Part 1 — Thomas Hood.

WITH shins all hash'd and torn, With carcases skin and bone, Two nags with a 'bus hung on at the square, With hunger almost gone— "Ya hip—hip—hip!" Shouted one on the dicky borne, "Should we pick up a fare now, my five-year-olds, To-morrow you may get corn." * * * * * Trot, trot, trot! Till our giddy brains run round! Trot, trot, trot! And that on Christian ground! Run, gallop, and trot, Trot, gallop, and run, Till we weary and weary over again That our dreadful task were done. O! others of our race More favoured than we two! You little think in your day of grace, That this fate may come to you! Soft, soft, soft! You sleep without a throe! Hard, hard, hard! We struggle through drifted snow! (Eight verses omitted). J. M. CRAWFORD, Greenock, March, 1844.

"WITH brows all clammy and cold, With face all haggard and wan, The "Hero of Bladensburgh" sat in his chair, And uttered a fearful groan; Wake, wake, wake! Ye Whigs from your drowsy bed; And wake, wake, wake! Ere my hopes are all perished and fled."

WITH "Bluchers" cobbled and worn, With post-bag heavy alway, A postman tramped on his twentieth round, On good St. Valentine's day. Rat-tat! rat! tat! At every knocker almost, Each time, in a voice that was somewhat flat, He sang the "Song of the Post!" Tramp! tramp! tramp! When the sweep is up the flue; And tramp! tramp! tramp! Till the supper beer is due. It's oh! to be a slave, Along with the barbarous Turk, Where Scudamore can verse outpour For Britons, besides his work! Trudge! trudge! trudge! Till I'm trodden down at heel; Trudge! trudge! trudge! Till I'm faint for want of a meal. Bell, and knocker, and box, Box, and knocker, and bell; Till over the letters I all but nod, And drop them in a spell. Oh, girls with lovers fond! Oh, men who want to get wives! It's not a mere custom you're keeping up; You're wearing out postmen's lives! If you must send Valentines, Don't post them by tens and twelves; Or, if you do, I would pray of you To deliver them yourselves! But why do I pray of you, Whose hearts so hard must be, Since your scented rhymes you'll not post betimes, In spite of Lord M—'s decree? In spite of Lord M—'s decree, In your tardy ways you keep; Oh, crime! that boots should be so dear, And Valentines so cheap! * * * * Tramp! tramp! tramp! Through street, and terrace, and square. Rap! rap! rap! Valentines everywhere! Maid, and master, and miss, Miss, and master, and maid; There are some for them all, as they come at the call Of the knocker, so long delayed. * * * * There's none too poor or base A Valentine to send— A halfpenny buys an ugly one That will serve to spite a friend. They are sent by the high and the low— By the noble, and many a scamp, Who has to steal the envelope, And cadge for the penny stamp! * * * * Oh! could I but finish my task! That I for my feet might care, And my neck that's gall'd by the heavy weight, I've had this day to bear. Oh! but for one short hour, To feel as I used to feel, Before I'd developed such terrible corns, Or was trodden so down at heel. * * * * With "Bluchers" cobbled and worn, With post-bag heavy alway, A postman tramped on his twentieth round, On good St. Valentine's day. Rat-tat! tat! tat! At every knocker almost; And still, in a voice that was somewhat flat, (Many wondered whate'er he was at), He sang the "Song of the Post!" (Fourteen verses in all). Truth, February 8, 1877.

WITH arms a-wearied of fanning herself, With eyelids heavy and red, A wallflower sat on a stiff-backed chair, Wishing herself in bed. Turn, twirl, and turn, With hop, with glide, and prance; And still, as she sleepily gazed on that throng, She muttered the "Song of the Dance." Dance, dance, dance, Till I hear the milkman's cry; Dance, dance, dance, Till the sun is seen on high. It's O to be a nigger, Nor mind to clothless feel, If civilised folk will try how little They need their bodies conceal! Dance, dance, dance, Till the heat is horrid to bear; Dance, dance, dance, Till I long for a cushioned chair. Waltz, gallop, and waltz; A lancer, a stray quadrille, Till the whirl and the music make me doze, And dreaming I watch them still. O men with wives and sisters, Have ye no eyes to see That the scanty dress of the ballet-girl By your kin ne'er worn should be? Twirl, turn, and twirl; Morality, where art thou? The dance and the dress of the stage—and worse— Are those of the ball-room now! But why do I talk of morality Since Fashion its morals makes? What Fashion does is never wrong, So Purity never quakes. For Purity only takes Her sip of the cup that Fashion fills; And we know that cup is made of gold, And that gold will cover a thousand ills. Dance, dance, dance; They never tired appear: And all in hopes that a wished-for vow, May fall on their foolish ear, Alas, how the morn will show, The work of the midnight air; And the paint will trace on many a face, And show false locks of hair! Dance, dance, dance; How sweetly they keep time, As they dance, dance, dance, In a measure quite sublime! They waltz, waltz, waltz, Keep time to the glorious band; But, ah! there is many a blushing look, And pressure of many a hand! Thus wearied out with fanning herself, With eyelids heavy and red, This wallflower sat on a stiff-backed chair, Wishing herself in bed. While all were swinging with turn and twirl, With hop, and glide, and prance, She muttered this song to herself, and said, "Alas", where is morality fled, Since true is my "Song of the Dance?" CECIL MAXWELL LYTE.

WITH fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat 'neath a Government roof, Plying her needle and thread. As she stitch'd, stitch'd, stitch'd, 'Twas plain she was most expert; And she sang to herself in a voice low-pitch'd, The "Song of the Soldier's Shirt." Work! work! work! There's no rest in youth or age! And alas! I have now to work For a cruelly lessen'd wage! I sit at my task all day, And never my duty shirk, But slop-shop prices would better pay Than this cheap Government work. Work! work! work! My labour never flags, And yet with my pittance I scarce can buy A crust of bread—and rags. I work for the greatest Power, That ever the world has known, Yet my pay's so small that I cannot call My body and soul my own. * * * * Oh! is there no other way Of bringing expenditure down? Must they needs reduce our paltry pay Of all who serve the Crown? Heaven grant that they yet may see Some way the wrong to redress, For every penny they take from me Means a slice of bread the less! * * * * As she stitch'd, stitch'd, stitch'd, 'Twas plain she was most expert; And she sang in a voice that was low and sweet (Oh! that it may reach to Downing Street!) This "Song of the Soldier's Shirt." Truth, May 1, 1879.

WITH a weary, swimming brain, With a throbbing aching head, Sat a newspaper hack in his garret lone, Driving a goose-quill for bread. A well-smoked briar was in his hand, He'd filled it again and again, And between the whiffs, in a quavering voice, He sang this "Song of the Pen." Write! write! write! Though my head is ready to split; Write! write! write! Though I fall asleep as I sit. Write! write! write! When the summer sun is high! Write! write! write! When the stars light up the sky. Write! write! write! For my pen must never tire; First I've a railway smash to do, And then the report of a fire. I must put in a word of praise for those Who rendered efficient aid; And, if time enough, I must give a puff, To the chief of the Fire Brigade. Write! write! write! I'd need be a writing machine; For unlike the workers on Once a Week, I've no Leisure Hour between, But it's write! write! write! Though my inkstand is nearly dry, Like a government office, I must contract With MORRELL for a fresh supply. Now I must haste to the gallows tree, To see them strangle a sinner; And write a report the saints may read, As they take their breakfast or dinner. Then concoct a puff for some wonderful pill, Or marvellous sarsaparilla; And hurry away to hear PUNSHON preach, Or SPURGEON on the gorilla. (Three verses omitted.) With a weary, swimming brain, With a throbbing, aching head, Sat a newspaper hack in his garret lone, Driving a goose-quill for bread. Write! write! write! They're asking for "copy" again; While his goose-quill over the foolscap flew, He thought of the troubles each author knew, And sang this "Song of the Pen." ANONYMOUS.