Part 1 — THE LAST PEER.

"Is not a poet better than a lord?" Robert Buchanan.

Alfred the Loved, the Laureate of the Court, The poet of the people, he who sang Of that great Order of the Table Round, Had been a sailing; first into the North, Then Southward, then toward the middle sea; And with him went the Premier, journeying Some said for health, and some, to hatch new schemes With Kings and statesmen. Howsoe'r they came To Denmark's Court, where princes gathered round To hear our Alfred read his songs aloud. And as they voyaged homeward to the shores Of England, where the Isle our poet loved Lay sparkling like a gem upon the sea, They leaned athwart the bulwarks and spake low. "We are but Commoners, both you and I," Said Gladstone; "no adornment to our names, No sounding titles; simply Mister This And Mister That. But yet, the other day, You read your verse to Emperors and Kings; Princesses smiled upon you. You were great As they, except in title. It were well The distance lessened somewhat; Poet, you, The prince of all the poets of our time, Be something more, be noble, be a lord." Then Alfred sate him down, his good grey hairs Blown o'er his shoulders by the summer wind, His eyes all dreamy; and he hummed a song, Like, and yet unlike, that which Enid sang.[1] "Turn, Gladstone, turn thy followers into lords, Turn those who wealth has gathered into hoards; Turn those, and whom thou wilt, but turn not me. Leave, Gladstone, leave the name I always bore, One that, mayhap, may live for evermore; 'Tis mine alone, and mine shall always be. Turn into lords the owners of broad lands, Turn him who in the path of progress stands, And he who doeth service to the State. Leave the name that all the people know. A prouder title than thou canst bestow, Made by myself, and not by station, great." Yet, notwithstanding what he murmured then, The thought dwelt in his heart; and many a day Thereafter, as he sat at Haslemere, Revolving and resolving, till his mind Could scarce distinguish his resolves from doubts, He muttered, "Ah! and I might be a lord!" And so the thought grew on him, and brake down, And overcame him; and the grand old name Which the world knows, and reverences, and loves, Seemed plain and bare and niggard, far too poor For him who sang of Arthur and his knights, And Camelot, and that strange, haunted mere. And one who knew the name, and honour'd it, Went to him, pleaded, then spake hotly thus:— "Doubtest thou here so long?" Art thou the one Whose tongue grew bitter only at the sound Of titles, and whose satire never leaped Forth from its hiding-place but when some claim Of place and privilege provoked thy wrath? Wherever travels our bold English speech— Across the broad Atlantic, 'mid the sands Of scorching Africa, or in the bush Of the young, strong, far-off Antipodes— Thy name is greater, more familiar, more In all men's mouths than that of any lord. O fair, full name, o'er which I used to dream, Not thinking; O imperial-spreading fame, And glory never such as poet bore, Until they came, a Kingdom's pride, with thee; I cannot know thee if thou art a lord; Be Alfred Tennyson until the last; Not Bonchurch, nor another. Is there none Can yet persuade thee, ere it be too late?" But he, the poet, listened, and was dumb, And yet resolved. Ah, he would be a lord, And sink the name round which his glory grew. And so there came a herald with a scroll, One who makes ancestors and coats of arms, And gives alike to poet or to peer A pedigree as long as Piccadilly; And he brought with him much emblazonry, A quartered shield, with, on the dexter side, The grand old gardener, Adam, and his wife, A-smiling at the claims of long descent. From The Echo, Dec. 7, 1883.

BARON Alfred Vere de Vere, Of me you win no new renown; You thought to daze the country folk And cockneys when you came to town. See Wordsworth, Shelley, Cowper, Burns, Withdraw in scorn, and sit retired! The last of some six hundred Earls Is not a place to be desired. Baron Alfred Vere de Vere, We thought you proud to bear your name, Your pride is yet no mate for ours, Too proud to think a title fame. We hail the genius—not the lord: We love the poet's truer charms. A simple singer with his dreams Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms. Baron Alfred Vere de Vere, I see you march, I hear you say, "Bow, bow, ye lower middle classes!" Is all the burden of your lay. We held you first without a peer, And princely by your noble words words— The Senior Wrangler of our bards Is now the Wooden Spoon of lords. Baron Alfred Vere de Vere, You put strange memories in my head; For just five decades now have flown Since we all mourned young Arthur dead. Oh, your wet eyes, your low replies! Our tears have mingled with your tears: To think that all such agony Should end in making you a peer! Baron Alfred Vere de Vere, Our England has had poets too: They sang some grand old songs of yore, But never reached such heights as you. Will Shakespeare was a prince of bards, Our Milton was a king to hear, But had their manners that repose Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere? Baron Alfred Vere de Vere, Robe, now your bays are sere and spent: The King of Snobs is at your door, To trace your long (and deep) descent. A man's a man for a' that, And rich on forty pounds a year; If rank be the true guinea-stamp To win Parnassus—die a peer! Trust me, Baron Vere de Vere, When nobles eat their noblest words, The grand old gardener and his wife Smile at the airs of poet-lords. Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 'Tis only noble to be good. Plain souls are more than coronets, And simple lives than Baronhood. I know you, Baron Vere de Vere: You pine among your halls and bays: The jaded light of your vain eyes Is wearied with the flood of praise. In glowing fame, with boundless wealth, But sickening of a vague disease, You are so dead to simple things, You needs must play such pranks as these. Alfred, Alfred Vere de Vere, If Time be heavy on your hands, Are there no toilers in our streets, Nor any poor in all these lands? Oh! teach the weak to strive and hope, Or teach the great to help the low, Pray Heaven for a noble heart, And let the foolish title go.

NOBLES and HERALDS, by your leave, Here lies, what once was, MATTHEW PRIOR, The son of ADAM and of EVE, Can STUART or NASSAU claim higher?

Home they brought her warrior dead; She nor swoon'd nor utter'd cry: All her maidens, watching, said, "She must weep or she will die." Then they praised him soft and low, Call'd him worthy to be loved, Truest friend and noblest foe; Yet she neither spoke nor moved. Stole a maiden from her place, Lightly to the warrior stept, Took the face cloth from the face; Yet she neither moved nor wept. Rose a nurse of ninety years, Set his child upon her knee— Like summer tempest came her tears— "Sweet my child, I live for thee."

HOME they brought her lap-dog dead, Just run over by a fly, JEAMES to Buttons, winking, said, "Won't there be a row, O my!" Then they called the flyman low, Said his baseness could be proved: How she to the Beak should go— Yet she neither spoke nor moved. Said her maid (and risked her place), "In the 'ouse it should have kept, Flymen drives at such a pace"— Still the lady's anger slept. Rose her husband, best of dears, Laid a bracelet on her knee. Like playful child she boxed his ears— "Sweet old pet!—let's have some tea."

Home they brought her sailor son, Grown a man across the sea, Tall and broad and black of beard, And hoarse of voice as man may be. Hand to shake and mouth to kiss. Both he offered ere he spoke; But she said—"What man is this Comes to play a sorry joke?" Then they praised him—call'd him "smart," "Tightest lad that ever stept;" But her son she did not know, And she neither smiled nor wept. Rose a nurse of ninety years, Set a pigeon-pie in sight: She saw him eat—"'Tis he! 'tis he!" She knew him—by his appetite!

Home they brought Montmorres dead, He nor sighed nor uttered cry. All the English angered said Strike! or know the reason why. Jones and Boycott labouring well Lost the fruits of earlier years; Surely now 'tis time to quell, Yet no remedy appears, Farmers who had paid some rent On the cold ground weltering lay; Still on landlord plunder bent Small attention did he pay. Travelling Forster entering said: But our "Bill" will strangled be; Then the Premier raised his head— Oh sweet, my child, I strike for thee.

We seek to know, and knowing seek; We seek, we know, and every sense Is trembling with the great intense, And vibrating to what we speak. We ask too much, we seek too oft; We know enough, and should no more; And yet we skim through Fancy's lore, And look to earth and not aloft. * * * * O sea! whose ancient ripples lie On red-ribbed sands where seaweeds shone; O moon! whose golden sickle's gone, O voices all! like you I die! (Dies.) From Medley, by Cuthbert Bede, 1856.

Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea, Thy tribute wave deliver: No more by thee my steps shall be, For ever and for ever. * * * A thousand suns will stream on thee, A thousand moons will quiver; But not by thee my steps shall be, For ever and for ever.

Bite on, thou pertinacious flea, And draw the tiny river; No more for thee my blood shall be, For ever and for ever. Bite, fiercely bite, and take with glee From each unwilling giver; No food for thee my blood shall be, For ever and for ever. And here will toss some wretched he, And here he'll tear and shiver; Bed-making she will hunt the flea For ever and for ever. A thousand limbs may smart for thee, A thousand skins may quiver; But not for thee my blood shall be, For ever and for ever.

Rise up, cold reverend, to a see, Confound the unbeliever! Yet ne'er 'neath thee my seat will be For ever and for ever. Preach, softly preach, in lawn and be A comely model liver, But ne'er 'neath thee my seat shall be For ever and for ever. And here shall sleep thine alderman, And here thy pauper shiver, And here by thee shall buzz the "she," For ever and for ever. A thousand men shall sneer at thee, A thousand women quiver, But ne'er 'neath thee my seat shall be For ever and for ever.

Flow down, false rivulet, to the sea Thy sewage wave deliver; No longer will I quaff from thee For ever and for ever. The dust of citizens of yore, Who dwelt beside the river, And leakages of sewers pour Into thy stream for ever. A thousand hands may pump from thee, A thousand pails deliver Their sparkling draughts, but not to me For ever and for ever. Oh, let them lock thy nozzle up, And drain thee to the river; Nor any mortal fill his cup Again from thee for ever. From Funny Folks.

HIS fists across his breast he laid, He was more mad than words can say; Bareheaded rushed the undergrad To mingle in November's fray. In cap and gown a don stepped down To meet and greet him on his way; "It is no wonder," said his friends, "He has been drinking half the day." All black and blue, like cloud and skies, Next day that proctor's face was seen; Bruised were his eyebrows, bruised his eyes, Bruised was his nose and pummelled mien. So dire a case, such black disgrace, Since Oxford was had never been; That undergrad took change of air At the suggestion of the dean.

I turn'd me to the tinker, who Was loafing down a by-way: I asked him where he lived—a stare Was all I got in answer, As on he trudged: I rightly judged The stare said, "Where I can, sir."? I asked him if he'd take a whiff Of 'bacca; he acceded; He grew communicative too, (A pipe was all he needed,) Till of the tinker's life, I think, I knew as much as he did. "I loiter down by thorp and town; For any job I'm willing; Take here and there a dusty brown, And here and there a shilling. "I deal in every ware in turn, I've rings for buddin' Sally That sparkle like those eyes of her'n; I've liquor for the valet. "I steal from th' parson's strawberry plots, I hide by th' squire's covers; I teach the sweet young housemaids what's The art of trapping lovers. "The things I've done 'neath moon and stars Have got me into messes: I've seen the sky through prison bars, I've torn up prison dresses. "I've sat, I've sighed, I've gloom'd, I've glanced With envy at the swallows That through the windows slid, and danced (Quite happy) round the gallows; "But out again I come, and show My face nor care a stiver, For trades are brisk and trades are slow, But mine goes on for ever."

I start from home in happy mood, Arrayed in dress so pretty, And sparkle out among the men, Who come up from the City. But first I linger by the brink, And calmly reconnoitre, For when I'm fairly on the rink, I never care to loiter. Then "follow me," I loudly call, At skating I'm so clever, For men may come, and men may fall, But I rink on for ever. I chatter with my little band Of friends so gay and hearty, And sometimes we go hand in hand, And sometimes in a party. I slip, I slide, I glance, I glide, There is no one can teach me, I give them all a berth full wide, And not a soul can reach me. I chatter, chatter, to them all, At skating I'm so clever, For men may come, and men may fall, But I rink on for ever. I wind about, and in and out, With here a figure tracing. And here and there I dance about, And here I go a-racing. I'm always making graceful curves, As everyone alleges. And while I've nerve, I'll never swerve, From in and outside edges. And after me I draw them all, At skating I'm so clever, For men may come, and men may fall, But I rink on for ever.

Southward Ho—Here we go! O'er the wave onward Out from the Harbour of Cork Sailed the Six Hundred! Sailed like Crusaders thence, Burning for Peter's pence,— Burning for fight and fame— Burning to show their zeal— Into the gates of Rome, Into the jaws of Hell, (It's all the same)! Marched the Six Hundred! "Barracks, and tables laid! Food for the Pope's Brigade;" But ev'ry Celt afraid, Gazed on the grub dismay'd— Twigged he had blundered;— "Who can eat rancid grease? Call this a room a-piece?"[2] "Silence! unseemly din, Prick them with bayonets in." Blessèd Six Hundred! Waves every battle blade— "Forward the Pope's brigade!" Was there a man obeyed? No—where they stood they stayed, Though Lamoricière pray'd, Threatened, and thundered— "Charge!" Down their sabres then Clashed, as they turn'd—and ran— Sab'ring the empty air, Each of one taking care, Here, there, and ev'rywhere Scattered and sundered. Sick of the powder smell, Down on their knees they fell, Howling for hearth and home— Cursing the Pope of Rome— Whilst afar shot and shell Volleyed and thundered; Captured, alive and well, Ev'ry Hibernian swell, Came back the tale to tell; Back from the states of Rome— Back from the gates of Hell— Safe and sound every man— Jack of Six Hundred! When shall their story fade? Oh the mistake they made! Nobody wondered, Pity the fools they made— Pity the Pope's Brigade— NOBBLED Six Hundred!

The sequel of to-day dissevers all This fellowship of straight riders, and hard men To hounds—the flyers of the hunt. I think That we shall never more in days to come Hold cheery talk of hounds and horses (each Praising his own the most) shall steal away Through brake and coppice-wood, or side by side Breast the sharp bullfinch and deep-holding dyke, Sweep through the uplands, skim the vale below, And leave the land behind us like a dream. I tear me from this passion that I loved— Though Paget sware that I should ride again— But yet I think I shall not; I have done: My hunt is hunted: I have skimmed the cream, The blossom of the seasons, and no more For me shall gallant Scott have cause for wrath, Or injured farmer mourn his wasted crops. Now, therefore, take my horse, which was my pride (For still thou know'st he bore me like a man—), And wheel him not, nor plunge him in the mere, But set him straight and give his head the rein, And he shall bear thee lightly to the front, Swifter than wind, and stout as truest steel, And none shall rob thee of thy pride of place.

Butcher boys shouted without, Within was writing for thee, Shadows of three live men Talked as they walked into me. Shadows of three live men, and you were one of the three. Butcher boys sang in the streets, The bobby was far away, Butcher boys shouted and sang In their usual maddening way.— Still in the Schools quite courteous you were torturing men all the day. Two dead men have I known, Examiners settled by me. Two dead men have I scored, Now I will settle with thee. Three dead men must I score, and thou art the last of the three. REGNOLD GREENLEAF. (The Shotovor Papers, 1874).

"THESE to his Memory—since he held them dear, Perhaps as finding there unconsciously Some image of himself—I dedicate, I dedicate,—I consecrate with tears— These Idyls. "And, indeed, He seems to me Scarce other than my own ideal knight."

THESE to his memory—since he held them dear, Perchance as finding there unwittingly Some picture of himself—I dedicate, I dedicate, I consecrate with smiles— These Idle Lays— Indeed, He seemed to me Scarce other than my own ideal liege, Who did not muchly care to trouble take; But his concern was, comfortable ease To dress in well-cut tweeds, in doeskin suits, In pants of patterns marvellous to see; To smoke good brands; to quaff rare vintages; To feed himself with dainty meats withal; To sport with Amaryllis in the shade; To toy with what Neræa calls her hair; And, in a general way, to happy be, If possible, and always debonair; Who spoke few wise things; did some foolish ones; Who was good-hearted, and by no means stiff; Who loved himself as well as any man; He who throughout his realms to their last isle Was known full well, whose portraiture was found In ev'ry album. We have lost him; he is gone; We know him now; ay, ay, perhaps too well, For now we see him as he used to be, How shallow, larky, genial-hearted, gay; With how much of self-satisfaction blessed— Not swaying to this faction nor to that, Because, perhaps, he neither understood; Not making his high place a Prussian perch Of War's ambition, but the vantage ground Of comfort; and through a long tract of years, Wearing a bouquet in his button-hole; Once playing a thousand nameless little games, Till communistic cobblers gleeful danced, And democratic delvers hissed, "Ha! ha!" Who dared foreshadow,, then, for his own son A looser life, one less distraught than his? Or how could Dilkland, dreaming of his sons, Have hoped less for them than some heritance Of such a life, a heart, a mind as thine, Thou noble Father of her Kings to be— If fate so wills it, O most potent K——; The patron once of Polo and of Poole, Of actors and leviathan "comiques;" Once dear to Science as to Art; once dear To Sanscrit erudition as to either; Dear to thy country in a double sense; Dear to purveyors; ay, a liege, indeed, Beyond all titles, and a household name, Hereafter, through all times, Guelpho the Gay! The Coming K——

"I ever feared you were not wholly mine, And see—you ask me what it is I want? Yet people call you wizard—why is this? What is it makes you seem so proud and cold? Yet if you'd really know what boon I ask, Then tell me, dearest Herlin, ere I go, The charm with which you make your table rap. * * * * O yield my boon, And grant my re-iterated wish, Then will I love you, ay, and you shall kiss My grateful lips—you shall upon my word." And Herlin took his hand from hers and said, O, Vilien, ask not this, but aught beside. But as thou lov'st me, Vilien, do not ask The way in which I make the table rap. O ask it not! And Vilien, like the tenderest hearted maid That ever jilted swain or lover mocked, Made answer, either eyelid wet with tears: "Nay, Herlin, if you love me, say not so; You do but tease to talk to me like this. Methinks you hardly know the tender rhyme Of 'Trust me for all in all, or not at all.' I heard a 'comique' sing the verses once, And they shall answer for me. List the song: 'In love, 'tis as in trade; if trade were ours, Credit and cash could ne'er be equal powers— Give trust to all or don't give trust at all. It is the little rift within the lute That cracks the sound and makes the music mute, And leaves the banjo nothing worth at all. It is the little moth within the suit, It is the merry maggot in the fruit, That worming surely, slowly ruins all. It is the little leaven makes the lump, It is the little piston works the pump; And A-L-L spells ALL, and—all is all.' O, Herlin, do you understand my rhyme? And Herlin coughed, and owned that he did not. * * * * And Villien, naught abashed, replied again: "Lo, now, how silly you must be, you know, My simple stanzas not to understand; 'Tis thus our truest poets write their rhymes; They try their sense and meaning to conceal; But you should solve their riddles, though 'tis said They don't the answers know themselves, sometimes. However, be that as it may, I think I'll give you one verse more. So Villien sang: "That sign, once mine, is thine, ay, closelier mine, For what is thine is mine, and mine is thine, And this, I much opine, is line on line; To learn the obvious moral once for all." But Herlin looked aghast, as well he might, Nor knew the teaching of her little song."

"Fleet Goanveer had lost the race, and stood There in the stable near to Epsom Downs."

"And all went well till on the turf I went, Believing thou wouldst fortune bring to me, And place me higher yet in name and fame. Then came the shameful act of Loosealot; Then came thy breaking down in that great race; And now my name's worth nil at Tattersall's, And all my knights can curl their lips at me; Can say 'I've come a cropper,' and the like, And all through thee and he—and him, I mean— But slips will happen at a time like this. Canst wonder I am sad when thus I see I am contemned amongst my chiefest knights? When I am hinted at in public prints As being a man who sold the people's race? But think not, Goanveer, my matchless mare, Thy lord has wholly lost his love for thee. Yet must I leave thee to thy shame, for how Couldst thou be entered for a race again? The public would not hear of it; nay, more, Would hoot and hound thee from the racing-course, Being one they had loved, yet one on whom they had lost." He paused, and in the pause the mare rejoiced. For he relaxed the caresses of his arms; And, thinking he had done, the mare did neigh, As with delight; but Guelpho spake again:— "Yet, think not that I come to urge thy faults; I did not come to curse thee, Goanveer: The wrath which first I felt when thou brok'st down Is past—it never will again return. I came to take my last fond leave of thee, For I shall ne'er run mare or horse again. O silky mane, with which I used to play At Hampton! O most perfect equine form, And points the like of which no mare yet had Till thou was't bred! O fetlocks, neater far Than many a woman's ankles! O grand hocks That faltered feebly on that fatal day!" * * * * Yet, Goanveer, I bid thee now good-bye, And leave thee, feeling yet a love for thee, As one who first my racing instinct stirred, As one who taught me to abjure the turf. Hereafter we may meet—I cannot tell; Thy future may be happy—so I wish. But this I pray, on no account henceforth Make mixture of your water—drink it neat; I charge thee this. And now I must go hence; Through the thick night I hear the whistle blow That tells me that my 'special' waits to start. Thou wilt stay here awhile, so be at rest; But hither shall I never come again, Or ever pat thy neck, or see thee more. Good-bye!"

SEA-KINGS' daughter from over the sea, Alexandra! Saxon and Norman and Dane are we, But all of us Danes in our welcome of thee, Alexandra! Welcome her, thunders of fort and of fleet! Welcome her, thundering cheer of the street! Welcome her, all things youthful and sweet! Scatter the blossom under her feet! * * * * * For Saxon or Dane or Norman we, Teuton or Celt, or whatever we be, We are each all Dane in our welcome of thee, Alexandra!

PLAGUE of Egypt, from over the sea, Ismail Pasha! Viceroy, Khidevé, or whatever you be, Jacksons, O'Tooles, and McStunners are we, But all John Bulls in our welcome of thee, Ismail Pasha! Welcome him, blunder of escort and suite, Mounted inspector, and mob in the street! Call up the first cab his Highness to meet! Throw his hat-box and Bradshaw and rug on the seat! Welcome him! feast him with fourpenny treat, One glass of old ale and a sandwich to eat! Scatter, O Royalty, gold for his keep! Dream, all ye tradesmen of harvests to reap! The Palace is empty, our pockets are deep! Fling wide, O menial, the grand back door! Take him, O attic, and rock him to sleep! Strew a viceregal shakedown on the floor! Welcome him, welcome him, all that is cheap! Sing, Prima Donna, and fashion stare! Scrape up your regiments, weak and few, Hurry, ye Commons, and all be there, To swell the pomp of the grand review! Chuckle, Britannia! a Sultan? pooh! A nobody! don't we know who's who, Ismail Pasha! Seeking quarters for change of air, Come to us, love us (but pay your fare)— Guests such as you we are happy to see; Come to us, love us, and have we not shown, In breakfast, and luncheon, and dinner, and tea, Kindness to strangers as great as your own? For Jacksons, O'Tooles, and McStunners we, Viceroy, Khidevé, or whatever you be, Yet thorough John Bulls in our welcome of thee, Ismail Pasha!

Trash about bells and the merry March hare Wrote I once at the royal summons. More of us Danes than Antic Rum-uns! No; let me see! I'll our welcome of thee, Alexandra! Have I gone mad, or taken a drappie? Norman and Saxon and Dane a wee, Just a wee drappie intil our ee, My Indo-Teuton-Celtic chappie! Norman and Saxon a wee are we, But more of us rum-uns or Danes you see Some of us Saxons, and all with a B In our bonnets, or something that's stronger than tea; And it's all as easy as A, B, C, To the poet who sang like a swan up a tree, Alexandra! "The promise of May" was a little bit late, And a fox jumped over a parson's gate, And he had my cochins, too, if you please, With a cat to the cream, which was not the cheese; And a guinea a line is about the rate You must pay for what flows from the poet's pate When the blue fire wakes up the whole of the town; And I'm sure I don't know what to say about Brown. But whatever I say and whatever I sing Will be worth to an obolus what it will bring! The Referee, September, 1883.

You must wake and call me early, call me early, Vicky clear, For to-morrow will be the silliest day we've seen for many a year; For I am a rhyming prig, Vicky, that shoddy and sham reveres, So I'm to be one of the Peers, Vicky, I'm to be one of the Peers. There's many a crazy lyre, they say, but none so effete as mine; It cannot ring out an ode to Brown, that gallant gilly of thine, For there's none so inane as poor old Alf in his sad, declining years; And I'm to be one of the Peers, Vicky, I'm to be one of the Peers. I sleep so sound all night, Vicky, that I shall never wake; So come in the early morn, Vicky, and give me a slap and a shake; For I must gather my scissors and paste and scraps of the bygone years, And I'm to be one of the Peers, Vicky, I'm to be one of the Peers. As I came up the Row, Vicky, whom think you I should see? Lord Queensberry against a lamp, and singing Tweedle-de-dee: He thought of that vile play, Vicky, I wrote in bygone years; But I'm to be one of the Peers, Vicky, I'm to be one of the Peers. He thought I was a fool, Vicky, for I looked dazed and white; He took me for a fool, Vicky—by jingo, he was right. They call me Atheist-hater; but I care not for their jeers, For I'm to be one of the Peers, Vicky, I'm to be one of the Peers. They say men write, and all for love; but this can never be: They say that great men write and starve; but what is that to me? For gold I sell my laughter, for gold I sell my tears, And I'm to be one of the Peers, Vicky, I'm to be one of the Peers. I wrote my "In Memoriam" when I was young and green; I wrote my "Promise of the May" when I was pumped out clean; And I've been the Court's hired lackey for many cringing years; And I'm to be one of the Peers, Vicky, I'm to be one of the Peers. The spider in my mouldy brain has woven its web for hours On the dull flats of Lincoln fens and withered hot-house flowers; I feel the shortening of my wits and the lengthening of my ears, So I'm to be one of the peers, Vicky, I'm to be one of the Peers. The night winds come and go, Vicky, upon the meadow grass; There are guineas for the rhymster and thistles for the ass: I have been your rhyming flunkey for over thirty years; Now I'm to be one of the Peers, Vicky, I'm to be one of the Peers. There will be poets after me, not fresh and green and still, Who care less for a Prince's nod than for the People's will, Not rhyming royal nuptials and singing royal biers; But I'm to be one of the Peers, Vicky, I'm to be one of the Peers. You must wake and call me early, call me early, Vicky dear; To-morrow will be the silliest day we've seen for many a year; For I'm a lackey and prig, Vicky, that sham and shoddy reveres, And I'm to be one of the Peers, Vicky, I'm to be one of the Peers. From The Secular Review, December 29, 1883.

"Half-past nine, August three— Half-past nine—onward! Off to the Vartry Works Went some two hundred. Off to the Vartry Works, Where the good water lurks, Down on the Wicklow line, Thinking of how they'd dine; 'Toasting,' with best of wine, Off—with the weather fine— Went the two hundred. "'Forward!' said Sir John Gray, On to the station, Bray, There, there was some delay. Some of the party said 'Waller has blundered.' But they were wrong, to doubt— Forty-three cars set out, On from the station there, Into the mountain air— Through Wicklow's mountain air— Drove the two hundred. "Arrived at the Vartry stream, Inspected each shaft and beam; Saw how the men with spade Embankments and puddle made: Crowds there of every grade Admired and wondered. Gray, like an engineer— Explained what was strange or queer: All the works, far and near, He showed the two hundred. "Then through the Vartry pipes As niggers bend to stripes, Right through these monster pipes. Like string through a bodkin, Sir John led a lot of us, Making small shot of us; The first man he caught of us Was our London Times—Godkin. "Done with the Vartry Works, Flashed all our knives and forks; To work, like some 'hungry Turks,' Went the two hundred. Soup, fish, meat, fowl, and ham, Ice, jellies, pies, and jam; At this wild mountain cram All the guests wondered. "Champagne to the right of them, Champagne to the left of them, Champagne around them, Popping and spurting. Toasts then came from the chair, Toasting the ladies fair, But not a female there, Therefore no flirting. "Good wine of every sort, Speeches with joke and sport; Then they went back again, But not the two hundred. Some of them went astray O'er hills and far away, But, getting home next day, Made up the two hundred. "W. S."

Up the stairs, up the stairs, Up the stairs, onward! Joe took, all out of breath, Coals, half a hundred! Up he went, still as death, Lest they had wonder'd That I, with a cellar large, Bought by the "Hundred!" "Forward! the light evade; Let 'em not know," I said; "Glide up as still as death, With the 'Half-hundred!' Let them be gently laid! No sound as by earthquake made When the ground's sunder'd! You here, if one should spy, Wondering the reason why? I with the shame should die! So crawl up still as death, With the 'Half-hundred!'" A cat on the right of him! Cat on the left of him! Cat at the front of him! What if he blunder'd? Slipt his foot! clean he fell! Came then a horrid yell! Joe look'd as pale as death, As down they came pell mell, All the "Half-hundred!" Out popt the "party" there! Wondering what meant that ere Noise on the landing stair! All stood and wonder'd! Dust-clouds of coal and coke! Made them all nearly choke! Oh! such a dreadful smoke! As from the second floor Rolled the "Half-hundred!" Voices at right of him! Voices at left of him! Voices behind him! Question'd and thunder'd! Shrunk I into my shell; Ah! how my grandeur fell! Knowing that (thought a "swell") I was thus found to buy Coals by the "Hundred!" How does one's glory fade, When there an end is made At what the world wonder'd? Ne'er from my mind will fade That awkward mess we made, Of the "Half-hundred!" JAMES BRUTON. (From the Stratford-on-Avon Herald.)

O'er their devoted heads, While the law thunder'd, Snugly and heedlessly Snored the Six Hundred! Great was the preacher's theme; Screw'd on was all the steam; Neither with shout nor scream Could he disturb the dream Of the Six Hundred! Terrors to right of them! Terrors to left of them! Terrors in front of them! Hell itself plundered! Of its most awful things, All those unlawful things. Weak-minded preacher flings At the dumb-founder'd! Boldly he spoke, and well, All on deaf ears it fell, Vain was his loudest yell Volley'd and thundered; For, caring—the truth to tell, Neither for Heaven nor Hell, Snor'd the Six Hundred; Still, with redoubled zeal, Still he spoke onward, And, in a wild appeal, Striking with hand and heel, Making the pulpit reel, Shaken and sundered— Called them the Church's foes, Threatened with endless woes, Faintly the answer rose, (Proofs of their sweet repose), From the United Nose Of the Six Hundred!

Sermons of near an hour, Too much for human power; Prayers, too, made to match (Extemporaneous batch, Wofully blundered). With a service of music, Fit to turn every pew sick, Should it be wondered? Churches that will not move Out of the ancient groove Through which they floundered. If they will lag behind, Still must expect to find Hearers of such a kind As the Six Hundred!

Half a day, half a day, Sped the clocks onward, While in Freemason's Hall Roared the six hundred!— Frantic the Black Brigade, "Charge for the Church!" they said, In the Freemason's Hall Roared the six hundred! Frantic the Black Brigade, Fearful the row they made, Some day they'll know too well How they have blundered. Theirs not to hear reply, Theirs throat and lungs to try, Theirs to bawl "Low" and "High," Round the Archbishop's chair Roared the seven hundred! Canons to right of him, Canons to left of him, Canons in front of him, Shouted and thundered! Stormed at with groan and yell, Really they stood it well, Till they were out of breath, Till an Earl tried to quell Howls by the hundred! Flustered the laymen's hair; Flushed all the clergy were; Scaring the waiters there Hooting and hissing, while York's prelate wondered— Guides of us sinner folk Precept and law they broke, Curate and rector spoke, Dealing the Church a stroke Shaken and sundered— Then they divided, and Lost the six hundred! Clergy to right of chair, Clergy to left of chair, Clergy in front of chair, Shouted and thundered! Stamping, with groan and yell, Past any power to quell, They who had roared so well Went blessed, and out of breath, Back to their flocks to tell All that was done by them— Nice fourteen hundred! When will the scandal fade Of the wild row they made? All the world wondered Why such a noise was made All by the Church Brigade— Blind fourteen hundred! Punch, 1868.

I. DRIVE to the Magdalen Ground; Soon myself there I found, Balls flew, and ground boys After them blundered! Theirs not at ease to lie, Theirs but to field, and shy Balls up and mind their eye; If they were out of breath, Who could have wondered? II. Balls to the right of me! Balls to the left of me! Balls, too, in front of me! Nearly a hundred! There stood each cricket swell, Some of them batted well, Smacking the balls about; Seldom their wickets fell; I stood and wondered! III. Thirsty, with elbows bare, Bowlers were bowling there; Cricket-balls through the air Whizzed past their heads the while. Muchly I wondered Why no one's head was broke, For at each mighty stroke Close past the legs or head Of some unconscious bloke, Fast the balls thundered; Which, had they hit him, would Limbs have near sundered! IV. Balls to the right of me! Balls to the left of me! Balls, too, behind me! Bounded and thundered! Then came a sudden thwack, Right on my poor old back, Earthward I tumbled smack, Knocked out was all my breath With this untimely crack; Whether my bones were smashed, I lay and wondered. Ne'er will the memory fade Of the large bruise it made, Not if six hundred Years on this earth I stayed. Why cricket's ever played, Often I've wondered! From Lays of Modern Oxford, 1874.

Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All on the underground line Rode the six hundred. Right! cried the guard of the train; Right! for the Sale, he said, Into the Terminus then Glide the six hundred. Forward the bright brigade! Was there a heart dismayed, Not tho' it seemed too true Someone had fainted. Their's not to call a fly, Aldgate, the station nigh; Their's but to try and buy, Into the premises Came the six hundred. Counters to right of them, Counters to left of them, Counters in front of them, Dighted and lumbered; Greeted with chair and grace Boldly they entered apace, Into the matter fain, Into the "Sale" amain Went the six hundred. Flash'd all their note-books fair, Flash'd all the pencils there, Noting with all due care. Purchases rich and rare, All the world wondered; Plunged in the "Hibernum Sale," Pleased with each neat detail; Silken and Linen Metre and yard-stick fail Almost to measure. Then they hark back, but not— Not unencumbered. Counters to right of them, Counters to left of them, Counters behind them Piled up with wonders; Offered some bargains rare, Mute with a great despair They that had bought so well Came from the "Tempus" Sale Tired and deadly pale, Weary six hundred. When can their gladness fade? O! the good time they had! All the world wondered. Honour the "parcels made;" Honour the Drapers' Trade, Noble six hundred.

FORWARD the Big Bustle! Down the long street rustle, Sweeping the street Arab Into the gutter; Swells to the right of it, Swells to the left of it. Cane, stick, and eyeglass, All in a flutter! Loud cries the errand-boy, "Big Bustle there, ahoy!" And the respectable Citizens stare— Reckless of every one, On goes the "haughty one," Sweeping past houses, Terrace and square. But look, the low'ring sky Portends a storm is nigh; While men on all sides Gallantly throng; Swells to the right of it, Swells to the left of it, Blue Bustle charges, Sweeping along. Ah, 'tis a rainy day! Streams flood the muddy way, And the fair ornament Cheeky cads hustle; Homeward it now retreats, Flies from the crowded streets, Safe at last! ah, but not— Not the same Bustle! Judy, 17th April 1872.

Keep the league! keep the league, Keep our league onward! We twain have "run" a piece Nights now Six Hundred. Though but a light brigade, Not such "great guns" 'tis said. Yet we a play have played Nights full Six Hundred! "Here's your piece," Byron said, "Take it friends, undismayed," So we did, for we knew Seldom he's blundered! Ours not to talk, but buy, Ours but to act (or try!) How fared the Comedy! Into two years we've run, Nights now Six Hundred. Prophets to right of us, Prophets to left of us, Prophets in front of us, Volleyed and thundered! Wiseacre shot and shell, "May, for a time, do well!" Ne'er, in their jaws (so right!) Ne'er in their mouths that night Boded Six Hundred. "Flashy! a thing of air! Flashy! but very fair!" So said these wonders there, Stage-wise alarmists! while All who of fun'd heard, Crushed in the groaning pit. Fought thro', fought bit by bit! Coster and Nobleman Laughed at the same old hit, Laughed at, and wondered, Thought of that night, but not Dreamed of Six Hundred! Dresses wore spite of us, Scenes waned each night of us, Stitches made light of us, Severed and sundered; Summers on "houses" tell, "Business," tho', never fell, Everything turned out well, So, we are playing still, Playing each night with will, All that is left of us After Six Hundred! When shall this fortune fade? No increased charge we've made (Herein we blundered!) Thanks to all, true as steel! Thanks to the Public, we'll Double Six Hundred.

"Ring out your battle cry— Vote us our war supply, This must we do or die— Vote the six millions. Theirs not to reason why, Ours not to make reply, Ours but to say 'You lie'— Vote the six millions."

By the League, by the League, by the League onward, Into the Commons' House went the three hundred. Forward the "Rad." Brigade! "Pass this Bill quick!" he said. Into the Commons' House went the three hundred. Forward the "Rad." Brigade! Who is a whit afraid? What tho' the Tories say we have all blundered? Theirs but to moan and cry—let Jemmy Lowther sigh, and ask Sir Stafford "Why?" Into the Commons' House went the three hundred. Leaguers to right of them, Whiggites to left of them, Tories in front of them, shouted and thundered. Stormed at with hoot and yell, while weak-kneed Lib'rals fell, Into the lobby drear, into the House pell-mell, rushed the three hundred; Flashed all their tongues quite bare, each one his speech to air, Crushing the Leaguers there, dishing the Tories while Salisbury wondered. Plunged in the hot debate, those who the rules had broke— Parnell and Dillon—reeled from brave Gladstone's stroke shattered and sundered; Then they went out, but not—not the three hundred. Leaguers to right of them, Whigs on the left of them, Tories behind them, stamped, roared, and thundered, Stormed at with hoot and yell, while many a weak one fell, They that had voted well came from the lobby back, back to the House pell-mell— All that was left of the happy three hundred. When will they e'er be paid? Oh, the grand vote they gave! Salisbury wondered! Honour the vote they gave! Long live the "Rad." Brigade! Gladstone's three hundred. 25th June, 1882. J. ARTHUR ELLIOTT.

Up the stairs, down the stairs, Farther and farther yet; Here we come out of breath, Flustered and sundered. Barriers to right of us, Barriers to left of us, Barriers in front of us! Bad words we thundered. Most doors are barred and locked, All sense of safety shocked; Why is our business blocked By those who blundered? Back to the charge we're led; Corridors dark we tread; Had we gone heels o'er head Who could have wondered? No friend to say "Beware!" No warning, "Pray, take care!" Each step another snare! If one, there's five hundred. Ours not to make reply; Ours not to reason why; Still we may raise the cry, Some one has blundered! Funny Folks, 1883.

On their legs, on their legs, On their legs onward, All with face pale as death Rose the Six hundred. How dare he show his head? "Rush from the wretch!" they said. Straight to the street beneath Strode the Six Hundred. Forward the fair brigade, No woman there dismayed. Not though each fair one knew Biggar had blundered. His not to reason why, His not to make reply, Best take his hat and fly, When with rage out of breath Rushed the Six Hundred. Married to right of him, Single to left of him, Widows in front of him Volleyed and thundered. No storm of shot and shell E'er silenced man so well. Joe! ne'er his tale shall tell When near an Irish belle— Noble Six Hundred! Funny Folks, January 1884.

At FLORES, in the Azores, Sir Richard Grenville lay, And a pinnace, like a flutter'd bird, came flying from far away: "Spanish ships of war at sea! we have sighted fifty-three!" Then sware Lord Thomas Howard; "'Fore God I am no coward; But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of gear, And the half my men are sick. I must fly, but follow quick. We are six ships of the line; can we fight with fifty-three?"

AT his chambers in the Albany Sir Richard Tankard lay, And a missive, like brown buttered toast, was brought him on a tray; "Come, drink my Spanish wine—fifty dozen, all is thine, And bring your friends with you, we'll drink till all is blue." Then sware Lord Thomas Drunker: "By jingo, I'm no funker; But I cannot go, I fear, for my liver's out of gear, And my head feels like to burst, and I only slake my thirst With Apollinaris water, for I dare not touch port wine." Then spake Sir Richard Tankard, "I know you are no funker, And fly wine for a moment to return to it again, But my liver and my brain are free from ache and pain. I should count myself the funker if I left them, my Lord Drunker, Unsatisfied, and craving for the purple wine of Spain." He called his friends together to go with him and dine. He told them of the telegram that told him of the wine. "We will go for we are dry; Good Sir Richard, we are thine, And the vintage we will try. If good there will be little left ere morrow's sun be set!" And Sir Richard said again, "We be all good Englishmen; Let us empty all the bottles down our sturdy British throttles, For I never turned my back upon glass or bottle yet." Sir Richard spoke and he laugh'd, and we roared a hurrah, and so, Like true-born sturdy Englishmen, we all of us would go. And found the wine all laid along the floor in many a row, And half was laid on the right-hand side, and half on the left was seen, And the table, like the white sea foam, ran down the room between. The dim eyes of the waiters winked with an inward laugh; They seemed to mock the notion that we the wine would quaff. But as the night was waning they watched the rows grow small, And whispered to each other, "I bet they'll drink it all!" For the wine was flowing swiftly down, as a cataract might be When it leaps from a mountain to the sea! And the moon went down and the stars came out o'er the smoky London town; And never a moment ceased the flow of the purple liquor down! Glass after glass, the whole night long, the mighty magnums went, And bottle after bottle was away from the table sent. "Dead men," as in a battle field, lay strewn upon the floor, But still there was no cry of "Hold!" but constant shouts for "more!" For he said, "Drink on, drink on!" Though he scarce could lift his hand. And it chanced when more than half of the summer night was gone That he rose up on his feet and tried to stand, But he sunk into his chair, and lay back grinning there, And close up to his side we stept, Then—the rule in such a case—we cork'd him on the face, And he fell upon the floor, and he slept. So pass'd we all, and when we woke each knew of a heavy head, For not a soul of all of us had found the way to bed! And a tempest of indignation swept over our surging brains, That we could be floored by vintage, ay, ev'n of a hundred Spains! "It never was PORT"! we cried, and so we tasted it once again—'twas SLOE! Vile SLOE, with all our might, we had drunk for half the night! And brave Sir Richard Tankard said, "Boys, although we drank hard, 'Tis SLOE-JUICE, and not Spanish wine, is giving us such pains!" Then in a sink, that day, we poured the rest away, To be lost evermore in the drains.

"First pledge our Queen, my friends, and then A health to England, every guest; He best will serve the race of men Who loves his native country best! May freedom's oak for ever last, With larger life from day to day; He loves the present and the past Who lops the moulder'd branch away. Hands all round! God the traitor's hope confound! To the great cause of Freedom, drink my friends, And the great name of England round and round."

FIRST pledge the Alliance, friends, and then A health to WILFRID, champion dear! He honours best that best of men Who drinks his health in ginger-beer. May LAWSON'S jokes for ever live, With washier shine from day to day, He's Freedom true Conservative, Who Zoedone imbibes alway. Slops all round! Heaven the Wittler's hopes confound! To the great cause Teetotal, swig my friends, And the great name of LAWSON round and round! To Local Optionists who long To hold the land in leading-strings, By boldly banning liquors strong, For lemonade and such sweet things. To all who 'neath our watery skies, Would English wits with water whelm, To Toastandwaterdom's swift rise, Till the Good Templar rules the realm, Slops all round! Heaven the Wittler's hopes confound! To the great cause Teetotal swig, my friends, And the great name of LAWSON round and round! To all our Statesmen, so they be Forwarders of our League's desire, To both our Houses, if with glee They'll quench, in water, Freedom's fire, What odds though Freedom's flag should sink, Whilst high the Temperance banner waves? Shall Britons bondsmen be to Drink Through fear of being Slopdom's slaves? Slops all round! Heaven the Wittlers' hopes confound! To the great cause Teetotal swig, my friends, And the great name of LAWSON round and round!

A health to Jingo first, and then A health to shell, a health to shot! The man who hates not other men I deem no perfect patriot! To all who hold all England mad We drink; to all who'd tax her food! We pledge the man who hates the Rad! We drink to Bartle Frere and Froude! Drinks all round! Here's to Jingo, King and crowned! To the great cause of Jingo drink, my boys, And the great name of Jingo round and round! To all the Companies that long To rob as folk robbed years ago; To all that wield the double thong, From Queensland round to Borneo! To all that, under Indian skies, Call Aryan man "a blasted nigger;" To all rapacious enterprise; To rigour everywhere, and vigour!— Drinks all round! Here's to Jingo, King and crowned! To the great name of Jingo drink, my boys, And every filibuster round and round! To all our statesmen, while they see An outlet new for British trade, Where British fabrics still may be With British size all overweighed! Wherever gin and guns are sold We've scooped the artless nigger in; Where men give ivory and gold, We give them measles, tracts, and gin! Drinks all round! Here's to Jingo, King and crowned! To the great name of Jingo drink, my boys, And to Adulteration, round and round. From The Daily News, March 17, 1882.

Come! pledge Northampton, friends, and then A health to Freemen's every guest; He best will serve the race of men Who loves his country's freedom best! May Freedom's reign for ever last, With wider bounds from day to day; He loves the present, not the past, Who breaks the tyrant's chain away! CHORUS—Hands all round! All despotic laws confound! Northampton's Freemen, cheer, my friends, The hope of Britain round and sound! To all the British hearts, who long Will keep their heart of freedom whole— To all our noble sons, the strong Of British birth—the men of soul Who rise against coercive wrong, That drags "suspects" untried to gaol, While starving thousands in the realm. Oh! burst the prison of the "Pale." Whatever statesman holds the helm. CHORUS—Hands all round! All despotic laws confound! Northampton's Freemen, cheer, my friends, The hope of Britain round and sound! To all our statesmen who for Right, Are leaders at the land's desire; Nor bend nor aid the force of Might, That gags free speech to quench the fire That burns to make the people great, In thought and deed on every hand. We freedom gave the mighty State, But lack it in our native land! CHORUS—Hands all round! All despotic laws confound! Northampton's Freemen, cheer, my friends, The hope of Britain round and sound! June 1882. E. T. CRAIG.

"And the blameless king, Rising again (to Lancelot's discontent, Who held all speeches a tremendous bore), Said, "If one duty to be done remains, And 'tis neglected, all the rest is nought But Dead Sea apples and the acts of apes." Smiled Guinevere, and begged him not to preach; She knew that duty, and it should be done: So what of pudding on that festal night Was not consumed by Arthur and his guests, The queen upon the following morning, fried."

"The widow'd dame of Hubbard's ancient line Turned to her cupboard, cornered anglewise Betwixt this wall and that, in quest of aught To satisfy the craving of Sir Tray, Prick-eared companion of her solitude, Red-spotted, dirty white, and bare of rib, Who followed at her high and pattering heels, Prayer in his eye, prayer in his slinking gait, Prayer in his pendulous pulsating tail. Wide on its creaking jaws revolved the door, The cupboard yawned, deep throated, thinly set For teeth, with bottles, ancient cannisters, And plates of various pattern, blue or white; Deep in the void she thrust her hookèd nose Peering near sighted for the wished-for bone, Whiles her short robe of samite, tilted high, The thrifty darnings of her hose revealed;— The pointed feature travelled o'er the delf, Greasing its tip, but bone or bread found none. Wherefore Sir Tray abode still dinnerless, Licking his paws beneath the spinning-wheel, And meditating much on savoury meats."

"Dead?" said the Dame, while louder wailed Elaine; "I see," she said, "thy fasts were all too long, Thy commons all too short, which shortened thus Thy days, tho' thou mightst still have cheered mine age Had I but timelier to the city wonned. Thither I must again, and that right soon, For now 'tis meet we lap thee in a shroud, And lay thee in the vault by Astolat, Where faithful Tray shall by Sir Hubbard lie." Up a by-lane the undertaker dwelt; There day by day he plied his merry trade, And all his undertakings undertook: Erst knight of Arthur's Court, Sir Waldgrave hight, A gruesome carle who hid his jests in gloom, And schooled his lid to counterfeit a tear. With cheerful hammer he a coffin tapt, While hollow, hollow, hollow rang the wood, And, as he sawed and hammered, thus he sang— Wood, hammer, nails, ye build a house for him, Nails, hammer, wood, ye build a house for me, Paying the rent, the taxes, and the rates. I plant a human acorn in the ground, And therefrom straightway springs a goodly tree, Budding for me in bread and beer and beef. O Life, dost thou bring Death or Death bring thee? Which of the twain is bringer, which the brought? Since men must die that other men may live. O Death, for me thou plump'st thine hollow cheeks, Mak'st of thine antic grin a pleasant smile, And prank'st full gaily in thy winding sheet. Yet am I but the henwife's favourite chick, Pampered but doomed; and, in the sequel sure, Death will the Undertaker overtake."

"Sir Tray that with me dwelt, Lies on my lonely hearthstone stark and stiff; Wagless the tail that waved to welcome me."

"Oft have I noted, when the jest went round, Sad 'twas to see the wag forget his tale— Sadder to see the tail forget its wag."

"Home through the darksome wold, and raised the latch, And marked, full lighted by the ingle-glow, Sir Tray, with spoon in hand, and cat on knee, Spattering the mess about the chaps of Puss."

Forth from the purple battlements he fared, Sir Eggnogg of the Rampant Lily, named From that embrasure of his argent shield Given by a thousand leagues of heraldry On snuffy parchments drawn,—so forth he fared, By bosky boles and autumn leaves he fared, Where grew the juniper with berries black, The sphery mansions of the future gin. But naught of this decoyed his mind, so bent On fair Miasma, Saxon-blooded girl, Who laughed his loving lullabies to scorn, And would have snatched his hero-sword to deck Her haughty brow, or warm her hands withal, So scornful she: and thence Sir Eggnogg cursed Between his teeth, and chewed his iron boots In spleen of love. But ere the morn was high In the robustious heaven, the postern-tower Clang to the harsh, discordant, slivering scream Of the tire-woman, at the window bent To dress her crispèd hair. She saw, ah woe! The fair Miasma, overbalanced, hurled O'er the flamboyant parapet which ridged The muffled coping of the castle's peak, Prone on the ivory pavement of the court, Which caught and cleft her fairest skull, and sent Her rosy brains to fleck the Orient floor. This saw Sir Eggnogg, in his stirrups poised, Saw he and cursed, with many a deep-mouthed oath, And, finding nothing more could reunite The splintered form of fair Miasma, rode On his careering palfrey to the wars, And there found death, another death than hers. From Diversions of the Echo Club.

I, who a decade past had lived recluse, Left for awhile the dust of books and town To share the pastimes of a country house; And thus it chanced that I beheld a scene That steep'd my rusted mind in wonderment. The morn was passing fair; no vagrant cloud Obscured the summer sun, as from the porch I sallied forth to saunter at my will Adown the garden path. Anon I came To where a lawn outspread its verdant robe, Whose decoration filled me with amaze. Lawns many had I seen in days gone by, But never lawn before the like of this; For o'er its grassy plane a strange device Of parallelograms rectangular Was limn'd in lines of most exceeding whiteness: Athwart the centre of this strange device A threaden net was stretch'd a full yard high, And clasp'd in its reticulated arms, As ivy clasps the oak, two sturdy staves Uprear'd on either side. At either end, Holding opposing corners of the field, A youth and damsel did themselves disport In costume airy, mystic, wonderful; The while in dexter hand each held a quaint And spoon-shaped instrument of chequer'd strings— Modell'd perchance, upon an ancient lute— Wherewith they nimbly urged the bounding sphere Across the meshy bar. No space had I To ponder, ere they spied me and did call A welcome—"Hast thou come to see us play?" "What is the game?" I ask'd; they answer'd "Love." "A pretty game," quoth I, "for man or maid, But one wherein a third is out of place; Fain would I therefore go." "Nay, nay," they cried; "Prithee remain, and thou shalt stand as umpire." And so I stay'd, and presently besought To know their prospects. Then the maiden said, "I'm fifteen now;" the gallant, he replied, "And thirty, I." Whereon methought at first That he did somewhat overstate his case, Though she seem'd rather underneath the mark. But when they said that she was thirty-two, And, next, that he was forty, I perceived They told of other things than length of years; Since mortals' ages, e'en at census time, Could scarce be subject to such fluctuations. Thus did they wage the contest, hither, thither Running and smiting, till triumphantly The damsel shouted, "Deuce!" Alas! mused I, That lips so fair should utter words so base, Yet would have held my peace, had not the youth Turn'd unto me—"How's that; was that a fault?" "A fault!" I answer'd; "aye, and worse than that; Indeed, 'tis nigh a sin." "Go to," he said; "Thou makest merry." So the sport went on; And then she cried, "Advantage, and I win!" And then, "'Tis deuce again!" and then, "Advantage To thee!" and then she strove to reach the ball, And fail'd, and in despair exclaim'd, "Oh, dear, I'm beaten!" and fell back upon the sward. "And this," quoth I, "is this your game of love? Well, I have heard men say that oftentimes True love, once smooth, is scattered to the deuce And she that first advantage hath obtain'd, Doth lose at last, and suffer sad reverse. Sweet maid, when thou art wed, the deuce avoid, And thou shalt ne'er at least deserve a beating." She laugh'd; he frown'd; I turn'd, and went my way.

I stood on a tower in the wet, And New Year and Old Year met, And winds were roaring and blowing; And I said, "O years! that meet in tears, Have ye aught that is worth the knowing?" Science enough and exploring, Wanderers coming and going; Matter enough for deploring, But aught that is worth the knowing? Seas at my feet were flowing, Waves on the shingle pouring; Old Year roaring and blowing, And New Year blowing and roaring.

I sat in a 'bus in the wet, "Good Words" I had happened to get, With Tennyson's last bestowing; And I said, "O bard! who works so hard, Have ye aught that is worth the knowing?" Verses enough and so boring, Twaddle quite overflowing, Rubbish enough for deploring; But aught that is worth the knowing? Placards on walls were glowing, Puffs in the papers pouring, "Good Words" roaring and blowing, "Once a Week" blowing and roaring!

TENNYSON stood in the wet, And he and his publishers met, His publishers cursing and swearing, And they said "O Tennyson tell us, Have you anything good to sell us, The public mind it enrages, To read such bosh by pages, 'The Victim' was little better, And oh! that 'Spiteful Letter.'" They spoke, their poor hair tearing, TENNYSON poems rehearsing, Publishers cursing and swearing, TENNYSON swearing and cursing.

A plague upon the people fell, A plague of writers high and low, There were some wrote ill, and some wrote well, And the Novel, the Novel was all the go; But the people tired of what they admired, And they said to the Editors one and all, 'We have had enough of sensation stuff, So give us a change, be it great or small'— And the Editors paled As they heard the throng— What would you have of us? Poem or Song? Were it the queerest, Were it the dearest Money can purchase, We'll give you a Song.

But still the plague spread far and wide, Bad novels were written and bought and read, In which handsome wives took their husbands' lives, And maidens behaved as if they were wed: So the people stormed and some of them swore, '"Good Words" they butter no parsnips, no; So give us a song, both sweet and strong, Or you or your magazines may go— To Jericho!'— Or was it Hong Kong? 'Were it the queerest, Were it the dearest, We'll give them a song.'

The Editors went through 'The Men of the Time,' 'Including the Women,' with eager look, Through the men and women who dabble in rhyme, Whose names are inscribed in that golden book. 'Oh! who shall we get to sing to "the Beast"? To sing to the Beast a deathless song?'— 'Till they came to Tupper, the great High Priest— Proverbially the worst of the throng. And their hearts exulted A moment or two:— 'His were the queerest, But we've promised the dearest, Tupper won't do!'

Again they looked for a bard divine. 'Here's one,' they exclaimed, 'should be preferred A poet the half of whose name is Swine, Is fittest to sing to the swinish herd. But Swine and burn suggest in their turn Ideas a little too gross and warm; And a poet who writes of hermaphrodites Is scarcely the man to weather the storm. So Swineburne, too, Won't do, won't do! What's to be done With the raging throng? We can't have the queerest, We'll pay for the dearest: Give us a song!'

The cry went forth o'er cities and towns; It tickled the ears of the men who write; It leaped from the land and over the downs, And flew like wind through the Isle of Wight: There Tennyson sat in his wide-awake hat, Or smoked and strolled on his 'sponge-wet' grounds; 'I'll give them a song not over long— I'll give them a song for two hundred pounds.' How happy, how happy, The Editors grew! 'Were it the merest Trash, 'tis the dearest, And therefore will do.'

The poet wrote the poem I quote, 'The Victim,' whose life the priests would destroy But the Editor knows ere now, I suppose, That he is the victim, and not the boy: 'Tis he must bleed for this rhythmic deed And ever for more, as the public cry, May Alfred the Great—the Laureate— Shriek out 'the dearest, the dearest am I!' And the public are happy, And so they ought; For to them doth belong, If not the sincerest Outburst of song That ever was thought, At least the dearest That ever was bought. January 27, 1868, "M." Dublin Paper.

"'One victim more!' a thousand voices cry; 'One victim more!' resounds the cave of gloom. Lo! borne on lofty car, 'mid savage cries Of a wild band, a costlier victim comes. It is a lovely stripling, o'er whose cheek Youth hath her earliest purple bloom suffused: In rich luxuriant curls his locks descend, Twined with the fatal flowers that sweetly mock The victim they adorn. Wild with despair, His shrieking mother grasps the iron wheel Of the inexorable car: she spurns The fierce rebukes, or menace of the throng, To catch the last glimpse of her darling boy. 'Ah! spare my son; shed mine own blood instead: My life may satisfy your vengeful gods!'" Exclaims the hapless matron, but in vain.

"Thrice from the dyke he sent his mighty shout, Thrice backward reel'd the Trojans and allies."

"Thrice rolled his glowing eye, with fury fired, And thrice his spear leapt forward at the foe; Whilst as the sinking sun proclaimed it three, He thrice imbued it in the Trojan's blood. Then stood he where three stones were rudely piled, And thrice he thought what next his course should be; Thrice wiped the triple tears that dewed his cheek, Thrice muttered words I care not to repeat; Then murmuring his mother's name three times, Made up his mind to slaughter three more foes. So thrice again his spear was launched in space, And three miles off, within Troy's triple walls, Three widows, each with children three, were left To mourn that he, Achilles, had not thought Four times that afternoon instead of three." From Funny Folks.

When he whispers, "O, Miss Bailey, Thou art brightest of the throng!" She makes murmur, softly, gaily— "Alfred, I have loved thee long." Then he drops upon his knees, a Proof his heart is soft as wax; She's—I don't know who; but he's a Captain bold from Halifax. Though so loving, such another Artless bride was never seen; Coachee thinks that she's his mother— Till they get to Gretna Green. There they stand by him attended, Hear the sable smith rehearse That which links them, when 'tis ended, Tight for better or for worse. Now her heart rejoices—ugly Troubles need disturb her less— Now the Happy Pair are snugly Seated in the night express. So they go with fond emotion, So they journey through the night; London is their land of Goschen— See its suburbs are in sight! Hark, the sound of life is swelling, Pacing up, and racing down; Soon they reach her simple dwelling— Burley-street, by Somers Town. What is there to so astound them? She cries "Oh!" for he cries "Hah!" When five brats emerge—confound them! Shouting out, "MAMMA!"—"PAPA!" While at this he wonders blindly, Nor their meaning can divine, Proud she turns them round, and kindly, "All of these are mine and thine!" * * * * Here he pines and grows dyspeptic, Losing heart he loses pith— Hints that Bishop Tait's a sceptic, Swears that Moses was a myth. Sees no evidence in Paley, Takes to drinking ratafia: Shies the muffins at Miss Bailey, While she's pouring out the tea. One day, knocking up his quarters, Poor Miss Bailey found him dead, Hanging in his knotted garters, Which she knitted ere they wed. FREDERICK LOCKER.

I HOLD it truth, with him who rings His money on a testing stone To judge its goodness by its tone, That gold will buy all other things. It hides the ravages of years; It gilds the matrimonial match; It makes deformity "a catch;" And dries the sorrowing widow's tears. Let love grasp cash, lest both be drowned; Let Mammon keep his gilded gloss; Ah, easier far to bear the loss Of love, than of a thousand pound! Let not the victor say with scorn, While of his winnings he may boast, "Behold the man who played and lost, And now is weak and overworn."