, Topside Galah!"

The shades of night were falling fast, When through the spacious High there passed A form in gown of strange device, Who uttered in a tone of ice, "Your name and college!" His brow was black, his eye beneath Shone like a wrathful bull-dog's teeth; And still amid the darkness rung The accents of his well-known tongue; "Your name and college!" "Try not the High," the porter said, "Dark lowers the proctor, bull-dog led." But forth in "loud" illegal dress The youth went, crying "Let him guess My name and college!" (Half-an-hour elapses.) "O stay," his comrade said, "and rest Thy wearied limbs and panting chest!" To gain their wind the fliers try, When lo! a figure gliding nigh, Cries, "Name and college!" "Beware the proctor's sacred paunch, Beware the rushing bull-dog's launch!" This was the porter's last good-night; A voice replied, "It serves me right For cutting college!" Next morn, as tolled the stroke of nine, Two youths, in dread of penal fine, Slunk silent through the awful gate, And "hoped they were not much too late, They'd run from college!" There, like a mouse awaiting cat, Awful and calm the proctor sat; And, like a death-knell booming far, A voice fell stern: "This week you are Confined to college!" College Rhymes, 1863.

The shades of night had fallen (at last!) When from the Eagle Tavern pass'd A youth, who bore, in manual vice, A pot of something monstrous nice— XX—oh lor! His brow was bad—his young eye scann'd The frothing flagon in his hand, And like a gurgling streamlet sprung The accents to that thirsty tongue, XX—oh lor! In happy homes he saw them grub On stout, and oysters from a tub,— The dismal gas-light gleamed without, And from his lips escaped a shout, "XX—oh lor!" "Young man," the Sage observ'd, "just stay, And let me dip my beak, I say, The pewter is deep, and I am dry!" "Perceiv'st thou verdure in my eye? XX—oh lor!" "Oh stop," the maiden cried, "and lend Thy beery burden here, my friend—" Th' unbidden tear regretful rose, But still his thumb-tip sought his nose; XX—oh lor! "Beware the gutter at thy feet! Beware the Dragons of the street! Beware lest thirsty Bob you meet!" This was the ultimate remark; A voice replied far thro' the dark, "XX—oh lor!" That night, by watchmen on their round, The person in a ditch was found; Still grasping in his manual vice, That pot—once fill'd with something nice— XX—oh lor!!!

I. The theatre was filling fast, As through the open door there passed A stranger with a scarlet tie, That instantly provoked the cry Of "Turn him out!" II. His nose was red, his lips beneath, In frequent smiles disclosed his teeth, And upward when he turned his eye, In ceaseless hubbub came the cry, "Ugh! Turn him out!" III. "Stay, stay," a master said, "and rest, The 'Vice' cares little how you're dressed," But loud from undergraduate lung The cry continually rung, "Ugh! Turn him out!" IV. The public orator began To spout his Latin like a man; His lips moved fast, but not a word Was audible; we only heard, "Ugh! Turn him out!" V. The Gaisford and the Newdigate And Stanhope shared no better fate; No single voice could drown the cry That roared out from the gallery, "Ugh! Turn him out!" VI. The 'Vice' rose up from off his chair, And raised his finger in the air, And gently strove the noise to quell, But louder came the ceaseless yell, "Ugh! Turn him out." VII. I left the place with aching brain, And deafened ear that throbbed again, And as I sauntered down the High, Upon the breeze I heard the cry, "Ugh! Turn him out!" Lays of Modern Oxford (Chapman and Hall, 1874.)

The price of meat was rising fast, As to his daily duty passed A toiler who, with bitter laugh, Had read upon his Telegraph, Excelsior! His brow was sad; because it bore A costlier hat than e'er before: His feet were sadder; he'd to pay For boots that quickly wore away, Excelsior! In oyster shops he saw the shells Wherein the luscious bivalve dwells, But had no chance of shelling out, And murmured, as he dreamt of stout, Excelsior! "Try this rump-steak!" the butcher said; "At Tillyfour the ox was bred; Juicy it is, M'Combie's pride, And only one-and-six." He sighed— Excelsior! "Stay!" cried a maiden of the bar, "A shilling buys a good cigar— Ten more some icy dry champagne." He shook his head and cried again, Excelsior! "Take comfort," said a Hebrew mild; "I love to help a Christian child. My moderate terms are cent. per cent. 'Twas sixty once," he thought, and went— Excelsior! At dead of night that wayward youth, So saddened by the eternal truth, Was by a pious peeler found, Who kindly raised him from the ground, Excelsior! He uttered words that can't be told, Said eating game was eating gold, Showered maledictions on the souls Of those who raise the price of coals— Excelsior! When morning shone upon the town, He had to pay five shillings down, And blessed the rulers of the skies The price of Justice does not rise, Excelsior! MORTIMER COLLINS. The London Magazine, February, 1876.

The shades of night were some time past, And snow had fallen thick and fast; A youth, who broom and shovel bore, Was heard to call outside the door, "Clean your doorstep, Marm?" In happy homes he saw the light Of household fires gleam warm and bright, The singing kettle brightly shone— Again, again, his well-known tone— "Clean your doorstep, Marm?" His brow was sad—his chilly nose, Like fiery coals, glow'd in the snows, And, as the kitchen bell he rang, In accents clear he loudly sang, "Clean your doorstep, Marm?" "Oh, stay," the girl said, "while I see, As I takes up the toast and tea; And if your charge is not too high"— "A tanner's all," the poor boy's cry, "To clean your doorstep, Marm?" He set to work with all his might, But suddenly went out of sight;— Half-buried in the coals was found The youth who sang that piteous sound, "Clean your doorstep, Marm?" Some rascal in the night had twigged, The coal-iron loose, which he had prigged, "If I'd a know'd a hole was there, I would o' coorse ha' took more care Cleaning your doorstep, Marm?"

The shades of night were gone—at last, As, all agog to break her fast, A maiden sat, 'mid kith and kin, While bent, impatient to begin, Egg-shell she o'er. Ye Paterfamilias. His brow was staid; his eyes beneath Were closed. Not so his lips and teeth, Whence, like a copper clarion rung "Grace before meat." Still, listening, hung Egg-shell she o'er. Hys remonstrance. "Try not the egg!" the "old man" cried, "Dark lowers some prodigy inside! What if fowl play?"—no more he said, For her protecting fingers spread Egg-shell she o'er. Ye Mayden—her Prayer. "Stay, Pa!" the maiden said, "let's test Your query, ere upon this breast You anguish pile." Her moistening eye Here drooped, and struggled with a sigh, Egg-shell she o'er. Ye Fynde. At break of shell, as chickenward (For aught she knew) her spoon she stirred, A something stubborn claimed a stare. "My brooch!" cried with a startled air, Egg-shell she o'er. Ye Ende. There in the middle—so they say— Hard, but albuminous it lay. And, when she grew serener, far, Fished the thing up, with "dear old star!" Egg-shell she o'er.

I. THE shades of night were falling fast, As through the quad a gownsman passed, Whose seedy look and sunken cheek Bespoke as plain as words could speak, "Those horrid schools!" II. His coat was worn; his bags beneath Were quite too short his legs to sheath, While like a penny trumpet rung The treble of that mournful tongue, "Those horrid schools!" III. In happy homes he left the light Of household fires both warm and bright; Before the spectral "Great Go" shone, And from his lips escaped a groan, "Those horrid schools!" IV. "Try but to pass," his tutor said, "A class is not within your head. The yawning gulf is deep and wide!" But still that treble voice replied, "Those horrid schools!" V. "Oh stay!" the maiden said, "and rest Thy learned head upon my breast!" A tear stood in his sunken eye, He blushed, and answered, looking shy, "Those horrid schools!" VI. "Beware tobacco's withered plant! Beware of vinous stimulant!" This was the gov'nor's last good-bye, A voice replied, from out the fly, "Those horrid schools!" VII. At break of day, as through the gloom The scout when going from room to room, Uttered the oft repeated call, A voice came from the bedroom small, "Those horrid schools!" VIII. The poor young sap asleep quite sound, Half buried in the sheets was found, Still grasping, nibbled by the mice, An Ethics with the strange device, "Those horrid schools!" IX. There in the twilight, cold and grey, Dirty, unwashen, there he lay, While from his scout the sentence flowed, "Oh drat those books—them schools be blowed, "Them 'orrid schools!" College Rhymes, 1861

Chill August's storms were piping loud, When through a gaping London crowd, There passed a youth, who still was heard To mutter the perplexing word, "That Thirty-four!" His eyes were wild; his brow above Was crumpled like an old kid glove; And like some hoarse crow's grating note That word still quivered in his throat, "That Thirty-four!" "Oh, give it up!" his comrades said, "It only muddles your poor head; It is not worth your finding out." He answered with a wailing shout, "That Thirty-four!" "Art not content," the maiden said, "To solve the 'Fifteen' one instead?" He paused-his tearful eyes he dried— Gulped down a sob, then sadly sighed, "That Thirty-four!" At midnight, on their high resort, The cats were startled at their sport, To hear, beneath one roof, a tone Gasp out, betwixt a snore and groan, "That Thirty-four!"

THE clouds or smoke were rising fast, As through a college room there passed A youth who bore, 'spite sage advice, A "baccy"-pouch with strange device, "Tobacco smoke!" His brow was sad; his eye beneath Stared on a pipe, laid in its sheath, And in his ears there ever rung The accents of the donor's tongue, "Tobacco smoke!" * * * * "Try not the shag!" the old man said, It is o'er strong for thy young head, Dire its effects to those untried Heedless he was, and but replied, "Tobacco smoke!" "Oh, stay," the maiden said, "and test Our Latakia—'tis the best!" He grasped his packet of birds'-eye, And only muttered with a sigh, "Tobacco smoke!" "Beware; don't set your room alight— The college might object—good-night!" Such were the words the scholar spoke, And scarcely heard through closing oak, "Tobacco smoke!" That Freshman by his scout was found Lying all prone upon the ground, And still his hand grasped like a vice The "baccy"-pouch with strange device, "Tobacco smoke!" * * * * R. C., Oxford. College Rhymes, 1864.

The shades of night were falling fast, As through St. Stephen's portals passed An Irish band, not over nice, Whose banners bore the strange device— "Obstructionists!" Each brow was sad, each eye beneath Glared at Cavan, Dungarvan, Meath; And soon in Erin's brogue was heard Again their policy absurd— "Obstructionists!" * * * * "Tempt not the Commons," Northcote said, "Dark lowers the tempest overhead; Too long its rules have been defied;" But still the Irish rowdies cried— "Obstructionists!" * * * * "Beware the Ministerial branch— Beware the Tory avalanche!" Was Biggar's caution, and he smiled, When for a nap he left the wild "Obstructionists!" At noon that day O'Donnell craved A respite, but the Commons braved The contest, and their only prayer Was to demolish then and there— "Obstructionists!" The chaplain came his usual round, The Commons sitting still he found, Using each possible device To crush that band, not over nice— "Obstructionists!" But late on that eventful day The "stumbling blocks" were kicked away; South Africa rejoiced afar, And Biggar moaned, "It's done we are!"— "Obstructionists!" Funny Folks.

THE shades of night were falling fast Round Hughenden,—for some time past A Statesman, working day and night, A flowery fiction did indite— Endymion. His hair was dark, and you could trace A soupçon of an ancient race; And still, in quite his early way, He wrote of Lords and Ladies gay— Endymion. "Tempt not the Press," Lord Rowton said. "Of critics have a timely dread: They skinned you when you wrote Lothair." He answered, with his nose in air, "Endymion!" "Oh stay," the Tory said, "and make That wicked GLADSTONE writhe and quake." A twinkle flash'd from out his eye: "I'll give him rope," he said, "and try Endymion!" "Beware the day they may begin To break the Treaty of Berlin!" This was the Tory's last appeal. He only said, "I will reveal Endymion!" And so, when Ireland was aflame, The Eastern Question just the same, Conservatives beheld with doubt Their Leader bring his novel out— Endymion. And all who waded through the book, Met Titles, Tailor, Prince and Dook: What wonder it is all the rage? For epigram adorns thy page, Endymion! There, in the twilight, cold and grey, Serene in Curzon Street he lay. "This cheque from LONGMANS' will go far," A voice said. "Now for a cigar!" Endymion! Punch, December 4, 1880.

THE summer day was waning fast, As o'er a London heath there pass'd A youth who walked with steps precise, And murmured, more than once or twice, "The Heath is ours!" His eyes flashed brightly in his head, Till, as the notice-boards he read, His cheeks for one short moment blenched, but soon he cried, with fingers clenched, "The Heath is ours!" Then he recalled the large amount The people'd paid that they might count That Heath their own, and then again He shouted out, with might and main, "The Heath is ours!" As thus he cried, a keeper came, And roughly said, "Young man! Your name? I'll summons you for spouting here!" "Bah," cried the youth, "I have no fear— The Heath is ours!" The liveried myrmidon but jeered, "Well, that's the queerest tale I've heerd; This 'eath's been taken by our Board." Much moved, the youth in answer roared, "The Heath is ours!" "Rouse not his ire," an old man said; "You have not, p'rhaps, the by-laws read? Alas! he's might upon his side." "Go to!" the eager youth replied, "The Heath is ours!" "O stay!" a maiden said, "nor pass In that mad way across the grass! You will be fined. Oh, please don't go!" "Thanks!" cried the youth, "but I must show The Heath is ours!" * * * * Then, rising 'gainst crass Bumble's yoke, He every stupid by-law broke, And when stern keepers asked his name, Still loud the self-same answer came: "The Heath is ours!" As evening fell, a tottering form, All heedless of the gathering storm, Defied each notice-board he passed, And cried—determined to the last: "The Heath is ours!" * * * * A youth, when next the sun came round, Buried in summonses was found; Still gasping, as yet more were served, In accents, feeble and unnerved: "The Heath is ours!" * * * * There to the Police Court brought next day, He'd many pounds and costs to pay; And from his lips no more was heard That cry he'd learned was so absurd: "The Heath is ours!" Truth, August 2, 1883.

The shades of night were falling fast, One mile from town was Knightsbridge passed, We found ourselves (it was not nice) Tripped up by two men in a trice, And felt so sore! Our brow was muddy, as beneath Their pressure we could scarce draw breath, Our "withers" seemed to be unwrung. As we were in the gutter flung, And felt so sore! We never shall forget that night Rising in pitiable plight, We found our jewellery gone, Ourselves a sight to look upon, We felt so sore! "Try not to pass!" they might have said. Alas! they tripped us up instead. Such warning was to us denied, And stretched upon the pavement wide, We felt so sore! "Oh, stay a moment, that arrest May police vigilance attest," Was what we were inclined to cry, But we could only heave a sigh— We felt so sore! Beware a court, where the roads branch, Be wary, lest an avalanche Of blows should, when out late at night, On your poor occiput alight, We felt so sore! They ran away with watch and guard, And left us on the pavement hard, Whilst we to follow did not dare, Because we had no breath to spare— We felt so sore! No passers by to make a sound, And not a "peeler" to be found. Still gasping from their hands of vice, Glad to escape at any price, We felt so sore! Then all at once we cried "hooray!" Here comes a "Bobby" on his way. A LONG FELLOW we spied afar, And mentally exclaimed, "Ha! ha!" Excelsior. T. F. DILLON CROKER.