TIMBUCTOO.—PART I.

In Africa (a quarter of the world), Men's skins are black, their hair is crisp and curl'd, And somewhere there, unknown to public view, A mighty city lies, called Timbuctoo.

5 There stalks the tiger,—there the lion roars, Who sometimes eats the luckless blackamoors; All that he leaves of them the monster throws To jackals, vultures, dogs, cats, kites and crows; His hunger thus the forest monster gluts, 10 And then lies down 'neath trees called cocoa-nuts.

Quick issue out, with musket, torch, and brand, The sturdy blackamoors, a dusky band! The beast is found—pop goes the musketoons— The lion falls covered with horrid wounds.

15 At home their lives in pleasure always flow, But many have a different lot to know!

They're often caught and sold as slaves, alas!

Thus men from highest joy to sorrow pass, Yet though thy monarch and thy nobles boil 20 Rack and molasses in Jamaica's isle; Desolate Africa! thou art lovely yet!! One heart yet beats which ne'er thee shall forget. What though thy maidens are a blackish brown, Does virtue dwell in whiter breasts alone? 25 Oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no! It shall not, must not, cannot, e'er be so. The day shall come when Albion's self shall feel Stern Afric's wrath, and writhe 'neath Afric's steel. I see her tribes the hill of glory mount, 30 And sell their sugars on their own account; While round her throne the prostrate nations come, 32 Sue for her rice, and barter for her rum!

I went to see thee at the Globe, Oriana! I tried thy mystery to probe, Oriana! But Oh! long talk, bare limbs, rich robe, Gems decking hand or pendant lobe, Oriana! Would tire the patience out of Job, Oriana! I saw the lime-light shadows flinging, Oriana! I saw black boys, a mattress bringing, Oriana! I saw thee to forlorn hope clinging, I heard the bells of faërie ringing, Oriana; And (out of tune) a chorus singing, Oriana! I saw a high-priest sage and hoary, Oriana; "Friend WAGGLES" struggling with a story, Oriana. A youth, in managerial glory, Striving in vain, tho' con amore, Oriana, As (save the mark!) primo tenore, Oriana, I came! I saw! I mark'd each word, Oriana! Ah, had my visit been deferr'd, Oriana, Some better things I might have heard; But judging from what then occurr'd, Oriana, You seem'd a trifle too absurd, Oriana.

Her parcels, tied with many a knot, Were thickly labelled, one and all; And sitting down beside the lot, She waited for the train to call. The waiting-room looked sad and strange— Closed was the booking-office latch! She watched the sleepy porter scratch His head, or whistle as a change; She only said, "The night is dreary— It cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary— I would I were in bed." She sought the grim refreshment stall— The saucy barmaid long had slept; O'er biscuit, bun, and sandwich small The shining beetles slowly crept. Hard by a signal post alway Shot coloured beams into the dark. She called the porter to remark, In tones the opposite of gay: "The hour is late, the night is dreary— It cometh not," she said; Then mentally: "The man is beery— I would I were in bed." About the middle of the night She heard the shrill steam-whistle blow, And saw the signals gleaming bright; And from dark pens the oxen's low Came to her; but she watched with pain A train with many a cattle van Sweep past her, and the signal man Reversed his lamps, and snoozed again. She only said, "The night is dreary— It cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, Of lamps, green, white, and red!" The tired officials kept aloof, The telegraphic wires did sound Their notes Æolian on the roof, And goods trains shunting did confound Her sense; yet still she waited on, Until the porter came in sight— "There is no other train to-night; The next will stop at early dawn." She only said, "I am aweary; It seems to me," she said, "Your tables, like yourself, are beery— Go find me now a bed."

In picturesque confusion lies Her scattered finery on the floor, And here and there her handmaid flies With parcels to increase the store. But dolefully she paced the room, Although it was her wedding morn, And often spoke in tones of scorn, And brow of ever-deepening gloom. She only said, "The morn is dreary;" "It cometh not," she said. She said, "The milliner is weary, Or stayed too late in bed." She hears the sound of pipe and drum, And from the window looketh she: Nodding their heads before her come The merry Teuton minstrelsy, Who wait to play "The Wedding March." A member of the "force" stalks by, And little urchins mocking cry, "Oh, ain't he swallowed lots o' starch?" She laughed not, for she heard a chime: "Eleven o'clock!" she said. "I wonder if 'twill be in time? I would that I were wed." How swiftly now the minutes pass. With ribbons, laces, pins, and thread— With peeps into the looking-glass, And tossings of the pretty head. Full half an hour of anxious strife; But still no wedding dress is there To decorate the form so fair Of her who would be made a wife. "Three quarters!" cried she weeping—weary. "It cometh now!" they said. The maiden looked no longer dreary, But hastened to be wed.

LIGHTSOME, brightsome, cousin mine, Easy, breezy, Caroline! With thy locks all raven-shaded, From thy merry brow up-braided, And thine eyes of laughter full, Brightsome cousin mine! Thou in chains of love hast bound me— Wherefore dost thou flit around me, Laughter-loving Caroline! When I fain would go to sleep In my easy chair, Wherefore on my slumbers creep— Wherefore start me from repose, Tickling of my hookèd nose, Pulling of my hair? Wherefore, then, if thou dost love me, So to words of anger move me, Corking of this face of mine, Tricksy cousin Caroline? * * * Would she only say she'd love me, Winsome, tinsome, Caroline, Unto such excess 'twould move me, Teazing, pleasing, cousin mine! That she might the live-long day Undermine the snuffer-tray, Tickle still my hookèd nose, Startle me from calm repose With her pretty persecution; Throw the tongs against my shins, Run me through and through with pins, Like a piercèd cushion; Would she only say she'd love me, Darning-needles should not move me; But, reclining back I'd say, "Dearest! there's the snuffer-tray; Pinch, O pinch those legs of mine! Cork me, cousin Caroline!"

WHO would not be The Laureate bold, With his butt of sherry To keep him merry, And nothing to do but to pocket his gold? 'Tis I would be the Laureate bold! When the days are hot, and the sun is strong, I'd lounge in the gateway all the day long, With Her Majesty's footmen in crimson and gold. I'd care not a pin for the waiting lord; But I'd lie on my back on the smooth greensward With a straw in my mouth, and an open vest, And the cool wind blowing upon my breast, And I'd vacantly stare at the clear blue sky, And watch the clouds that are listless as I, Lazily, lazily! And I'd pick the moss and daisies white, And chew their stalks with a nibbling bite; And I'd let my fancies roam abroad In search of a hint for a birthday ode, Crazily, crazily! * * * * * Oh, would not that be a merry life, Apart from care and apart from strife, With the Laureate's wine, and the Laureate's pay, And no deductions at quarter-day! Oh, that would be the post for me! With plenty to get and nothing to do, But to deck a pet poodle with ribbons of blue, And whistle a tune to the Queen's cockatoo, And scribble of verses remarkably few, And at evening empty a bottle or two! Quaffingly, quaffingly! 'Tis I would be The Laureate bold, With my butt of sherry To keep me merry, And nothing to do but to pocket my gold!

Who would be A Mermaid dank. Bobbing about In a sort of tank, For the crowd to see At a shilling a head, In doubt if it be Alive or dead?

I would not be a Mermaid dank, Flopping about in a Westminster tank, Like a shabby sham at a country fair, And by far the ugliest monster there; Exposed to the Cockneys' vulgar chaff, And the learned gush of the Daily T., To be called a porpoise or ocean-calf, Or a seven-foot slug from the deep blue sea. Me a Manatee? Dickens a bit! The Mermaid of fiction was something fine, A fish-tailed Siren given to sit On a handy rock, 'midst the breezy brine, Each golden curl with a comb of pearl Arranging in many a taking twirl, Like a free-and-easy nautical girl. Taking a bath in a primitive style Without any bother of dress or machine, And likely the wandering tar to beguile, If that Mariner chanced to be anyways green. But your Modern Mermaid! good gracious me! Who'd be inwiggled away from his tracks Or driven to bung up his ears with wax By the wiles and smiles of a Manatee? A sort of shapeless squab sea-lubber, A blundering bulk of leather and blubber, Like an overgrown bottle of India-rubber; The clumsiest, wobblingest, queerest of creatures, With nothing but small gimlet-holes for features. This a Mermaid? Oh, don't tell me! It's simply some sly scientifical spree, And I mean to say it's a thundering shame To bestow the Siren's respectable name, Which savours of all that is rare and romantic, On such a preposterous monster as this is, Whose hideous phiz and ridiculous antic, Would simply have frightened the mates of Ulysses. Fancy the horror of blubberous kisses From a mouth that's like a tarpaulin flap! That Merman must be a most amorous chap Who would sue her and woo her under the sea. As TENNYSON sings—a nice treat it would be Were a Mermaid merely a Manatee!

"The poet in a golden clime was born, With golden stars above; Dower'd with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, The love of love." "He saw thro' life and death, thro' good and ill, He saw thro' his own soul. The marvel of the everlasting will, An open scroll," "Before him lay; with echoing feet he threaded The secretest walks of fame: The viewless arrows of his thoughts were headed And wing'd with flame."

THE Poet in a dismal clime was born, With lurid stars above; Dower'd with a taste for hate, a love for scorn, A scorn for love. He glanced through life and death, through good and ill, He glanced through his own soul; And found all dead as a dishonoured bill, Or emptied bowl. He thrummed his lay; with mincing feet he threaded The walks of coterie fame: On the dull arrows of his thought were threaded Concetti tame And pop-gun pellets from his lisping tongue, Erratic in their flight, From studio to drawing-room he flung, Filling with light And mazèd phantasies each morbid mind, Which, albeit lacking wit, Like dandelion seeds blown by the wind, In weak souls lit, Took shallow root, and springing up anew Where'er they dropt, behold, Like to the parent plant in semblance, grew A weed as bold, And fitly furnished all abroad to fling Fresh mockeries of truth, And throng with poisonous blooms the verdant Spring Of weak-kneed youth. Till many minds were lit with borrowed beams Of an unwholesome fire; And many fed their sick souls with hot dreams Of vague desire. Thus trash was multiplied on trash; the world Like a Gehenna glowed, And through the clouds of Stygian dark upcurled, Foul radiance flowed; And Licence lifted in that false sunrise Her bold and brazen brow; While Purity before her burning eyes Melted like snow. There was red blood upon her trailing robes, Lit by those lurid skies; And round the hollow circles of the globes Of her hot eyes, And on her robe's hem, "FOLLY" showed in flames With "PHRENSY," names to shake Coherency and sense—misleading names— And when she spake, Her words did gather fury as they ran, And as mock lightning and stage thunder, With firework flash and empty rataplan, Make schoolboys wonder, So thrilled thro' fools her windy words. No sword Of truth her right hand twirl'd, But one bad Poet's scrawl, and with his word She bored the world.

They were two daughters of one race: One dead, the other took her place; Brotherly love? oh! fiddle-de-dee! The Noes were but one forty-four; I'm backed by retrospective law; Oh! the Ayes were two forty-three! Who'd run a tilt 'gainst common sense? I married for convenience; Brotherly love? oh! fiddle-de-dee! 'Tis wiser th' ills we know to bear, Than run the chance of worse elsewhere; Oh! the Ayes were two forty-three! Twice married—but I'm bound to state Th' expediency of this is great; Brotherly love? oh! fiddle-de-dee! I'm now no worse off than before, I only have one mother-in-law, And she's one too many for me!

The Lady Clara V. de V. Presents her very best regards To that misguided Alfred T. (With one of her enamell'd cards). Though uninclin'd to give offence, The Lady Clara begs to hint That Master Alfred's common sense Deserts him utterly in print. The Lady Clara can but say That always from the very first She snubb'd in her decisive way The hopes that silly Alfred nurs'd. The fondest words that ever fell From Lady Clara, when they met, Were "How d'ye do? I hope you're well!" Or else "The weather's very wet." To show a disregard for truth By penning scurrilous attacks, Appears to Lady C. in sooth Like stabbing folks behind their backs. The age of chivalry, she fears, Is gone for good, since noble dames Who irritate low sonneteers Get pelted with improper names. The Lady Clara cannot think What kind of pleasure can accrue From wasting paper, pens, and ink, On statements the reverse of true. If Master Launcelot, one fine day, (Urged on by madness or by malt,) Destroy'd himself—can Alfred say The Lady Clara was in fault? Her Ladyship needs no advice How time and money should be spent, And can't pursue at any price The plan that Alfred T. has sent. She does not in the least object To let the "foolish yeoman" go, But wishes—let him recollect— That he should move to Jericho.

NAY, I cannot come into the garden just now, Tho' it vexes me much to refuse: But I must have the next set of waltzes, I vow, With Lieutenant de Boots of the Blues. I am sure you'll be heartily pleas'd when you hear That our ball has been quite a success. As for me—I've been looking a monster, my dear, In that old fashion'd guy of a dress. You had better at once hurry home, dear, to bed; It is getting so dreadfully late. You may catch the bronchitis or cold in the head If you linger so long at our gate. Don't be obstinate Alfy; come, take my advice, For I know you're in want of repose. Take a basin of gruel (you'll find it so nice), And remember to tallow your nose. No, I tell you I can't and I shan't get away, For De Boots has implor'd me to sing. As to you—if you like it, of course you can stay; You were always an obstinate thing. If you feel it a pleasure to talk to the flow'rs About "babble and revel and wine," When you might have been snoring for two or three hours, Why, it's not the least business of mine.

"COURAGE!" they said, and pointed through the gloom; "There is a haven in yon fishful clime." At dinner-time they came into a room, In which it seemèd all day dinner-time. All in the midst the banquet rose sublime, Whose menu excellent no tongue might blame; And round about the board, without their Prime, Without their prime delight and chiefest fame, The mild-eyed muddle-headed whitebait-eaters came. They sat them down upon the yellow chairs, And feasted gaily as in days of yore; And sweet it was to jest of late affairs, Of Ward and Power and Cat; but evermore Most weary seemed the Session almost o'er, Weary Hibernian nights of barren seed. Then some one said, "We shall come here no more!" And all at once they cried, "No more, indeed! The ballot shall release; we will no longer lead!"

Why are we weighed upon with weariness, With foreign crises and with home distress, When all we do is mocked at by the Press? All men like peace: why should we toil alone? We always toil, and nevermore have rest; But yield perpetual jest, Still from one blunder to another thrown: Nor ever pack our tricks, And cease from politics; Nor vote our last against the wild O'Connor; Nor hearken what the moving spirit said, "Let there be Peace with Honour!" Why should we always toil, when England's trust is dead? Let us alone. What pleasure could we have To war with Afghans? But the Chief said "Fight! The times are perilous and the Jingoes rave, Whate'er I do is right." Yea, interests are hard to reconcile; 'Tis hard to please yet help the little isle; We have done neither quite. Though we change the music ever, yet the people scorn our song; O rest ye, brother Ministers, we shall not labour long.

I read, before I fell into a doze, Some book about old fashions—curious tales Of bye-gone fancies—kirtles and trunk hose— Of hoops, and fardingales— Of mediæval milliners, whose taste Preluded our vile fashions of to day— Of how they moulded the ancestral waist With steel-bound taffeta— Of powdered heroes of the later days— Of Hamlets strutting in their full court suits, Slouch-hatted villains of transpontine plays, All belt and bucket boots— So shape chased shape (as swiftly as, when knocks Of angry tradesmen bluster at the door, Turgid with envelopes my letter box Boils over on the floor). Till fancy, running riot in my brain, Elbowed the PAST from out the PRESENT'S way; And opened in my dream, distinct and plain, A vision of to-day. Methought that I was on what's called "a spree," Yet sadly pensive in the motley throng. Where thrills through clouds of smoke the melody Of idiotic song; Where youth with tipsy rapture drowns in beer All common sense, votes decency a bore, But, to the shapely limbs and sensuous leer, Yells out a loud "Encore—" Then flashed before me in the gaslights' glare A form to make the boldest hold his breath, She, who by reckless leapings in mid air, Plays pitch and toss with Death. Shame on the gaping crowds who only know Sensation in the chance of broken necks! Shame on the manliness that cries "Bravo" To such a scorn of sex! I saw that now, since License holds such sway, The comic muse her false position feels, And that her sister may not gain the day, Has taken to her heels. And then methought I stood in fairy bowers, Where Dulness hides behind the mask of Fun, Where tin-foil and Dutch metal do for flowers, And lime-light is the sun; Where Art groans under an unseemly ban, And airy nothings pass for full attire, The Stage appeals but to the baser man, And th' only blush, Red Fire! * * * * Then starting I awoke from my nightmare. A nightmare? No! the truth came clear to me. I'd dream'd the truth—bare facts (O much too bare!) And stern reality.

O, SWEET pale Margaret, O, rare pale Margaret, What lit your eyes with tearful power, Like moonlight on a falling shower? Who lent you, love, your mortal dower Of pensive thought and aspect pale, Your melancholy sweet and frail As perfume of the cuckoo-power? * * * * What can it matter, Margaret, What songs below the waning stars The lion-heart, Plantagenet, Sang, looking thro' his prison bars? Exquisite Margaret, who can tell The last wild thought of Chatelet, Just ere the fallen axe did part The burning brain from the true heart, Even in her sight he loved so well? * * * *

O, slipshod Mary Ann, O, draggled Mary Ann, What gives your arms such fearful power To raise the dust in blinding shower? Who gave you strength, your mortal dower, To beat the mats as with a flail. To lift with ease that heavy pail? What can it matter, Mary Ann, What songs the long-legged son of Mars— The butcher or the cat's meat man— Sings to you thro' the area bars? O, red-armed Mary, you may tell The milkman, when he fills our can, You wonder how he has the heart To let the pump play such a part In milk for her he loves so well! You stand not in such attitudes, You are not quite so plain, Nor so sulky in your moods, As your twin-sister, Mary Jane, Your face is cleaner, and your nose Not touched with such a grimy hue, With cold ærially blue, Or crimson as the damask rose! ALBANY CLARKE.

You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear, To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New Year, Of all the glad New Year, mother, the maddest merriest day; For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. * * * * * As I came up the valley whom think ye I should see, But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree? He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday,— But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. They say he's dying all for love, but that can never be: They say his heart is breaking, mother—what is that to me? There's many a bolder lad 'ill woo me any summer day, And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. * * * * * TENNYSON.

THE sun is in the sky, mother, the flowers are springing fair, And the melody of woodland birds is stirring in the air; The river, smiling to the sky, glides onward to the sea, And happiness is everywhere, oh mother, but with me! They are going to the church, mother,—I hear the marriage bell: It booms along the upland, oh! it haunts me like a knell; He leads her on his arm, mother, he cheers her faltering step, And closely by his side she clings,—she does, the demirep! They are crossing by the stile, mother, where we so oft have stood, The stile beside the shady thorn, at the corner of the wood; And the boughs, that wont to murmur back the words that won my ear, Wave their silver blossoms o'er him, as he leads his bridal fere. He will pass beside the stream, mother, where first my hand he pressed, By the meadow where, with quivering lip, his passion he confessed: And down the hedgerows where we've strayed again and yet again; But he will not think of me, mother, his broken-hearted Jane! He said that I was proud, mother,—that I looked for rank and gold; He said I did not love him,—he said my words were cold; He said I kept him off and on, in hopes of higher game,— And it may be that I did, mother, but who hasn't done the same? I did not know my heart, mother,—I know it now too late; I thought that I without a pang could wed some nobler mate; But no nobler suitor sought me,—and he has taken wing. And my heart is gone, and I am left a lone and blighted thing. You may lay me in my bed, mother,—my head is throbbing sore, And mother, prithee, let the sheets be duly aired before; And if you'd do a kindness to your poor desponding child, Draw me a pot of beer, mother,—and, mother, draw it mild!

They must wrap and cloak me warmly, cloak me warmly mother dear, For to-morrow is the iciest day of all the sad new year. Of all the sad new year, mother, the snowiest, blowiest day, And I'm to be Queen of the May, mother, I'm to be Queen of the May. Punch.

You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear, There's a work I wouldn't miss for worlds, a sight my heart does cheer: Well, I know you'll not believe, mother, a word of what I say; But they're carting the boilers away, mother, they're carting the boilers away. There's many a black eye, of course, a moral one I mean, Has been exchanged about them, for many a fight they've seen; But no more need of cavil now, the fact's as plain as day, They're carting the boilers away, mother, they're carting the boilers away. Good taste had slept so sound, mother, I thought t'would never wake. But the Press, at last, has given it a most decided shake; Yes, at length it's up and doing, oh! and isn't Brompton gay While they re carting its boilers away, mother, they're carting its boilers away! As I came up from Knightsbridge whom think ye I should see, But, Mr. Cole, my ancient friend, best known as our C.B.! He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday— And he carted the boilers away, mother, he carted the boilers away. You know it is his boast, mother, that in bricks all red and white, He means to raise, on what appears an eligible ground site, A palace for which Parliament will very gladly pay— When the boilers are carted away, mother, the boilers are carted away. The turnstile and refreshment rooms, umbrella man, and charts, The chimney pots, paints, plaster casts, and analysed jam tarts, Yes, all are gone! No longer art her triumphs can display, For they've carted her boilers away, mother, they've carted her boilers away. The cabs they come and go, mother, the omnibuses pass, The public scarce believe their eyes; they think the thing a farce, They'd got resigned to Brompton, thought its boilers meant to stay! Yet they're carting those boilers away, mother, they're carting those boilers away. South Kensington no more, mother, need fear to be despised, The three most ugly things on earth, man ever yet devised, No longer shall scare fashion off, and keep the world at bay; Yes, the boilers are carted away, mother, the boilers are carted away. So please call me very early—Oh! I mean it—mother dear, For I wouldn't miss the sight for worlds, it's such a bright idea; They're nearly done—a pole or two will go and then—hooray! The boilers are carted away, mother, are carted for ever away!

You must wake and call me early; call me early, mother dear; To-morrow will be the saddest time of Ireland's sad new year. Of all this threat'ning year, mother, the blackest, foulest, day, For I'm to be tried by Judge May, mother, I'm to be tried by Judge May. There's many a black, black crime, mother, they charge against your lad; There's Boycotting and murder, and everything that's bad; And I'm bound to be convicted, though innocent, they say— For I'm to be tried by Judge May, mother, I'm to be tried by Judge May. You know I wasn't there, mother, when all the row was made; I never made a wicked speech, or led a Land League raid; But the judge has made up his mind to put your boy away— For I'm to be tried by Judge May, mother, I'm to be tried by Judge May. So wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear, For at ten o'clock, before the Court, I'm summoned to appear. There's little chance of justice, he's a partisan they say— This fierce and biassed judge, mother, this Lord Chief Justice May.

You may take and bill me early, bill me early, HENRY dear; I'm going to make the biggest hit of all the coming year; Of all the coming year, HENRY, the safest spec to pay; For I'm going to write you a play, HENRY, I'm going to write you a play. There's lots of blank, blank verse, you know, but none so neat as mine; There's GILBERT, and there's WILLS, and—well, some others in their line; But none of them are Laureates, though clever in their way; So I'm going to write you a play, HENRY, I'm going to write you a play. 'Twill be all right at night, HENRY, on that my name I'll stake: I've got a good Egyptian plot, that's safe, I'm told, to take. You're poisoned in a temple, Miss TERRY dies at bay— I am writing you such a play, HENRY, I am writing you such a play. As I came towards the theatre, whom think ye I should see, But Messrs. HARE and KENDAL, looking sorrowful at me? They were thinking of The Falcon I wrote but yesterday, And they didn't ask me for a play, HENRY, they didn't ask me for a play. I know your ghost draws well, HENRY, but don't be in a fright, My forte isn't stage-effect: when I write plays, I write. You'll have five pages at a time,—as much as you can say; But a Poet is writing your play, HENRY, a Poet is writing your play. Some critics tell me that my place is not behind the scenes; That if I must descend I might stop short at magazines. But as Queen Mary from the doors the money turned away, You must long for another big play, HENRY, you must long for another big play. For fads and fancies grow, HENRY, to wither like the grass,— The latest, culture;—and for that, my name doth current pass. So that's why, though I can't construct, and you feel all astray, You've asked me to write you a play, HENRY, you've asked me to write you a play. So take and bill me early, bill me early HENRY, dear; I'm going to make the biggest hit of all the coming year; Of all the coming year, HENRY:—and if it shouldn't pay:— Still I shall have written your play, HENRY, I shall have written your play! From Punch, December 4th, 1880.

"I beg very humbly to submit a poem to the Royal Family, the Bench, the Bar, and the British public on the opening of the new Law Courts."

John Bulljohn was a citizen Of credit and renown, Of Volunteers a captain he Of famous London town. John Bulljohn's mother said, "My dear, Though living here we've been This goodness knows how long, yet we Have never seen the Queen. "To-morrow to the new Law Courts Our sovereign does repair;" Says John, "Good gracious! so she does— Dear mother, we'll be there." And ere he went to bed, J. B. His aged ma did kiss; And, feeling like a boy again, Did softly warble this: You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear— To-morrow'll be the happiest time of all this famous year; Of all this famous year, mother, the grandest, jolliest day, For look on our Queen we may, mother, look on our Queen we may. There's many a loyal heart, they say, but none so true as mine, There's Sandy and there's Dougal, across the Border line; But none so true as Johnny, not e'en by Alum Bay, So look on my Queen I may, mother, look on my Queen I may. All the Strand, dear mother, 'll be gay with flag and green; And they're selling seats in windows for gold to see the Queen; O long shall Johnny remember the Law Courts' opening day, When look on the Queen he may, mother, look on the Queen he may. In London when the Queen was low, Too sad at heart about to go, Or in our streets her face to show Did loyalty fade rapidly. But London saw another sight When she, our Liege, recovered quite, Came, on a morning clear and bright, Through arches, flags, and greenery. To where the new Law Courts were made, Attended by a cavalcade. O, how the English crowd hoorayed! And all was joy and revelry. Then shook the sky with thunder riven, For never heartier cheers were given, As through the streets the Queen was driven, Attended by her soldiery.

"So all day long the noise of battle roll'd Among the mountains by the winter sea; Until King Arthur's table, man by man, Had fall'n in Lyonness about their Lord, King Arthur; then because his wound was deep, The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him, Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights, And bore him to a chapel nigh the field, A broken chancel with a broken cross, That stood on a dark strait of barren land. On one side lay the Ocean, and on one Lay a great water, and the moon was full.

"The sequel of to-day unsolders all The goodliest fellowship of famous knights Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep They sleep—the men I loved. I think that we Shall never more, at any future time, Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds, Walking about the gardens and the halls Of Camelot, as in the days that were. I perish by this people which I made,— Tho' Merlin sware that I should come again To rule once more—but let what will be, be, I am so deeply smitten through the helm That without help I cannot last till morn. Thou, therefore, take my brand Excalibur, Which was my pride: * * * * * take Excalibur, And fling him far into the middle mere: Watch what thou seest, and lightly bring me word."

"And if indeed I cast the brand away, Surely a precious thing, one worthy note, Should thus be lost for ever from the earth, Which might have pleased the eyes of many men. What good should follow this, if this were done? What harm, undone? Deep harm to disobey, Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. Were it well to obey then, if a king demand An act unprofitable against himself? The King is sick, and knows not what he does. What record, or what relic of my lord Should be to aftertime, but empty breath And rumours of a doubt? but were this kept, Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings, Some one might show it at a joust of arms, Saying, 'King Arthur's sword, Excalibur.'"

* * * —So all the year the noise of talk had roared Before the Speaker's chair at Westminster, Until King Guillaume's council, man by man Were tired to death, as also was their Chief, King Guillaume. Then, observing he was bored, The bold Sir Donald C. invited him (Sir Donald C., the last of all his knights) And bore him off to Barrow by the sea— Barrow-in-Furness, with a ruined church That stood beside the melancholy waves. Then spoke King Guillaume to Sir Donald C.: "Next session will most probably upset The goodliest Ministry of virtuous men Whereof this world holds record. Not for long Shall we contrive our schemes of policy, Meeting within the offices and halls Of Downing Street, as in the days that were. I perish by these voters which I make— Although Sir Andrew says that I may live To rule once more; but let what will be, be. He tells me that it is not good for me To cut down oaks at Haw'rden, as before. Thou, therefore, take my axe Exbrummagem, Which was my pride—for thou rememberest how The lustiest tree would fall beneath my strokes— But now delay not; take Exbrummagem, And fling him overboard when out at sea." Then bold Sir Donald took Exbrummagem, And went, and lighted his cigar, and thought: "And if, indeed, I cast the axe away, Surely a precious thing, one worthy note, Should thus be lost for ever from the earth, Which might have pleased the eyes of many men. The King is cross, and knows not what he says. What record, or what relic of my lord, Should be to aftertime, but empty breath Condensed in Hansard's books? But were this kept, Preserved in some Mechanics' Institute, It might be brought out by some lecturer, Saying, 'King Guillaume's axe, Exbrummagem, With which he cut down trees at Hawarden!' So might he illustrate a stupid speech To all the people, winning reverence." So spake he, thinking of constituents, And kept Exbrummagem for future use. * * * * * Then came Sir Donald, gave the King his arm, And brought him to the margin of the sea. And at his call there hove a roomy barge, Manned with a gallant crew from stem to stern; And so they entered, and put off, and reached The stately Pembroke Castle, and were ware That all the decks were dense with manly forms In naval caps and jackets, and with these Three dames in yachting suits; and from them rose A cheer of greeting, and they stretched their hands, Took him on board, and laughed, and petted him. And so they sailed; and while the sea was calm They talked, and sang, and feasted much, and had, In Yankee parlance, "quite a high old time." But when the wind blew, and the waves arose, It sometimes happened that the grand old face Was white and colourless, and cries of "Steward!" Proceeded from the lips of eloquence. And like a prostrate oak-tree lay the King Wrapped in a shepherd's plaid and mackintosh: Not like that Guillaume who, with collars high, From brow to boot a meteor of debate, Shot through the lists at Westminster, and charged The serried ranks of bold Conservatives. The St. James's Gazette, Sept. 19, 1883.

I journeyed by the train to Coventry; I pleased a groom with porter near the bridge, And asked which way the pageant came; and then I saw it pass—'twas passing strange—and this Is what they've turned the City's legend to. Not even were it to remove a tax Could a Godiva ride abroad to-day As she rode forth a thousand summers back: Lord Campbell's Act, and Collette both forbid! Still did the people clamour for a show; So was it settled there should be forthwith A pageant such as Coventry did love. Whence came it that, whilst yet the sunny moon Of roses showed her crescent horn; the day Fix'd for the pageant dawn'd on Coventry; And Sanger—he of circus fame—arose Betimes; for much was on his mind. Perchance An elephant had shed its trunk; perchance Some giant camel had "the hump" too much; Or piebald horse had moulted all its spots. Most feared he, though, lest she who had agreed To act Godiva, having slept on it, Should from her bargain flinch; so sought he her With, "Well, and ride you through the town to-day?" And she—for eggs and toast had made her bold— "Ay, that will I!" Then he: "'Tis well!" and went And whistled as he walked. She, left alone, When the effect of eggs and toast had gone, Did half repent her promise; then again Thought of her fee, and so grew bold once more. And as she sat, rejoicing that 'twas warm, There came the sound of trumpet and of drum, And driving past she saw the circus car, And on it was a placard calling all Good people to come forth and gaze at her. Then knew she that undressing time had come, So sped her to the inner room, and there Unhook'd the clinging bodice of her frock, Hair-pinned on locks to show'r down to her knee, Donned the rose "fleshings" that she was to wear; Then throwing on a shawl she waited there Till such time as they brought her palfrey, trapt In purple, blazoned with armorial gold. So came at last the sound of pattering hoofs, And up the stairs a voice, "The 'oss is come!" And tripping to the door she found a steed, Milk-white and bony, meek, and pink of eye, And with a chair and Mr. Sanger's help Clomb on his back, and then one bang'd a door And shouted, "Right!" and so the charger past. Thus rode she forth, clothed on with scantiness, And in the pageant duly took her place, Along with camels and with elephants And men-in-armour, weakest at the knee, And Foresters with horns that wouldn't blow, And clumsy bows, and Odd-fellows as well, In fool regalia; and the Volunteers, And Fire Brigade, and several brazen bands. But chiefly 'twas on her all eyes were fix'd, And women wondered what she could have got For making of herself a show; and men Opined that cotton wool she'd freely used; And one low churl, compact of thankless earth, Drawing a pin and rushing at her horse Prick'd—but it was no good, the steed jogged on As theretofore: and thanks to frequent bangs And shouts of "Right" did reach the end at last Of the day's progress, much to its delight. And she was glad, and hastening to her room She slipp'd her garments on, and issuing claim'd Her fee, and took the earliest train to town, And in the ballet, in the foremost row, Danced with her fellows, winning great renown, As one who rode through Coventry in "tights," And built herself an evanescent name.

"Break, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, O sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me." "O well for the fisherman's boy, That he shouts with his sister at play! O well for the sailor lad, That he sings in his boat on the bay!" "And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill; But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand, And the sound of a voice that is still!" "Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me."

BREAK, break, break! Plate, decanter, and glass! It's enough to worry a cherub, And loosen the tongue of an ass. It's all very well to declare That your "helbow" caught in the door, And your "fut" must 'ave 'itched in a nail, And you're very sorry, you're sure. And I'm very hard up just now, Three troublesome duns to stop, But I wish I'd only got half the coin I've paid to that china-shop. Break, break, break! You must order another new set. It's good for trade; but I'd like to know What is the commission you get? From Odd Echoes from Oxford, 1872.

Break, break, break, My cups and my saucers, O scout! And I'm glad that my tongue can't utter The oaths that my soul points out. It's well for the china-shop man, Who gets a fresh order each day; And deucedly well for yourself, Who are in the said china-man's pay. And my stately vases go To your uncle's, I ween, to be cashed; But it's O for the light of my broken lamp, And the tick of my clock that is smashed. Break, break, break! At the foot of thy stairs in glee; But the coin I have spent in glass that is smashed Will never come back to me. From the "Shotover Papers," Oxford, 1875.

BREAK, break, break, On thy cold hard stones, O Sea! And I hope that my tongue won't utter The curses that rise in me. O well for the fisherman's boy, If he likes to be soused with the spray! O well for the sailor lad, As he paddles about in the bay! And the ships swim happily on To their haven under the hill: But O for a clutch at that vanish'd hand, And a kick—for I'm catching a chill! Break, break, break, At my poor bare feet, O Sea! But the artful scamp who has collar'd my clothes Will never come back to me. From Funny Folks, 1879.

BREAK, break, break, O voice!—let me urge thy plea!— O lower the Pitch, lest utter Despair be the end of me! 'Tis well for the fiddles to squeak, The bassoon to grunt in its play: 'Twere well had I lungs of brass, Or that nothing but strings gave way! Break, break, break, O voice! I must urge thy plea, For the tender skin of my larynx is torn, And I fail in my upper G!

TAKE! Take! Take! Oh grabber of swag from the sea, And I shouldn't quite like to utter The thoughts that occur to me! Oh, ill for the fisherman poor That he toils for a trifle all day, And ill for the much-diddled public That has through the nose to pay. And the swelling monopolist drives To his villa at Haverstock Hill, But it's O for the number of poor men's lives Food-stinted to plump his till! Take! Take! Take! Oh grabber of swag from the sea, But you'll render a reckoning one of these days To the public and Mr. P.

Cousins, leave me here a little, in lawn tennis you excel; Leave me here, you only bore me, I shall come at "luncheon bell!" 'Tis the place (but rather older)—I was in my eighteenth year, When I first met utter Oscar, and I thought him such a dear! How about the beach I wandered, listening while that youth sublime Spouted verses by the dozen, which he said he wrote for Time. But his form was somewhat fatter than should be for one so young, And his round eyes spoke the language of his glib and oily tongue. In the spring the fleshly poet writes a sweet and soothing sonnet: In the spring a wise young woman buys a more becoming bonnet. And he said, "Oh, have you anything in Consols or Per Cents.? For my property's in Ireland, and I cannot get the rents?" Oh, my Oscar! Impecunious! Oh, intense!—if nothing worse— Oh, those too-too precious poems! Oh, that too-too empty purse! Then I said, "I've an allowance from an old maternal aunt, Just enough for dress; but as to victuals—no, I really can't!" And he turned, his face was frightful, pale with anger for poor me; Was it fancy that he muttered something like a big, big D—? * * * * * As my husband is, his wife is, rich, the envy of the town; How a life in shabby lodgings would have dragged my spirit down! How my beauty would have faded, growing daily paler, thinner! Making puddings, washing clothing, planning for the children's dinner. Comes the butler, "Lunch is ready, madam!" iced champagne, I know, Mayonnaise and lobster salad; I am hungry and—I go.

Cronies leave me in the bar-room, while as yet I've cash to spend, Leave me here, and if I'm wanted, 'mum's' the word to every friend, 'Tis the place, I can assure you, if from funds you wish to part; Yet for these you'll get a mixture, wisely stirred will warm the heart. This old house is situated in a street well-known as High; Here the choicest spirits gather, when the moon is in the sky. Oft at night I've seen the taper seemingly to multiply And assume these quaintish fashions so deceptive to the eye. Till in fancy I've been lifted high above this earthly ball; And the lights, like stars have twinkled, in the mirrors on the wall. In the happiness that followed, I've forgot life's cankering care, Yet from these Elysian dreamings I've waked to misery and despair. In this mood I've heard, with pleasure common mortals cannot know, Grand debates, and songs and speeches, which from sparkling genius flow. Then I've built aerial castles towering up to heights sublime, And I've questioned in my fancy, if such blissfulness were mine. For the nonce, a powerful statesman, I have ruled with iron sway, Millions of my fellow-creatures, who, of course, were rougher clay. Changing, then, to mighty warrior, at the head of armies bold, I've crushed all who dared oppose me, just for glory, not for gold. Or, again, as learned historian, I've noted down the deeds of yore, Woven in a graceful fashion, mines of thought from ancient lore. Burning passions, that consumed me, caused my throbbing heart to swell, Or, when seized with poet's fancy, I've attempted oft to tell. But the finest of our fancies very quickly disappear, If from thoughtfulness we're wakened by the foolish jest or jeer. White-sleeved waiters can't appreciate thoughts superior to red wine, And that Act, by one Mackenzie, foeman is to Muses Nine. In my rev'rie I was shaken, by a hand, and gruffly told That the hour had just departed, when with safety wine was sold. From The Modern Athenian, 18th March, 1876.

O BRITISH Public, many-fadded public, Queer British Public, harken ere I die! It was the bright forenoon: one silvery cloud Had with soft sprinkle laid the gathered dust Of Mayfair. To the studio they came. Scant-robed they came before the camera. And at their feet was laid a carpet fair, Lemon, and cinnamon, and ghostly grey, Purple, and primrose. And the artist rose And overhead the swift spring-curtains drew This way and that in many a subtle shift For fine effect of light and shade, and placed Background of statuary and drooping boughs, With cloud and curtain, tower and portico. O British Public harken ere I die! I heard great Heré. She to Paris made Proffer of popular power, public rule, Unquestioned, an elastic revenue Wherewith to buoy and back Imperial plans, Honour (with Peace) she said, and tax and toll From many a Place of Arms and haven large, And Scientific Frontiers, and all else That patriotic potency may crave; To all most welcome, seeing men in power Then only are like gods, having attained Rest in "another place," and quiet seats Above the tumult, safe from Dissolution, In shelter of their great majority. O British Public harken ere I die! She ceased, and Paris held the golden fruit Out at arm's length, so much the thought of power Flattered his spirit; but Pallas where she stood Somewhat apart, her straight and stately limbs Uplifted, and her aspect high, if cold. The while above her full and earnest eye Over her firm set mouth and haughty cheek Kept watch, waiting decision, made reply. "Unselfishness, high honour, justice clear, These three alone give worth to sovereign power. Yet not for power (power of itself Is a base burden) but to hold as law The fiat high, 'Be just and do not fear.' And because right is right to follow right, With a serene contempt of consequence." * * * * * * And Paris pondered, and I cried, "Oh! Paris, Give it to Pallas!" But he heard me not, Or hearing, would not heed me. Woe is me! O British Public, many-headed Public, Crass British Public, harken ere I die! Audacious Aphrodite, beautiful Fresh as the purple hyacinth's rain-washed bells, With soft seductive fingers backward drew From her bold brow and bosom her long hair Auricomous, and bared her shining throat And shoulder; on the carpet her small feet Shone lily-like, and on her rounded form, Between the shadows of the studio blinds, Shifted the cunning "high lights" as she moved. O British Public, harken ere I die! She, with a subtle smile in her bold eyes, The herald of her triumph, well assured, Half whispered in his ear, "I promise thee The negative of my next photograph!" She spoke and laughed, I shut my eyes in fear, And when I looked, Paris had not the apple. And I beheld great Heré's angry eyes As she withdrew from forth the studio door, And I was left alone within the place! * * * * From Punch, December, 1879.

With blackest mud, the locked-up sots Were splashed and covered, one and all. And rusty nails, and callous knots, Stuck from the bench against the wall. The wooden bed felt hard and strange; Lost was the key that oped the latch; To light his pipe he had no match, Within the Bow Street station's range. He only said, "It's very dreary;" "Bail will not come," he said; He said, "I have been very beery, I would I were a-bed!" The rain fell like a sluice that even; His Clarence boots could not be dried, But had been soaked since half-past seven— To get them off in vain he tried. After the smashing of his hat, Just as the new police came by, And took him into custody, He thought, I've been a precious flat, He only said, "The cell is dreary;" "Bail cometh not," he said; He said, "I must be very beery, I wish I were in bed!" Upon the middle of the night, Waking, he heard a stunning row; Some jolly cocks sang out till light, And would not keep still anyhow. He wished to bribe, but had no change Within his pockets, all forlorn, And so he kept awake till morn Within that lonely Bow Street grange. He only said, "The cell is dreary;" "Bail cometh not," he said; He said, "I must be very beery, I'd rather be in bed!" All night within that gloomy cell The keys within the padlock creaked; The tipsy 'gents' bawled out as well, And in the dungeons yelled and shrieked. Policemen slyly prowled about; Their faces glimmered through the door, But brought not, though he did implore, One humble glass of cold without. He only said, "The night is dreary;" "Bail cometh not," he said; He said, "I have been very beery, I would I were in bed!" At morn, the noise of boys aloof, Inspectors' orders, and the chaff Of cads upon the busses' roof, To Poplar bound, too much by half Did prove; but most he loathed the hour When Mr. Jardine chose to say Five shillings he would have to pay, Now he was in policeman's power. Then said he, "This is very dreary;" "Bail will not come," he said; He said, "I'll never more get beery, But go straight home to bed!"

My brain is wearied with thy prate, Boreäna, I sit and curse my hapless fate, Boreäna, What time the rain pours down the gutter, Still your platitudes you utter Boreäna, I unholy wishes mutter, Boreäna. Ere the night-light's flame was fading, Boreäna, While the cats were serenading, Boreäna, Sheep were bleating, oxen lowing, We heard the beasts to Smithfield going, Boreäna, You said the butcher's bill was owing, Boreäna. At Cremorne, we two alone, Boreäna, Ere my wisdom teeth were grown, Boreäna, While the dancers gaily hopped, And the brass-band never stopped, Boreäna, I to thee the question popped, Boreäna. She stood behind the area gate, Boreäna, She did it just to aggravate, Boreäna, She saw me wink, she heard me swear, She recognised the scoundrel there, Boreäna, She knows a bailiff I can't bear, Boreäna. The cursed writ he pushed it through, Boreäna, The area rails, and gave it you, Boreäna, The infernal summons me unnerved, He from his duty never swerved, Boreäna, On thee, my bride, the writ he served, Boreäna. Oh! narrow-minded county court, Boreäna, 'Tis death to me, to them 'tis sport, Boreäna, Oh! stab in my most tender place, My pocket, oh! the deep disgrace, Boreäna, I fell down flat upon my face, Boreäna. They fined me at the next court day, Boreäna, Locked up, how can I get away, Boreäna? I don't perceive of hope a ray, 'Tis a true bill, but oh! I say, Boreäna, How without tin am I to pay, Boreäna? * * * * When turns the never-pausing mill, Boreäna, I tread, I do not dare stand still, Boreäna: At home, of beer thou drink'st thy fill, I may not come to thee and swill, Boreäna, I hear the rolling of the mill, Boreäna.

I BUILT my soul a lordly pleasure-house, Wherein at ease for aye to dwell, I said, "O soul, make merry and carouse, Dear soul, for all is well." * * * * And "while the world runs round and round," I said, "Reign thou apart, a quiet king, Still as while Saturn whirls, his steadfast shade Sleeps on his luminous ring."

I BUILT myself a high-art pleasure-house For my sick soul at peace therein to dwell. I said, "I have the true æsthetic nous, And can design it well." 'Twas dull red brick, with gables set galore, And little light did through the windows pass, For 'twas shut out by thick lead frames that bore Quarrels of grey-green glass, The dadoed walls, in green were stained, no tint Which common blue and yellow mingled make; But a green y-wrought—of sepia without stint— With indigo and lake. Nor grainèd panel nor enamelled slate Was there to jar on my artistic sight; Plain ebon wood-work framed the open grate, And over,—blue and white. Two lovely griffins, made of burnished brass, I found, to guard the fireplace on each side. With curling tails (though one was lost, alas!), And mouths that gapèd wide. All round the rooms were shelves of black-dyed deal, On which stood pots and plates of every hue; Whilst far apart two lilièd angels kneel In Robbia white and blue. One deep recess, serge-covered, like a lawn, Held, on a brass-nailed shelf, its seat of state, Apart from other pots and pans withdrawn, An ancient kitchen-plate. "Hence whilst the world runs round and round," I said, "I will send forth my wits to gather wool; With task or toil I will not vex my head; But on that plate feed full." So day and night upon that plate I gazed, And strove to fix thereon what thought I had; Until my sight grew dim, and my sense dazed, And my digestion bad. My brain shrank like a nut adust and dried; I felt that I was not at all myself, And longed to lay my dwindled wits beside That plate upon that shelf. That ancient plate of willow-pattern blue, Which so absorbèd had my every thought, I seemed to live thereon, and slowly grew Confucian, clear of thought. One year I gazed upon that much-loved plate, Till at the last the sight began to pall. I said, "How know I 'tis of ancient date, Or China-ware at all?" So when one year was wholly finishèd, I put that willow-pattern plate away. "Now rather bring me Satsuma!" I said, "Or blue-green Cloisonnée. "For I am sick of this pervading hue, Steepèd wherein this landscape, stream, and sky, To my heart-weary question, 'Is all blue?' 'Yea, all is blue,' reply. "Yet do not smash the plate I so admired, When first my high æsthetic house I built; I may come back to it, of Dresden tired, And Sèvres gaily gilt."

If you're waking, call me early, mother, fine, or wet, or bleak; To-morrow is the happiest day of all the Ascot week; It is the Chiswick fête, mother, of flowers and people gay, And I'll be queen, if I may, mother, I'll be queen, if I may. There's many a bright barege, they say, but none so bright as mine, And whiter gloves, that have been cleaned, and smell of turpentine; But none so nice as mine, I know, and so they all will say; And I'll be queen, if I may, mother, I'll be queen, if I may. I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake, If you do not shout at my bedside, and give me a good shake; For I have got those gloves to trim with blonde and ribbons gay. And I'm to be queen, if I may, mother; I'm to be queen, if I may. As I came home to-day, mother, whom think you I should meet, But Harry—looking at a cab, upset in Oxford Street; He thought of when we met, to learn the Polka of Miss Rae— But I'll be queen, if I may, mother; I'll be queen, if I may. They say he wears moustachios, that my chosen he may be; They say he's left off raking, mother—what is that to me? I shall meet all the Fusiliers upon the Chiswick day; And I will be queen, if I may, mother; I will be queen if I may. The night cabs come and go, mother, with panes of mended glass, And all the things about us seem to clatter as they pass; The roads are dry and dusty; it will be a fine, fine day, And I'm to be queen, if I may, mother; I'm to be queen, if I may. The weather-glass hung in the hall has turned to "fair" from "showers." The sea-weed crackles and feels dry, that's hanging 'midst the flowers, Vauxhall, too, is not open, so 'twill be a fine, fine day; And I will be queen, if I may, mother; I will be queen, if I may. So call me, if you're waking; call me, mother, from my rest— The "Middle Horticultural" is sure to be the best. Of all the three this one will be the brightest, happiest day; And I will be queen, if I may, mother; I will be queen, if I may.

If you're waking, call me early; call me early, mother dear; The soaking rain of yesterday has spoilt my dress I fear; I've caught a shocking cold, mamma, so make a cup for me, Of what sly folks call, blackthorn, and facetious grocers, tea. I started forth in floss and flowers to have a pleasant day, When all at once down came the wet, and hurried all away; And now there's not a flower but is washed out by the rain: I wonder if the colours, mother, will come round again. I have been wild and wayward, but I am not wayward now, I think of my allowance, and I'm sure I don't know how I shall make both ends meet. Papa will be so very wild; He says, already mother, I'm his most expensive child. Just say to Harry a kind word, and tell him not to fret; Perhaps I was cross, but then he knows it was so very wet; Had it been fine—I cannot tell—he might have had my arm; But the bad weather ruined all, and spoilt my toilet's charm. I'll wear the dress again, mother; I do not care a pin,— Or, perhaps, 'twill do for Effie, but it must be taken in; But do not let her see it yet—she's not so very green, And will not take it until washed and ironed it has been. So, if you're waking, call me, when the day begins to dawn; I dread to look at my barege—it must be so forlorn; We'll put it in the rough-dried box: it may come out next year; So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, mother dear.

You must wake and call me early, call me early mother dear, Though November is the dullest month of any in the year, Yet to-morrow I shall represent my country—oh! how droll! For I'm the Queen of the Poll, mother! I'm the Queen of the Poll! There'll be many a black, black eye, mother (I hope one won't be mine), But ten thousand voting virgins will be flocking to my sign, Supported by my Coleridge—Mill, 'neath Becker's steadfast soul, Shall I be the Queen of the Poll, mother! I, be the Queen of the Poll! The Benches soon shall welcome me, the Lobby be my haunt, That spinster Speaker by her winks and frowns shall ne'er me daunt. My rights are good as any, and my name is on the roll, And I'm the Queen of the Poll, mother! I'm the Queen of the Poll. I have been wild and wayward, but those days are past and gone, The Valse is fled, the Kettledrum, the Croquet on the Lawn; Another Lawn, clear-starched and white, rises before my eye, The Speaker's risen to orders, why the Dickens shouldn't I? Pardon my slang, for auld slang syne, I'm still a woman true, And women's tongues were never made to say what they might rue; But there's one thing on my mind, mother, to ask you I'd forgot, Shall I repair to Parliament in petticoats or——not? Now, good night, good night, dear mother, ah! to-morrow'll be the day When women's rights are settled, then won't we have our say; And then 'midst England's patriots, my name shall I enrol, For I'm the Queen of the Poll, mother! I'm the Queen of the Poll!

Long time I fed my eyes on that strange scene, Painted by Poynter, of the famous bay, Wherein Phæacian maids surround their queen Nausicaa in play. And clearer on my trancèd gaze there grew The celebrated beauties of the town; Leaping in front, I saw with wonder new The sexless thing in brown. Meseemed that, as I gazed, my vision changed: The loose-girt ladies on the pictured wall I saw no more; but, fancy led, I ranged The fair in Albert Hall. The hothouse blossoms of a sunless year, And quaintest crewels, wrought in grays and greens, Adorned the stalls—extravagantly dear, For they were sold by queens. Foremost I saw, with overloaded stall Beset from morn till eve with densest crowd, A daughter of the Jews, divinely small, And most divinely proud. With high-pitched tones in broken English she Waved bystanders aside, and sold her wares Only to scions of nobility, With all her choicest airs. And passing on, not caring to pay dear For portraits which in all shop-windows are, I saw our novel Helen standing near, Far-gleaming like a star. Softly she spake: 'I would that from my stall Some favour you would buy, that I may gain Tenfold in praise, and beat my rivals all In making fools of men.' Outleapt my answer: 'Try me with thy wile: A crown for that sweet rose!' With polished ease She shook from haughty eyes a languid smile: 'Not so; a guinea, please.' Lighter my purse, as onward, pacing slow, I turned from right to left in idle quest, Till on me flashed, fair as the sunset glow, Mrs. Cornwallis West. Strangely my eyes their wonted functions changed; I saw her once again, white-veiled, white-furred, As oft by deft photographers arranged, A photographic bird Prest to her lips 'mid counterfeited snow. Full soon the fancy ceased. I heard a cry Peal from the lips that men have worshipped so: 'Pass quickly on, or buy!' A labyrinth of beauty, sweet to see! The proud Guinness, the noted Wheeler—all Our much-belauded London galaxy, Protecting each a stall. Sweet forms, fair faces, everywhere the same; And many a withered flower and trinket old I purchased recklessly, till joy became A solemn scorn of gold. The slow day faded in the evening sky Ere all my petty cash was squandered free. One joy remained. I bade my hansom fly To visit Connie G. TERRÆ FILIUS.

Comrades leave me here a little, while as yet 'tis early morn; Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the bugle horn. 'Tis the place, and all around it, as of old the curlews' call, Dreary gleams about the moorland flying over Locksley Hall; Here about the beach I wander'd, nourishing a youth sublime With the fairy tales of science, and the long result of Time. * * * * * * Love took up the glass of Time, and turn'd it in his glowing hands; Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands. Love took up the harp of life, and smote on all the chords with might; Smote the chord of self, that, trembling, pass'd in music out of sight. Many an evening by the waters did we watch the stately ships, And our spirits rush'd together at the touching of the lips. O my cousin, shallow hearted! O my Amy, mine no more, O the dreary, dreary moorland! O the barren, barren shore! Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all songs have sung, Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a shrewish tongue! Is it well to wish thee happy? having known me—to decline On a range of lower feelings and a narrower heart than mine! Yet it shall be: thou shall lower to his level day by day, What is fine within thee growing coarse to sympathise with clay. As the husband is, the wife is: thou art mated with a clown, And the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee down. He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force, Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse. * * * * Cursed be the social wants that sin against the strength of youth! Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the living truth! Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest nature's rule. Cursed be the gold that gilds the straightened forehead of the fool.

Comrades, you may pass the rosy. With permission of the chair I shall leave you for a little, for I'd like to take the air. Whether 'twas the sauce at dinner, or that glass of ginger beer, Or these strong cheroots, I know not, but I feel a little queer. * * * * * In my ears I hear the singing of a lot of favourite tunes— Bless my heart, how very odd! Why, surely there's a brace of moons! See! the stars! how bright they twinkle, winking with a frosty glare; Like my faithless cousin Amy when she drove me to despair. Oh, my cousin, spider hearted! Oh, my Amy! No, confound it! I must wear the mournful willow,—all around my hat I've bound it. Falser than the Bank of Fancy, frailer than a shilling glove, Puppet to a father's anger, minion to a nabob's love! Is it well to wish thee happy? Having known me, could you ever? Stoop to marry half a heart, and little more than half a liver? Happy! Damme! Thou shalt lower to his level day by day, Changing from the best of china to the commonest of clay. As the husband is, the wife is,—he is stomach-plagued and old; And his curry soups will make thy cheek the colour of his gold. When his feeble love is sated, he will hold thee surely then Something lower than his hookah,—something less than his cayenne. What is this? His eyes are pinky. Was't the claret? Oh, no, no,— Bless your soul! it was the salmon,—salmon always makes him so. Take him to thy dainty chamber—soothe him with thy lightest fancies; He will understand thee, won't he?—pay thee with a lover's glances? * * * * Better thou wert dead before me—better, better, that I stood, Looking on thy murdered body, like the injured Daniel Good! Better thou and I were lying, cold and timber-stiff and dead, With a pan of burning charcoal underneath our nuptial bed. Cursed be the Bank of England's notes, that tempt the soul to sin! Cursed be the want of acres,—doubly cursed the want of tin! Cursed be the marriage contract, that enslaved thy soul to greed! Cursed be the sallow lawyer, that prepared and drew the deed! Cursed be his foul apprentice, who the loathsome fees did earn! Cursed be the clerk and parson,—cursed be the whole concern! * * * * * Oh, 'tis well that I should bluster,—much I'm like to make of that; Better comfort have I found in singing "All around my Hat." But that song so wildly plaintive, palls upon my British ears. 'Twill not do to pine for ever,—I am getting up in years. Can't I turn the honest penny, scribbling for the weekly press, And in writing Sunday libels drown my private wretchedness? Oh, to feel the wild pulsation that in manhood's dawn I knew When my days were all before me, and my years were twenty-two! When I smoked my independent pipe along the Quadrant wide With the many larks of London flaring up on every side; When I went the pace so wildly, caring little what might come; Coffee-milling care and sorrow, with a nose-adapted thumb; Felt the exquisite enjoyment, tossing nightly off, oh heavens! Brandy at the Cider Cellars, kidneys smoking hot at Evans'! Or in the Adelphi sitting, half in rapture, half in tears, Saw the glorious melodrama conjure up the shades of years, Saw Jack Sheppard, noble strippling, act his wondrous feats again, Snapping Newgate's bars of iron, like an infant's daisy chain. Might was right, and all the terrors, which had held the world in awe, Were despised, and prigging prospered, spite of Laurie, spite of law. In such scenes as these I triumphed, ere my passion's edge was rusted, And my cousin's cold refusal left me very much disgusted! Hark! my merry comrade's call me, bawling for another jorum; They would mock me in derision, should I thus appear before 'em. Womankind no more shall vex me, such at least as go arrayed In the most expensive satins and the newest silk brocade. I'll to Afric, lion-haunted, where the giant forest yields Rarer robes and finer tissues than are sold at Spitalfields. Or to burst all chains of habit, flinging habit's self aside, I shall walk the tangled jungle in mankind's primeval pride; Feeding on the luscious berries and the rich cassava root, Lots of dates and lots of guavas, clusters of forbidden fruit. Never comes the trader thither, never o'er the purple main Sounds the oath of British commerce, or the accents of Cockaigne. There, methinks, would be enjoyment, where no envious rule prevents; Sink the steamboats! cuss the railways! rot, O rot the Three per Cents! There the passions, cramped no longer, shall have space to breathe, my cousin! I will wed some savage woman—nay, I'll wed at least a dozen. There I'll rear my young mulattoes, as no Bond Street brats are reared: They shall dive for alligators, catch the wild goats by the beard— Whistle to the cockatoos, and mock the hairy-faced baboon, Worship mighty Mumbo Jumbo in the mountains of the moon. I myself, in far Timbuctoo, leopard's blood will daily quaff, Ride a tiger hunting, mounted on a thorough-bred giraffe. Fiercely shall I shout the war-whoop, as some sullen stream he crosses, Startling from their noonday slumbers, iron-bound rhinoceroses. Fool! again the dream, the fancy! But I know my words are mad, For I hold the grey barbarian lower than the Christian cad. I the swell—the city dandy! I to seek such horrid places,— I to haunt with squalid negroes, blubber lips, and monkey-faces! I to wed with Coromantees! I who managed—very near— To secure the heart and fortune of the widow Shillibeer! Stuff and nonsense! let me never fling a single chance away, Maids ere now, I know, have loved me, and another maiden may. * * * * * That's the sort of thing to do it. Now I'll go and taste the balmy,— Rest thee with thy yellow nabob, spider-hearted cousin Amy! BON GAULTIER BALLADS.

Cabman, stop thy jaded knacker; cabman, draw thy slackened rein; Take this sixpence—do not grumble, swear not at Sir Richard Mayne! 'Tis the place, and all around it, as of old the cadger's bawl— Sparkling rockets, squibs and crackers, whizzing over gay Vauxhall. Gay Vauxhall! that in the summer all the youth of town attracts, Glittering with its lamps and fireworks, and its flashing cataracts. Many a night in yonder gilded temple, ere I went to rest, Did I look on great Von Joel, mimicking the feathered nest; Many a night I saw Hernandez in a tinsel garb arrayed, With his odorif'rous ringlets tangled in a silver braid; Here about the paths I wandered, chaffing, laughing all the time, Laughing at the piebald clown, or listening to the minstrel's rhyme; When beneath the business-counter linendraper's men reposed, When in calm and peaceful slumber, sharp maternal eyes are closed; When I dipt into the pewter pot that held the foaming stout, When I quaffed the burning punch, or wildly sipped the "cold without." In the spring a finer cambric's wrapped around the lordling's breast; In the spring the gent at Redmayne's gets himself a Moses' "vest;" In the spring we make investment in a white or lilac glove; In the spring my youthful fancy prompted me to fall in love. Then she danced through all the ballet, as a fairy blithe and young, Stood a tiptoe on a flow'ret, or from clouds of pasteboard swung— And I said, "Miss Julia Belmont, speak, and speak the truth to me, Wilt thou from this fairy region with a heart congenial flee?" On her lovely cheek and forehead came a blushing through her paint, And she sank upon my bosom in the semblance of a faint; Then she turned, her voice was broken (so, if I must tell the truth, Was her English—all I pardoned in the generous warmth of youth), Saying, "Pray excuse my feelings, nothing wrong, indeed, is meant," Saying, "Will you be my loveyer?" weeping, "you are quite the gent." Love took up the glass before me, filled it foaming to the brim, Love changed every comic ballad to a sweet euphonious hymn! Many a morning in the railway did we run to Richmond, Kew, And her hunger cleared my pockets oft of shillings not a few! Many an evening down at Greenwich did we eat the pleasant "bait," Till I found my earnings going at a rather rapid rate. Oh! Miss Belmont, fickle-hearted! Oh, Miss Belmont known too late, Oh, that horrid, horrid Richmond, oh, the cursed, cursed "bait." Falser far than Lola Montes, falser e'en than Alice Gray, Scorner of a faithful press-man, sharer of a tumbler's pay!— Is it well to wish thee happy? having once loved me—to wed With a fool who gains his living by his heels, and not his head! As the husband is, the wife is: thou art mated with a clown, And pursuing his profession, he will strive to drag thee down. He will hold thee in the winter, when his fooleries begin, Something better than his wig, a little dearer than his gin. What is this? his legs are bending! think'st thou he is weary, faint? Go to him, it is thy duty; kiss him, how he tastes of paint! Am I mad, that I should cherish memories of the bygone time? Think of loving one whose husband fools it in a pantomime! Never, though my mortal summers should be lengthened to the sum Granted to the aged Parr, or more illustrious Widdicomb— Comfort!—talk to me of comfort! What is comfort here below? Lies it in iced drinks in summer, aquascutum coats in snow? Think not thou wilt know its meaning, wail of all his vows the proof, Till the manager is sulky, and the rain pours through the roof. See, his life he acts in dreams, while thou art staring in his face, Listen to his hollow laughter, mark his effort at grimace! Thou shalt hear "Hot Codlins" muttered in his vision-haunted sleep, Thou shalt hear his feigned ecstatics, thou shalt hear his curses deep. Let them fall on gay Vauxhall, that scene to me of deepest woe, But—the waiters are departing, and perhaps I'd better go!— By EDMUND H. YATES, From Mirth and Metre, 1855.

Very early in the morning would he, tumbling out of bed, Mow his chin with wretched razor, mow and hack it till it bled; Then he'd curse the harmless cutler, heap upon him curses deep, Curse him in his hour of waking, doubly curse him in his sleep— Saying, "Mechi! O my Mechi! O my Mechi, mine no more, Whither's fled that brilliant sharpness which thy razors had of yore, Ere thou quittedst Leadenhall Street, quittedst it with many a qualm— Ere thou soughtest rustic Tiptree, Tiptree and its model farm? Many a morning, by the mirror, did I pass thee o'er my beard, And my chin grew smooth beneath thee, of its hairy harvest cleared; Many an evening have I drawn thee 'cross the throats of wretched Jews, When they, trembling, showed their purses, stuffed for safety in their shoes. But, like mine, thy day is over—thou art blunt and I'm disgraced! Curses on thy maker's projects, curses on his 'magic paste.'" From Mirth and Metre.

BREAK, break, break, In thy pantry, costly maid! And I bitterly rue the hour When I took you from Mrs. Slade. 'Tis well for the lady fair Whose glass is unshattered yet! 'Tis well for the thrifty dame Who has "an unbroken set!" And the clatter and crash goes on, And Mary picks up the slain; But oh! for that teacup of rarest Sèvres, And that vase of porcelain! Break, break, break, In thy pantry, Mary G——! But that costly vase and that teacup rare Will never come back to me!

BREAK, break, break, O slavey, my crock-e-ry! And I would that my tongue dared utter The wrath that's astir in me. O well for the labourer's wife, Who can wash her own tea-things each day! O well for the labourer's self, Who has no servant's wages to pay! But the breakages here go on, And I have to settle the bill; And it's oh! for the shards of my vanished cups, And my saucers dwindling still! Break! break! break! A week from this you shall see, But the dishes and plates you have smashed since you came, Will never come back to me!

With half a glance upon the house, Each night he said "The gatherings Of people underneath this roof Teach me the paying sort of things, And music, whence they'd stand aloof, May in the ocean depths go souse." * * * He led a polka—round his skull He waved the rhythm of the charm, And stamped, and shook his dress-coat skirts, With giant wavings of his arm; And then—he went and changed his shirt! And said the house was very full. And so he drove a thriving trade, With symphonies in classic way; With Drummers and with Zouaves' call Himself upon himself did play, Each season ending with a ball Of masques, his fortune thus he made.

I HOLD it truth, when I recall Last London's season's joyous spell, 'Tis better to have danced not well, Than never to have danced at all. * * * The season's past; alone at Basle I sit; but still, as truth I tell, 'Tis better to have danced not well, Than never to have danced at all.