Part 1 — Thomas Hood.

In clothes, both muddy and wet, Without hat—left on the fell; A pedestrian sought, with a tottering gait, Refreshment at this hotel. He'd walked a long and weary way, O'er mountain-top and moor; And thus he mused, mid'st wind and rain, As he approached the door. "I walk! walk! walk! First climbing hills, and then down Where the people are not to be seen, Many miles from village or town. Oh! haven't I been a dupe, Pedestrian pleasure to seek, When so quiet I might have stayed At Redcar all the week." "I walk! walk! walk! With my boots fast breaking up, And walk! walk! walk! Without either bite or sup. Oh! that again I was at home, To feel as I used to feel, And not as now, in hunger and thirst, With a doubly-blistered heel." "I walk! walk! walk! Up to the knee in bog, And loudly call, 'Lost! Lost!' Surrounded by clouds and fog. I walk! walk! walk! Till my head begins to spin; Oh! that I ne'er had scrambled out The stream I tumbled in." "I walk! walk! walk! With cheeks all swollen and red; A nasty aching within my ears, Rheumatics in my head. I walk! walk! walk! In trousers tattered and torn! With every thread from foot to head Quite soaked since early morn." "The day is fast wearing out, And so are my boots and I; The sleet blows in my face, As with the breeze I sigh. Although white fog I'm in, Yet 'tis a dark look out For one who hither has come for a change, And cannot change a clout." "I walk! walk! walk! And nothing can find to see; While water and mud from out my boots Is squirting up to each knee. Talk of scenery! Bah! it's all stuff, But the waterfall, I admit, Is good, for it's running down my back, And I've no dry place to sit." "I walk! walk! walk! With my throat quite parched and dry; No spirit to rouse my spirits up; With pulse quite fevered and high. I've a dropsy got outside, Whilst inside there's a drought; Oh! for a good warm draught within, As a check to the draught without." "Walk! walk! walk! I'll never come here again: My holiday shall be spent elsewhere, Free from fatigue and pain. Or I'll stay at home with my wife, Where a dry shirt I can wear;"— And worn out with misfortune's strife, And almost weary of his life, He sank in the old arm chair. JOHN REED APPLETON, F.S.A.

WITH hands all blistered and worn, With eyes excited and red, A boating man sat, in jersey and bags, Awaiting the signal with dread. Tug! tug! tug! Every bone in his body is hurt; And still, with a sigh and a dolorous shrug, He sang the "Song of the Spurt!" "Work! work! work! Till I shiver in every limb; Work! work! work! Till the eyes begin to swim Steam, bucket, and pant, Pant, bucket, and steam, Till over the oar I almost faint, And row along in a dream." "O, men, with sisters dear, O, men, with pretty cousins, I must mind and keep my form for the end— They'll be there on the barge by dozens! Pull! pull! pull! What is poverty, hunger, or dirt, Compared with the more than double dread Of catching a crab in the spurt!" With eyes excited and red, With good hope of victory fired, He was rowing along in his jersey and bags, But feeling uncommonly tired! Pull! pull! pull! He began his full powers to exert; Soon his boat would have been at the head of the river, But when just at the barge—an unfortunate shiver Made him catch a crab in the spurt! REMEX MORIBUNDUS.

With nerves all shattered and worn, With shouts terrific and loud, A patient stood in a cold wet sheet— A Grindrod's patent shroud. Wet, wet, wet, In douche, and spray, and sleet, And still, with a voice I shall never forget, He sang the song of the sheet. "Drip, drip, drip, Dashing, and splashing, and dipping; And drip, drip, drip, Till your fat all melts to dripping. It's oh, for dry deserts afar, Or let me rather endure Curing with salt in a family jar, If this is the water cure. "Rub, rub, rub, He'll rub away life and limb; Rub, rub, rub, It seems to be fun for him. Sheeted from head to foot, I'd rather be covered with dirt; I'll give you the sheet and the blankets to boot, If you'll only give me my shirt. "Oh men, with arms and hands; Oh men, with legs and shins; It is not the sheet you're wearing out, But human creatures' skins. Rub, rub, rub, Body, and legs, and feet, Rubbing at once with a double rub, A skin as well as a sheet. "My wife will see me no more— She'll see the bone of her bone But never will see the flesh of her flesh, For I'll have no flesh of my own: The little that was my own, They won't allow me to keep, It's a pity that flesh should be so dear, And water so very cheap. "Pack, pack, pack, Whenever your spirit flags, You're doomed by hydropathic laws To be packed in cold wet rags: Rolled up on bed or on floor— Or sweated to death in a chair; But my chairman's rank—my shadow I'd thank For taking my place in there. "Slop, slop, slop, Never a moment of time, Slop, slop, slop, Slackened like masons' lime; Stand and freeze or steam— Steam or freeze and stand; I wish those friends had their tongues benumbed, That told me to leave dry land. "Up, up, up, In the morn before daylight, The bathman cries, "Get up," (I wish he were up for a fight). While underneath the eaves, The dry, snug swallows cling, But give them a cold wet sheet to their backs, And see if they'll come next spring. "Oh! oh! it stops my breath, (He calls it short and sweet), Could they hear me underneath, I'll shout them from the street! He says that in half an hour A different man I'll feel That I'll jump half over the moon and want To walk into a meal. * * * * "I feel more nerve and power, And less of terror and grief; I'm thinking now of love and hope— And now of mutton and beef. This glorious scene will rouse my heart, Oh, who would lie in bed? I cannot stop, but jump and hop; Going like needle and thread." With buoyant spirit upborne, With cheeks both healthy and red; The same man ran up the Malvern Crags, Pitying those in bed. Trip, trip, trip, Oh, life with health is sweet; And still in a voice both strong and quick, Would that its tones could reach the sick, He sang the Song of the Sheet.

I. With lips all livid with cold, And purple and swollen feet, A woman, in rags, sat crouch'd on the flags, Singing the Song of the Street! "Starve! starve! starve! Oh, God! 'tis a fearful night! How the wind does blow the sleet and the snow! Will it ever again be light? II. "I have rung at the 'Refuge' bell, I have beat at the workhouse-door, To be told again that I clamour in vain, They are full—they can hold no more. Starve! starve! starve! Of the crowds that pass me by, Some with pity, and some in pride, But more with indifference turn aside, And leave me here to die! III. "Oh! you that sleep in beds, With coverlet, quilt, and sheet, Oh think when it snows what it is for those That lie in the open street: That lie in the open street, On the cold and frozen stones, When the winter's blast, as it whistles past, Bites into the very bones. IV. "Oh! what with the wind without, And what with the cold within, I own I have sought to drive away thought With that curse of the tempted—gin. Drink! drink! drink! Amid ribaldry, gas, and glare. If there's hell on earth, 'Tis the ghastly mirth That maddens at midnight, there. V. "Oh you, that never have stray'd, Because you have not been tried, Oh look not down with a Pharisee's frown On those that have swerv'd aside. And you that hold the scales, And you that glibly urge That the only plan is the Prison van, The Treadmill, or the Scourge. VI. "Oh, what are the lost to do? To famish, and not to feel? For days to go, and never to know What it is to have one meal? They cannot buy, they dare not beg, They must either starve or steal. "Food—food—food! If it be but a loaf of bread, And a place to lie— And a place to die, If it be but a workhouse bed! If you will not give to those that live, You at least must bury the dead!" VIII. With lips all livid and blue, And purple and swoll'n feet, A woman, in rags, sat crouch'd on the flags, And sang the Song of the Street. As she ceased the doleful strain, My homeward path I trod; And the cry and the prayer, Of that lost one there Went up to the Throne of God. W. H. B.

Stump—stump—stump— Through market-place, pothouse, and dirt; Stump—stump—stump— With a greasy mob fast to his skirt; Having changed his coat to secure their vote, Mr. Gladstone now changes his shirt. And if he but ends as he does begin, There is little doubt he will change his skin, On the stump—stump—stump. Stump—stump—stump— Through Ormskirk, St. Helen's and Newton, Whilst after him shout a rabble rout Of electors "Ain't he a cute 'un?" Stump—stump—stump— With the aid of rhetorical steam, Till over his speeches we fall asleep, And hear him stump in a dream; Stump—stump—stump— For ever upon our ear. Alas! that principle's so cheap, And office is so dear! Stump—stump—stump. The Tomahawk, November, 1868.

WITH bosom weary and worn, With eyelids painted and red, A lady, just from a Duchess's ball, Sat on the side of her bed. Her sapphires were gleaming and rich, And faultless her lace and her skirt, And yet with a voice of dolorous pitch, She sang the "Song of the Flirt." "Flirt, flirt, flirt! When the lunch is scarcely begun! Flirt, flirt, flirt! Till the sickening supper is done Ball and dinner, and rout, Rout, and dinner, and ball, Till I long for my bed to rest my head, And in a wakeless slumber to fall." "Flirt, flirt, flirt! Till the room begins to swim; Flirt, flirt, flirt, Till the eyes are starting and dim: Beam, and falsehood, and frown, Frown, and falsehood, and beam, Till over my lyings I fall asleep, And flirt my fan in a dream!" "Flirt, flirt, flirt! My labour never ends; And what are its wages? all true men's scorn, And a dreary dearth of friends. That shattered life—and this broken heart— And yon smile that shrines a sneer; And a house so blank, my cousin I thank For sometimes calling here!" "Oh! but to scent the breath Of an honest man on my brow— To feel the throb of a worthy arm Winding around me now; For only one brief hour To feel as the pure can feel, To staunch with the power of hearty love The wounds that refuse to heal!" With bosom weary and worn, With eyelids painted and red, A woman, fresh from a great duke's ball, Knelt by the side of her bed. Her rubies were ruddy and rich, And perfect her bodice and skirt— She looked like a splendid and tigerly witch, And yet with a voice of dolorous pitch She sang the "Song of the Flirt." F. C. W., Exeter College, Oxon.

With finger cunning and firm, With one eye and a crooked back, An old man, clad in an old pair of bags, Was carving a profile in black. Snip! snip! snip! Cold, wet, or whatever the day, And still, with a voice of a ludicrous crack, He croaked the "Wirer's Lay." "Wire! wire! wire! While men to their lectures fly, And wire! wire! wire! Where the Turl runs into the High! It's O, to be the Vice, Or a Prince in his cap and gown, It's O, to be able to pay the price To be stuck round my hat's old crown. "Wire! wire! wire! Till the nose begins to be clear; Wire! wire! wire! Till the lips and the chin appear! Hair and shoulder and brow, Brow and shoulder and hair, Till over the likeness I chuckle and wait For a gent who's a moment to spare. "O, men, with sisters dear! O, men, with mothers to please! It is not for them my portraits are bought, But for dearer far than these! Snip! snip! snip! With a point as keen as a dart, Carving at once a likeness to suit, And a place in the loved one's heart. "But why do I talk of her? The fair one of unknown name, I hardly think she could tell the face, They all seem much the same— They all seem much the same, Because of the types I keep; 'Tis odd that faces should be so like, And yet I work them so cheap! "Wire! wire! wire! My labour never flags; And what are its wages? a copper or two, Which I lose through the holes in my bags, A nod of the head, or a passing joke,— A laugh,—a freshman's stare,— Or a gent so bland, when I ask him to stand While I carve him his portrait there. "Wire! wire! wire! In the sound of S. Mary's chimes, Wire! wire! wire! As specials wire to the Times! Hair, and shoulder, and brow, Brow, and shoulder, and hair, Till the trick is done, and I pocket the coin, As I finish it off with care. "Wire! wire! wire! In the dull month of Novem- ber—wire! wire! wire, When Oxford is bright with Commem. While under light parasols, The pretty girls slily glance, As if to show how nice they would look If they'd only give me a chance. "Oh! but to catch that face Which health and beauty deck— That hat posed on her head, And the curl that falls on her neck; For only a minute or two To sketch as I could when I tried To take off the Vice as he passed one day, And the Prince in my hat by his side. "Oh! but for a minute or two! A moment which soon will have gone! No blessed second for fair or brunette, Nor even to copy a don! A little sketching would bring some brass, But in its musty case, My scissors must lie, for I have but one eye With which to look out for a face!" With finger cunning and firm, With one eye and a crooked back, An old man clad in an old pair of bags, Was carving a profile in black. Snip! snip! snip! Cold, wet, or whatever the day, And, still with a voice of a ludicrous crack, Would I could describe its cadaverous knack— He croaked the "Wirer's Lay." ARTHUR-A-BLAND.

WITH bosom weary and sad, With eyelids heavy and red, A maiden sat, in maidenly grace, Thinking o'er pleasures dead. Sigh! sigh! sigh! In misery, sorrow, and tears, She sang, in a voice of melody, The plaintive song of her fears. Love! love! love! Whilst the birds are waking from rest; And love! love! love! Till the sun sinks in the west; It's oh! to be in the grave, Where hope's false dream is not, Where doubts ne'er rise to bedim the eyes, If this is woman's lot!

With fingers trembling and warm, With eyelids heavy and red, A schoolboy sat, in true schoolboy style, His hand supporting his head. Throb! throb! throb! With frantic excitement and dread, And still with a look of dolor and pain, He sat on the side of his bed. "Throb! throb! throb! In my chamber next the roof; And work! work! work! From my friends I must keep aloof; French and German and Greek, Greek and German and French, Till my brow grows damp, and my breath comes hard, And my agonised hands I clench. "Work! work! work! While my cousins are laughing beneath, And work! work! work! Till I scarcely can draw my breath; It's oh! to prepare! prepare! My head with knowledge to cram, Not a word to say! not a moment to spare! I'm going in for Exam! "Work! work! work! Till the brain begins to swim, And work! work! work! Till my eyes are heavy and dim; Greek and German and French, French and German and Greek, Till over the problems I have a nap, And work them out in my sleep. "Throb! throb! throb! My courage is ebbing fast! Work! work! work! I fear that my brain won't last! Throb! throb! throb! O come and help me cram! I'm going to be a lunatic, If plucked in this Exam! "O men with cousins dear! O men with mothers and wives! I'd cram you, if I had you here, Within an inch of your lives! But Examiners' hearts are hard, And their wisdom is but a sham; And little they care what we have to bear, Or how hard we need to cram! "Oh! but to play a game With my happy friends below! Oh! but to make a pun, Or try—but 'tis all 'no go'— So they for me may wish, But I must stay and cram; Oh, bother it! I'm just 'done up' With this horrible Exam!" With fingers trembling and warm, With eyelids heavy and red, A schoolboy sat in true schoolboy style, His hand supporting his head. Throb! throb! throb! And cram! cram! cram! And still with a look of dolor and pain, He studied and crammed with might and main, To pass the dreaded Exam! A. P.

I. With fingers inky and cold, With eyelids heavy and red, A scribbler sat through the dreary night, Spinning "Copy," at morn to be read. Scratch! scratch! scratch! In a gas-lighted steamy den, And still, in a voice of dolorous pitch, He sang the song of the pen. II. "Scratch! scratch! scratch! While engines are shaking the roof; Scratch! scratch! scratch! Till the "Devil" appears with a proof. And it's oh! to be a slave Of the pen, whether steel or quill, Is as bad as being a worthless knave Doing his month at the 'mill.' III. "Scratch! scratch! scratch! Is it farce or tragedy grim, Making up the requisite batch, With fact, and fancy, and whim? It fritters away my life, In the flow of this inky stream. And over the copy I fall asleep, And punctuate in a dream." * * * * Oh! husband with slippered feet; Oh! wife in morning gown: Coming down to breakfast, pleased to read The latest news of the town— Think of the dismal scratch Of these midnight slaves of the pen. Forgive them a caustic, or feeble phrase, And remember they are but men. Funny Folks, January 9th, 1875.

Weary, and wounded, and worn, wounded and ready to die, A soldier they left, all alone and forlorn, on the field of the battle to lie. The dead and the dying alone could their presence and pity afford, Whilst, with a sad and terrible tone, he sang ... the Song of the Sword. "Fight—fight—fight! though a thousand fathers die; Fight—fight—fight! though a thousand children cry! Fight—fight—fight! while mothers and wives lament; And fight—fight—fight! while millions of money are spent. "Fight—fight—fight! should the cause be foul or fair, Though all that's gained is an empty name, and a tax too great to bear; An empty name, and a paltry fame, and thousands lying dead; Whilst every glorious victory must raise the price of bread. War—war—war! fire, and famine, and sword; Desolate fields and desolate towns, and thousands scattered abroad, With never a home, and never a shed, whilst kingdoms perish and fall; And hundreds of thousands are lying dead, ... and all for nothing at all! "War—war—war! musket, and powder, and ball— Ah! what do we fight so for? ah! why have we battles at all? 'Tis Justice must be done, they say, the nation's honour to keep; Alas! that Justice should be so dear, and human life so cheap! War—war—war! misery, murder, and crime; Are all the blessings I've seen in thee, from my youth to the present time. Misery, murder, and crime—crime, misery, murder, and woe; Ah! would I had known in my younger days half the horrors which now I know." Weary, and wounded, and worn, wounded and ready to die, A soldier they left, all alone and forlorn, on the field of the battle to lie. The dead and the dying alone could their presence and pity afford, And thus with a sad and a terrible tone (oh! would that these truths were more perfectly known!) he sang the Song of the Sword. ANONYMOUS.

With a visage pale and wan, With a vacant stare of eye; The wreck of a man, and a friend, I saw, In a tavern standing by. Drink, drink, drink, Was the demon that urged him on; And yet still with a husky voice did he call For drink, till "his pence were gone." Drink, drink, drink, From morning until night! Drink, drink, drink, By the glare of bright gaslight. Oh! fearful sight to see, And a dreadful thought to think, That man, who should rule, a slave should be To that fearful demon, drink. Drink, drink, drink, Till power of sense is gone, Drink, drink, drink, Till it's of health and wealth both shorn; Beer, brandy, gin and rum, Rum, brandy, gin and beer, Till the glorious form of manhood's lost In the beast that you now appear! Oh! men with thoughtful minds, Oh! men with a reason fair, Tread not in the paths that drunkards go— From demon drink, stand clear. Drink, drink, drink, Both in slums and great highway, Is a curse that we too often meet In our walks by night or day. But why do I thus depict That fell demon of the soul? I do but so that my fellow men Themselves from drink control. Themselves from drink control, Because of the scenes we see! Oh, God! to think that man should seek In drink his misery! Drink, drink, drink, But soon the time will come, And what will be the end? a soul that's lost, A drunkard's wretched home Where sorrow is found, and mark the cost— Neither victuals, fire, or light With a starving wife near the close of life To meet the drunkard's sight! Drink, drink, drink, From morning until night, Drink, drink, drink, 'Tis the drunkard's sole delight. Beer, brandy, gin, and rum, Rum, brandy, gin, and beer, Till his health is gone and his wealth as well, For the demon nought will spare. Drink, drink, drink, In mansion as well as in cot, 'Tis drink, drink, drink, With the highest and lowest sot; While toiling thousands sleep Their rest of calm content, In gilded palaces round about, The night's in riot spent. Oh! that the world would shun, That demon in form of drink; And would reason within themselves And from its presence shrink! Oh! how might the soul of wayward man, Rejoice in freedom then— And be better far in health and wealth— And better far as men. Oh! but that men would see, The sorrow that drink entails! The orphan's cry and the madman's shout, As well the widow's wails. A curse to body, as well as soul, Sends thousands to their grave; And makes of Man, God's noblest work, A low dejected slave.

With spirits drooping and worn, With eyelids heavy as lead, The members sat on their seats in the House, And wearily longed for bed; While "Tich, Tich, Tich," With gruesome and long-drawn face, "The Doctor," with voice of dolorous pitch, Sang the Song of "the Case." "Tich, Tich, Tich, In spite of all reproof; And Tich, Tich, Tich, Though the members stand aloof, It's I that ought to be classed Along with Chatham and Burke, And I'll never cease to raise my voice Against such monstrous work!" "Tich, Tich, Tich, Till the brain begins to swim, Tich, Tich, Tich, Till their eyes are heavy and dim. Stream, and minnow, and twitch, Minnow, and twitch, and stream, Till over the tattoo they fall asleep, And see it done in a dream." "O, men, so callous and blind— O, men, so bloated and rich— It isn't Orton you're locking up, But the real and only 'Tich!' Tich, Tich, Tich, 'Prison'd, dishonour'd, opprest, Stitching at once with his sewing-machine, A shroud as well as a vest." (Four verses omitted here.) With spirits drooping and worn. With eyelids as heavy as lead, The members sat in their place in the House, And wearily longed for bed; While Tich, Tich, Tich, With gruesome and long-drawn face, "The Doctor," with voice of dolorous pitch, (Ah me! to have to listen to sich), Sang the Song of "the Case." Funny Folks, October 2nd, 1875.

WITH arguments tattered and worn, With facts long torn to a shred, The statesman rose in eloquent rage To ply his political trade. Stump, stump, stump, Is this the successor of Burke, Who, with a voice of dolorous pitch, Still sings his song of the Turk? Turk, Turk, Turk! While the Czar is biting the dust. And Turk, Turk, Turk, The incarnation of lust. It's O to be a slave, Along with the barbarous Turk, Where women have never a soul to save, And only a body for—work! Turk, Turk, Turk! Till the brain begins to swim. Turk, Turk, Turk, Till the audience is eager and grim. Rape, and outrage, and murder, And outrage, murder, and rape, Till stories, long since disproved, appear To assume a bodily shape. O, men, with sisters dear! O, men, with mothers and wives! These are things that are wearing away Bulgarian Christian lives. Stump, stump, stump, It's not uncongenial work, To be damning away, with a double tongue, The Tory as well as the Turk. Turk, Turk, Turk! My labour never flags, Yet, what are its wages? A Nottingham feast, And a suit of political rags, A broken party, a shattered name, A smile from the "Daily News," A bloody war, and a future so blank That my mind the thought eschews. Turk, Turk, Turk! On the chill October night, And Turk, Turk, Turk, When the weather is warm and bright. And yet, underneath the theme A longing for power lurks. So the people of England show me their backs, And twit me about my Turks. Oh, but to breathe the air Of the Treasury Bench so sweet, With never a soul above my head, And Lord Beaconsfield under my feet! Oh, but for one short hour, To feel as I used to feel, When the Liberal Government was in power, And I was the man at the wheel! Oh, but for one short hour! A period however brief!— No blessed leisure for Power or Hope, But only time for grief! A little writing eases my mind— A pamphlet, a postcard, a note— Yet my pen must stop, for each hot ink-drop May cost my party a vote. With statements tattered and worn, With facts distorted and cooked, The statesman may hope that his share in the war Will perchance be overlooked, Turk, Turk, Turk! 'Tis vain the truth to shirk, While thousands of bleeding corpses cry, "Your pamphlets and speeches have made us die, And we hope you are proud of your work." They are Five, by W. E. G. (David Bogue), London.

IN the loudest things that are worn, With her cheek a peculiar red, A maiden sat, in a gentleman's vest,— This one idea in her head: To be stitched, stitched, stitched, Yet a little more tight in her skirt, The while, with her voice disdainfully pitched, She sang the "Song of the Flirt!" "Work, work, work. In the broiling drive and row, And work, work, work, At the stifling crush and show. And I'm so sick of it all, That to-morrow I'd marry a Turk, If he'd ask me—I would! For, after this, Yes,—that would be Christian work! "Work, work, work, On the lawn in the lazy shade; Work, work, work, In the blaze of the baked parade. Tea, and tennis, and band,— Band, and tennis, and tea:— If I can but ogle an eldest son, They're all the same to me. "You men, do you dare to sneer, And point to your sisters and wives!— Because they simper 'Not nice, my dear;'— As if they had ne'er in their lives Been stitched, stitched, stitched, Each prude in her own tight skirt, And wouldn't have been, without a blush, Had she had the chance—a Flirt! "And why do I talk of a blush? Have I much of Modesty known? Why, no. Though, at times, her crimson cheek Grows not unlike my own. Yet strange that, not for my life, Could I redden as she does, deep. I wonder why colour called up's so dear,— Laid on should come so cheap. "But, work, work, work, With powder, and puff, and pad: And, work, work, work, For every folly and fad! With Imogen's artless gaze? No?—Phryne's brazen stare! With soul undone, but body made up, I've all the fun of the fair. "So I work, work, work! My labour never fags. And what are its wages? A Spinster's doom, And a place on the roll of hags. Still I ogle away by the wall,— A playful kittenish thing; Autumn well written all over my face, Though my feet have lost their spring. "So at times, when I'm out of breath, And the men go off in a pack To dangle about some chit just 'out,'— Who smirks like a garrison hack,— I try for a short half hour To feel as I used to feel When a girl, if my boldness was all assumed, My hair, at least, was real. "And at times, for a short half hour, It seems a sort of relief To think of Fred, and the few bright days Before he came to grief. My work? May be! Had I a heart, My tears might flow apace; But tears must stop—when every drop Would carry away one's face!" In the loudest things that are known, With her cheek a peculiar red, A maiden sat, in a gentleman's vest,— This one idea in her head: To be stitched, stitched, stitched, Yet a little more tight in her skirt; The while with her voice disdainfully pitched (Some ears at the sound, I wis, might have itched), She sang the "Song of the Flirt!" Punch, September 18, 1880.

With features sallow and grim, With visage sadly forlorn, The Janitor sat in the Janitor's room, Weary, and sleepy, and worn. 'Tis a fact, fact, fact! He sat with a visage long; And still as he sat, with a voice half cracked, He sang this Janitor's song: "Sweep, sweep, sweep, In dirt, in smoke, and in dust, And sweep, sweep, sweep, Till I throw down my broom in disgust. Stairs, and chapel, and halls, Halls, and chapel, and stairs— Till my drowsy head on my shoulder falls, And sleep brings release from my cares." "From the very first crack of the gong, From the earliest gleam of daylight, Day after day and all day long, Far into the weary night, It's sweep, sweep, sweep, Till my broom doth a pillow seem; Till over its handle I fall asleep, And sweep away in my dream. "Oh! students of high degree, (I scorn to address a low fellow), "Oh! seniors most reverend, potent, and grave, (In the words of the great Othello), My story's a sad one indeed, Notwithstanding your laughter and sport; My life is naught but a broken reed, And my broom is my only support." With features sallow and grim, With visage sadly forlorn, The Janitor sat in the Janitor's room, Weary, and sleepy, and worn. It's a fact, fact, fact, He sat with a visage forlorn, And still as he sat with a voice half cracked, He sang the Janitor's song. Carmina Collegensia.

WITH a countenance weary and worn, With eyelids all heavy and red, An Undergrad sat, in his nightgown torn, Reading his Paley in bed. Read, read, read, Till his voice is quite feeble and low, He can read no more, so in accents poor, He sang of the dire Littlego. Read, read, read, While the Rooks are cawing around; And read, read, read, Till of Cabs I hear the sound. If only last time I had passed, And had left all this Littlego work, I'd become a Jew or a "pious Hindoo," Or perhaps a barbarous Turk. Read, read, read, It's nothing but read all day; Read, read, read, Till I read myself away, Paley and Euclid so hard, Mathematics with Latin and Greek, I only wish I had read them before, For the Exam begins in a week. O, men, who Examiners are, Recollect when the period arrives 'Tis not only the papers you're setting this time, But a limit to Undergrad's lives. Read, read, read, By days, by month, by year, Reading forsooth so uncommonly hard, That you feel excessively queer. But why do I sing of them? Their hearts are like pieces of stone, I believe I ought to shun the thought Of Examiners when I'm alone. It makes me almost mad To think of that awful sight; O, dear, that to some the papers are stiff, While to others they're easy and light. Read, read, read, My reading will never stop; And what's its reward? a name in a list, Where the bottom's as good as the top. This tumbled bed, with its shaky legs, Yon room in disorder so great, All attired with cards, tobacco, and wine, It shows that I kept it up late. Read, read, read, How full my time has been. My reading I bless (?) for I possess No leisure to read Light Green. Hard Latin and odious Greek, Hard Greek and odious Latin, Their very dread makes me think this bed Is the worst I ever sat in. Read, read, read, Till my brain becomes infirm; Read, read, read, In this and the Lenten Term. And then the men who have passed, As I see them in the street, Will laugh at me, and twit, and jeer, Whenever them I meet. O, but to get through now— A "Second" I would not mind, With the "General" looming in front, And the "Littlego" left behind. Then to think of the feelings of those, Who cannot these subjects acquire, Is enough to give one the direst of woes (Not to mention the wrath of your sire). O, but for one short look At the Euclid or Paley paper, For one short glance, I soon would dance, And cut about and caper. A little peeping would ease my heart, But from those papers hated, My eyes must keep, for every peep Might make me rusticated. With a countenance weary and worn, With his nose, alas! awfully red, The Undergrad blew out his candle's flame, And settled himself in his bed. "Read, read, read," In his troubled sleep he said. Examiners think on his piteous face, If he's plucked, you know 'tis your disgrace, So in the "First" or "Second" place The man who reads Paley in bed. P. M. W.

With face like a maiden's bare, With hair on his head strewn thin, A youth ill at ease, in an easy chair, Sat stroking his cheeks and chin. Stroke, stroke, stroke, Yet never a symptom appeared, Indulging, yet nowise enjoying the joke, In penning THIS Brood on the Beard. I wish, wish, wish, Till wishing becomes a whirl, Wish, wish, wish, For the locks with a flowing curl. Imperial, beard, moustache, Moustache, imperial, beard, I long for them each till the three become Wove into a triad weird. Young men with beards full grown, Young men with moustaches neat; Say, is it not your lot to own, The joys of life complete? I shave, shave, shave, My cheeks with lather besmeared, Scraping the skin with razor keen, To make it utter a beard. But why should I dream of beards, For the pleasure of manhood pine; Or think of the looks my soul so craves, That never may be mine? That never may be mine. Tho' my heart with hope may pant, And mourn that some with such are blest, Whilst I of such am scant. I watch, watch, watch My glass each morning and night; Watch, watch, watch, But no sprouting gladdens my sight. That shaving glass, that razor keen, That strop I so often whet; Betray the desire that ne'er may tire Of what I ne'er may get. I feel, feel, feel, Each morning of each week— Feel, feel, feel, My lips, my chin, my cheek. Moustache, imperial, beard, Imperial, beard, moustache, Could I but see signs of the three, I would give good sterling cash. I rub, rub, rub, When the shades of night set in, Rub, rub, rub, Pomatum o'er cheeks and chin, Whilst Tabby, with whiskers long, Upon the hearthrug lies, And seems to purr contentment for What nature me denies. Oh! could I but only see Just the faintest dawn of down, Or FANCY that Nature would In the end my wishes crown! Or hope that even I The hours at last will enjoy, When maids no longer will deem me An o'ergrown hobbledehoy. But I to have glossy hair, On my lips a flowing curl, A pair of whiskers to grace my cheeks, A moustache to turn and twirl, Is but a dream, a gloomy gleam; A wish without a hope, Where fancy free may gain for me Nothing AT ALL but scope. With face like a maiden's bare, With hair on his head strewn thin, A youth ill at ease in an easy chair, Sat stroking his cheeks and chin. Stroke, stroke, stroke, Till he glanced at THE HOUR, and there was seen A word that brought the news that he sought— 'Twas the famed PILOSAGINE! Old Advertisement.

With garments soddened and soiled, With boot-tops covered in grime, With trousers bespattered with foulest mud, Picking one's way through the slime. Slush—slush—slush! And foul-smelling filth and dirt, That clings like a kind of malodorous pitch— I sing the "Song of the Dirt." Dirt—dirt—dirt! In the January night, And dirt—dirt—dirt! While the weather is muggy though bright. Smell, and slime, and reek, Reek, and slime and smell; Till over the kerbstone I fall and slip, And smother myself as well. O! but for one short hour! A respite: 'twould be so sweet! I'd bless the scavenger's shovel and broom, If he'd clear the mud 'neath my feet. For only one short hour, To feel as I used to feel: The pavement free from grease and slime In my walk that's now an ordeal. Funny Folks, January, 1884.

With fingers weary and worn, And nose quite puffy and red, A Proof-reader sat in his old linen coat, With a snorting "cold in 'is ead." With handkerchief in his left, And pen in his dexter paw, The miserable man first blew his nose, Then thus let loose his jaw: Read, read, read, With tears rolling down from my eyes, Read, read, read, Till I can't tell l's from i's. Read, read, read, In pain, confusion, and noise, And bored by a voice of dolorous pitch Belonging to "one of the boys." Read, read, read, In the story next to the roof: Read, read, read, Till my soul is lost in the proof. It's oh to be a Hottentot In the burning sand, Where never an author sent a lot Of manuscript the "devil" could not, Nor the "reader" understand! Read, read, read, Till my weary spirits sink, And mark, mark, mark, While mind ebbs with the ink. French, and Latin, and Greek! Hebrew, Spanish, and Dutch! Poring o'er all till my eyes grow weak, And I seem to be, by Fancy's freak, But a part of the pen I clutch. Oh, but to "DELE" work! To "transpose" toil for rest! To "make up" life's remaining years On smiling Nature's breast! A "space" of time to join the "chase," Some "quoins" to see me through! A good "fat take" of these I want, But a few large "notes" MIGHT do. Oh, for a brief respite From toilsome pen and proof! An "out," while I might calmly seek A "double" who would share my roof; The "sort" that could "correct" my "forme," And save me from life's many traps, And round our "table" smiling "set" Sweet "fat-faced" MINIONS in "SMALL CAPS!" L. F. THOMAS. The British and Colonial Stationer, May, 1884.

Wearily wandering into the winding Maze of the filthy and festering slums, Borne on the blast of the hurricane blinding, Suddenly into my spirit there comes Bitterest cry of the careworn and dying, Weeping and wailing of old and of young— Wailing of women aweary and sighing. Heavenward? Hear the song that they sung: "Strive, strive, strive, With the wolf at the door, in vain, Tho' the struggle to keep alive Is worse than a hell of pain. Gin, gin, gin, Our cares we'll drown once more; 'Tis but folly to shrink from the spirit of drink, So, swig till our lives be o'er." Fiercer than fathomless cry of the weepers, Wilder than wailing of women and men, Echoing ever a voice, "O ye sleepers, Where is the harpy who owneth each den? Where are the vultures who prey on the living?" Pitiless dealers of wrong at each breath, Shedders of blood who each moment are giving Children and women and strong men to Death: "Here, here, here," Is the loud and bitter cry. "Oh, heed our sob of fear, And save us ere we die. "Rent, rent, rent, Our cares we'll drown once more, For there's nothing but gin when the bailiffs are in, And the baby's dead on the floor." G. B. BURGIN.

I REMEMBER, I remember, The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn; He never came a wink too soon, Nor brought too long a day, But now, I often wish the night Had borne my breath away! TOM HOOD.

I REMEMBER, I remember, When I was a little Boy, One fine morning in September, Uncle brought me home a toy. I remember how he patted Both my cheeks with kindliest mood; "Then," said he, "you little fat head, There's a top because you're good." Grandmamma—a shrewd observer— I remember gazed upon My new top, and said with fervour, "Oh! how kind of Uncle John!" While mamma, my form caressing,— In her eye the tear-drop stood, Read me this fine moral lesson, "See what comes of being good!" I remember, I remember, On a wet and windy day. One cold morning in December, I stole out and went to play; I remember Billy Hawkins Came, and with his pewter squirt, Squibb'd my pantaloons and stockings, Till they were all over dirt! To my mother for protection I ran quaking every limb. She exclaim'd, with fond affection, "Gracious goodness! look at him!" Pa cried when he saw my garment— 'Twas a newly-purchased dress— "Oh! you nasty little Warment, How came you in such a mess?" Then he caught me by the collar— Cruel only to be kind— And to my exceeding dolour, Gave me several slaps behind. Grandmamma, while yet I smarted, As she saw my evil plight, Said—'twas rather stony-hearted— "Little rascal! sarve him right!" I remember, I remember, From that sad and solemn day, Never more in dark December Did I venture out to play. And the moral which they taught, I Well remember; thus they said— "Little boys, when they are naughty, Must be whipped, and sent to bed!" The Ingoldsby Legends.

"I remember, I remember, The day that I was born, When first I saw this breathing world, All naked and forlorn. They wrapped me in a linen cloth, And then in one of frieze; And tho' I could not speak just then, Yet I contrived to sneeze. "I remember, I remember, Old ladies came from far; Some said I was like mother dear, But others thought like par; Yet all agreed I had a head, And most expressive eyes; The latter were about as large As plums in Christmas pies." UNEDA.

I remember, I remember, The cell, which now I scorn. The little window where no sun Could cheer the dreary morn. Policeman X. no wink too soon, Brought in my musty fare, And, growling as he went away, Locked me in safely there! I remember, I remember, We'd been out late at night. Twain heroes who, o'er sundry cups, Wound up by "getting tight;" And then, although no blood was spilt, That fiend in blue we met; "Run in" upon my natal day— Oh, would I could forget. I remember, I remember, No soda would he bring, He said the air seem'd rather fresh For night birds on the wing! The spirits needed feathers then, And rest my fevered brow; He only said, "The place is cool," And, "Mind! don't make a row!" The Figaro, March 7, 1874.

I REMEMBER, I remember, When first I saw a rink, How fine to be a skater, I always used to think, To roll about, both in and out, Through all the livelong day, But now I wish the rink and skates Had been far, far away. I remember, I remember, The skates that first I wore, The joy I had in buying them, That I shall have no more; On being a great skater My youthful heart was set— Now the rink has gone the way of rinks; The skates I have them yet. I remember, I remember, When first I had a fall, How hard I found the asphalte, How loudly I did bawl; There was anguish in my bosom, There was fever on my brow, There were bruises on my body— I bear the traces now. I remember, I remember, How oft from school I'd beg; But my rinking days were over. When at last I broke my leg. It was a foolish fancy, And now 'tis little joy, To know I broke my fibula, When I was a little boy.

ONE more Unfortunate, Weary of breath, Rashly importunate, Gone to her death! Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care; Fashion'd so slenderly, Young and so fair! Loop up her tresses, Escaped from the comb, Her fair auburn tresses; Whilst wonderment guesses Where was her home? Alas! for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun! Oh! it was pitiful! Near a whole city full— Home she had none. * * * * TOM HOOD.

I. ONE more unfortunate Ploughed for degree, By those importunate Questioners three. II. Tell it him gingerly, Break it with care, Think you he'll angry be? Or will he swear? III. Look at his college cap, Bent with its broken flap, Whilst his hand constantly Clutches his gown, And he walks vacantly Back through the town. IV. Didn't he study? Wasn't he cute? or Had he a coach? and Who was his tutor? Or was he a queerer one Still, and had ne'er a one, And all this the fruit? Or V. Was his brain muddled, Addled and puddled, From over-working? Or did he all the day Racquets and cricket play, Books and dons shirking? VI. His Greek was a mystery, So was his history, His throbbing brain whirled, And through his shaggy hair, Both his hands twirled. VII. He goes at it boldly, No matter how coldly Examiners scan Him over the table, And say, "If you're able, Construe it, man; Look at it, think of it, Do what you can." VIII. Now they stare frigidly, Calmly and rigidly, Courteously, slily; How well he knows them, Who could suppose them Witty and wily? IX. Helplessly staring, He looks at it long, Then with the daring Last look of despairing, Construes it wrong. X. Failing most signally, Construing miserably; Frequent false quantity, But as they want it, he Must do his best, Until they tell him he Need not decidedly Construe the rest. XI. Full of urbanity And inhumanity, See what they've done; Out of each couple, They with tongues supple Ploughed at least one.

PILE it up, Pile it up, Till it towers above; Pile it up, Pile it up, 'Tis a labour of love: Pin it so carefully, Cannot be known Of that temple of hair fully Half's not your own. That dark plaited mass, So dear and so rare: That highly-prized mass, Is a dead woman's hair. Maybe she was poor, With no money or purse; Homeless and fasting, A vagrant, or worse— A sport for the wind, As it listlessly blew, And who from her kind, No sympathy knew. Who knows how she died? Perchance of her life, O'er burdened with strife, She grew weary and cried— "To death's awful mystery swift to be hurled Anywhere, anywhere out of the world." Then when the dark waters Had closed o'er her head, And this type of Eve's daughters Was told with the dead; Then when her poor body Was borne by the wave To the shore; they allowed her A wanderer's grave. Nor perfect, indeed, Could she enter it there; In their terrible greed They must clip off her hair; In their venomous greed They must steal off her hair. * * * * What do we care That this long flowing curl, Such a charm to a girl, Is a dead woman's hair? Our changeable sex, Do as fashion directs; And so long as the hair Is a grace to the head, So long will we wear The locks of the dead. The Figaro, May 5, 1875.

Take him up tendahly, Lift him with caah; Clothes are made slendahly Now, and will taah! Punch not that nob of his, Thus I imploah; Pick up that bob of his, Dropped on the floah! Pwaps he's a sister, Pwaps he's a bwother, Come to the play with him— Let 'em away with him— One or the other. Ram his hat lightly, Yet firmly and tightly, Ovah his head. Turn his coat-collah back, Get his half-dollah back. 22 Z.

One more unfortunate Knocked out of breath— "Rashly importunate," Jealousy saith. Lift her up tenderly— Mind her back hair; Fashioned so slenderly— Fetch her a chair. Burst are her garments, Hanging in cerements, While buttons constantly Fall from her clothing. Take her up instantly Loving, not loathing; Scornfully touch her not— Think of the bump she got, All through those wheels of hers Which she used killingly; And those high heels of hers— Sat she unwillingly. She in a mess is All things betoken, And spoilt her gay dress is, While wonderment guesses: "Are the bones broken?" "Who is her milliner?" "Has she a glover?— P'raps a two-shilliner;" "Or has she a dearer one Still?" P'raps a nearer one— Gifts from her lover! Alas, for the rarity Of Christian charity, There isn't one Who's a bit pitiful, While that sad, witty fool, Woffles, makes fun. She, as she shivers And mournfully quivers, Sits bolt upright. From window to casement, From roof unto basement She stares with amazement, Mournful of plight. Never this history Tell—'tis a mystery. How her wheels twirled. Anywhere, anywhere, Facing the world; Whirled her skates boldly, No matter how coldly Regarded by man. Oh, but the Rink of it— Picture it—think of it, When it began; Rave at it, wink at it, Now if you can. Take her up tenderly— Mind her back hair; Fashioned so slenderly— Fetch her a chair. Can't she sit down on it? Is she in pain? True. She doth frown on it— "Shan't rink again!" Funny Folks, February 26, 1876.

ONE more importunate Struggle for place! One more unfortunate Slap in the face! Dizzy's a devil—he, What should I spare? Trip him up cleverly, Fair or unfair. Never mind arguments, Tear up his Pargaments (While the ink's scarcely dry, Easy is blotting), Honour and decency Wholly forgotten. Talk of him scornfully, Talk of him mournfully, Treat him inhumanly. Arguments failing. Throw dirt, and try railing, Spiteful and womanly. Make no deep scrutiny Into past mutiny, Rash and undutiful, England's dishonour, While I heap on her— Won't it be beautiful? Point out all slips of his, Sneer at his family; Closed are those lips of his, He must bear silently. Fear not excesses, Only hit home. The "Daily News" blesses, While wonderment guesses What next may come. Sneer at his father, Jeer at his mother, Is he a Christian? Nay, I'll go further. He's not an Englishman, Only a Charlatan, Worse than a murderer. Oh! for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun! Oh! it was pitiful To see a whole City full Greet such an one. Countryfolk, citizens, Foreigners, denizens, Greetings combined! Yet may such eminence, Spite of such evidence, By my malevolence, Be undermined. When the lamps quiver Over the river, With many a light From many a casement, I'll seek his abasement; And for his displacement, I'll fight, yes, I'll fight. John Bull's cold glance May make other men shiver, But still I advance, Implacable ever, Mad from life's history. This creature of mystery Forth shall be hurled Anywhere, anywhere, Out of the world. In I plunged boldly, No matter how coldly Popular feeling ran, Over the brink of it. Picture it, think of it, Dissolute man! How can Heav'n wink at it? It's more than I can. Dizzy's a devil—he, Why should I spare? Trip him up cleverly, Fair or unfair. Treats he me frigidly, Formally, rigidly. Decently kindly, Can this compose me? While his eyes pose me, Staring so blindly! Dreadfully staring Through that eye-glass of his, Malice and daring Point me—despairing— To Honour and Peace. Perish I gloomily Spurned by contumely. Soured humanity, Yields to insanity. As for the rest— When my name's perished, Will his be cherished By Englishmen blest? When History has measured My evil behaviour, His name shall be treasured As his country's saviour!

One more unfortunate Author in debt, Scorn'd and importunate, Badger'd, beset. Lethe, I'd drink of it, Die without fuss, Picture it, think of it— Manager "Gus." HARRIETT JAY. Old Drury Lane, Christmas Annual, 1883.

Take them up tenderly, Lift them with care, Fashioned so slenderly "Twelves" never were. Touch them not scornfully, Think of her mournfully Who has to bear them. Think of the pains of her— All that remains of her Save what will wear them. How were her father's feet? How were her mother's? How were her sister's feet? How were her brother's? What had the maiden done That she should merit it? Was it a judgment? Or did she inherit it? Alas for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun! Oh, it is pitiful, From a whole city full Praise she has none. Sisterly, brotherly, Fatherly, motherly Feelings are changed; Love goes with "pettitoes," "Tootsie" and "pootsie" nose Ever from feet like those Turning estranged. Never the ballroom (Save she had all room) Could she be daring; And if at croquet seen, "Gracious! that huge bottine," People would cry or mean, Dreadfully staring! The bleak winds of March Made her tremble and shiver; Clothes raised in arch Her huge "trotters" dis-kiver. Oh, then, from scrutiny, Comment or rootin' eye, Swift to be hurl'd, Anywhere, anywhere, Out of the world. Take them up tenderly, Lift them with care, Fashioned more slenderly Buckets ne'er were. Scraps, 1884

WITH Gradus dirty and worn, With heavy and weary eyes, A Freshman sat who had written an ode For the last Vice-Chancellor's prize. Wait, wait, wait, 'Mid Grinders, Lectures, and fines, And thus on a lyre of dolorous chord He sang the Song of the Lines. Wait, wait, wait, When the bell is ringing aloof, And wait, wait, wait, When we leave our Grinder's roof, And it's oh to be a Jib In the Godless College of Cork, Where never Vice-Chancellor gives a prize, If this be Christian's work. Oh, Fellows with pupils dear, Oh, Fellows with nephews and sons, It is not paper you're tearing up, But Senior Freshman's Duns, For the Duns are growing rude, Because of the Bills I owe, Madden and Roe, Kinsley and Jude, Jude and Kinsley and Roe. Wait, wait, wait, Till term after term fulfils, And wait, wait, wait, As minors wait for wills, Week after week in vain We've looked at the College gate, For how many days? I would hardly fear To speak of ninety-eight. With Gradus dirty and worn, With heavy and weary eyes, A Freshman sat who had written an ode For the last Vice-Chancellor's prize. Wait, wait, wait, 'Mid Grinders, Lectures, and fines, And thus on a lyre of dolorous chord, (Would that its tones could reach the Board), He sang the Song of the Lines. C. P. MULVANY.

With body shrivelled and worn, With eyeballs bloodshot and red, A man in plight forlorn, Lay moaning sore in bed. Drink, drink, drink, In poverty, fever, and pain, And still he sang of his favourite drink 'Mid the whirlings of his brain. Drink, drink, drink, Oh! there's nothing like drink for man, Drink, drink, drink, Till the head reel round again. It's oh! to be a beast, Without a soul to save, With no fear to stay the drunken feast, And no Hell beyond the grave. Brandy, and gin, and rum, Rum, and brandy, and gin, 'Till wild delirium come, And we rave in the pit of sin. Oh! men with children dear, Oh! men with starving wives, It is not gin you are drinking there, But your wives and children's lives. Drink, drink, drink, Let them all be ragged and bare, Drink, drink, drink, Is the drunkard's only care. Drink, drink, drink, Our guzzling never flags, And our wages go, and our homes are woe, And our children skulk in rags. Forced by day to starve or steal, By night a floor their bed, And all their life is a life of vice, And where are they when dead? Drink, drink, drink, Let us fight and curse and swear, Drink, drink, drink, 'Till our breath pollute the air. Brandy, and gin, and rum, Rum, and brandy, and gin, 'Till wasted frame and fever come, And the sorrows of Hell begin. Drink, drink, drink, 'Till staggering home we go, Drink, drink, drink, 'Till we blast that home with woe. Drink, curses, murder, and shame, Make up the drunkard's life, With the rags and vice of a starving child, And the groans of a sickly wife. With body shrivelled and worn, With eyeballs glaring and red, A savage man in plight forlorn, Lay, raving loud on his bed. Drink, drink, drink, In racking fever and pain, And still he raved of his murderous drink, 'Mid the frenzies of his brain.

I. With fingers never at rest, With cuticle measly red, A heat-oppress'd victim capered about, Itching from ankles to head— Scratch, scratch, scratch— At a rate few North-Britons could beat, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch Thus sang he of "Prickly Heat." II. "Itch, itch, itch, Till my brain begins to swim, And scratch, scratch, scratch, Till I bleed in every limb. Thighs, and body, and arms, Back, and body, and thighs, Till weary with scratching I fall asleep, And scratch with sleep-sealed eyes. III. "Oh! white men banished here! Oh! men all greedy of wealth! It is not money your sweating out, But your precious, precious health! Itch, itch, itch, Through years of monotonous rack, Sowing at once with a double seed, Disease as well as a Lakh! IV. "They say it is not disease, This villanous pimply glow, If not disease's tangible shape, 'Tis deuced like it though— 'Tis deuced like it though, If healthy skins are pale. Oh, God! that suns should be so strong And flesh and blood so frail. V. "Scratch, scratch, scratch, My labour never flags; And what are its wages?—a carcass raw— Lint, plaisters, and swathing rags, This tortured head, and this body flayed, Dyspepsia and gloom alway, And a brain so blank, each ninny I thank Who drones me through the day. VI. "Itch, itch, itch, When good dinners glad the sight, And scratch, scratch, scratch, When I'm longing to bite, bite, bite, When under silver roofs Rich viands my servants bring, As if to show me their dainty shapes, And twit me for lingering. VII. "Oh! but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweet, Where the sky above one's head Is not of this melting heat; For only one short hour To feel as I used to feel Before I knew Calcutta's suns Flay men as men the eel. VIII. "Oh! but for one short hour A respite just to snatch! No blessed leisure for love or lark— But only time to scratch. Though goulard water might ease my pain The antidote I dread, An idle day might affect my pay, And physic claims a bed." IX. With fingers never at rest, With cuticle measly red, A heat-oppress'd victim capered about, Itching from ankles to head. Scratch, scratch, scratch, At a rate few North-Britons could beat, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch (Would that its tone could cure the itch!) Thus sang he of "The Prickly Heat." The Calcutta Englishman, 1859.

I remember, I remember, Ere my childhood flitted by, It was cold then in December, And was warmer in July. In the winter there were freezings— In the summer there were thaws; But the weather isn't now at all Like what it used to was! The Man in the Moon, Vol. 5.

'TWAS in the prime of summer time, An evening calm and cool, And four-and-twenty happy boys Came bounding out of school: There were some that ran and some that leapt, Like troutlets in a pool. * * * * That very night, while gentle sleep The urchin eyelids kiss'd, Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn, Through the cold and heavy mist; And Eugene Aram walk'd between, With gyves upon his wrist. THOMAS HOOD.

'Twas in the prime of autumn time, An evening calm and cool, And full two thousand cockneys went To see him play the fool;— And the critics filled the stalls as thick As the balls in a billiard pool. Away they sped when the play was done, Scarce knowing what to say; So they passed the butter boat around In the simple, usual way. Smoothly ran their glowing prose In the daily press next day. The Eminent I. they raved about Till their gush to columns ran; Condoning a fiasco great, As friendly critics can; And he still strutted on the stage, An over-rated man. He wore pink tights—his vest apart, To clutch his manly chest; And he went at the knees in his old, old way, Whilst his brow he madly prest. So he whisper'd and roared, and gasp'd and groan'd, As with dyspepsia possest. Act after act he ranted through, And he strode for many a mile, Till some were fain to leave the house, Too weary even to smile; For acting the murderer's part so oft Had somewhat marred his style. But he took six more hasty strides Across the stage again— Six hasty strides, then doubled up, As smit with searching pain; As though to say, "See me create The conscience-stricken Thane!" Then leaping on his feet upright, Some moody turns took he Now up the stage, now down the stage, And now beside Miss B.; And, looking off, he saw her ma, As she read in the R. U. E. "Now, Mrs. B., what is't you read?" Ask'd he, with top-lip curving. "Queen Mary? A play by Mr. Wills, Or something more deserving?" Said Mrs. B., with an upturned glance, "It is 'The Fall of Irving!'" "His fall!" gasped he, "in sooth you jest! O, prithee say what mean ye? Know ye not, they call him Kemble-ish, And speak of his style as Kean-y? On the modern stage he stands alone." She murmur'd one word—"Salvini!" "Avaunt!" he cried; "that name again! Its mention ne'er will cease; Does he still dare my throne to share, And threaten my fame's short lease?" But here the call-boy came to say, That his absence stopped the piece. * * * * One night, months thence, whilst gentle sleep Had still'd the City's heart, Two bill-stickers set out with paste And play-bills in a cart, And the Eminent I. had his name on them, In a melodramatic part. The Figaro, October 9, 1875.

'TWAS in the Strand, a great demand For seats was quite the rule; The pit and gallery were crammed, The stalls and boxes full. One man remained who could not find A solitary stool. From gods to stall, he paced them all, Unable to find rest; A burning thought was in his heart, Beneath his spotless breast. He'd eaten pork, and knew full well Pork he could not digest. With hollow sound the curtain rose, And then he found a place, Where, cramped and crushed, he just could see The great tragedian's face— He was so prest, for the Iron Chest He hadn't any space. He saw how Irving walked the stage With ill-dissembled care, To keep the limelight on his brows And on his flowing hair, While all the rest were in the dark— You only heard them there. His voice was hollow as the grave, Or like an eagle's scream— Murderers, you know, talk always so— His eyes like theirs did gleam— He'd done this sort of thing before. But then 'twas in a dream. He showed how murderers start and gasp When conscience pricks them sore; He dragged his shirt-front out by yards, And strewed it on the floor; He rolled his eyes, and clutched his breast— He'd done it all before. If anybody mentioned death Or foul assassination, He started up and groaned or shrieked With obvious perturbation. 'Twas very strange this sudden change Provoked no observation. And when at last four acts were past Of stares and glares and guggles, And in the chest they found the knife Which he so neatly smuggles— 'Twas ecstacy to see him die Of aggravated struggles. Q.

THE sky was clear; no ripple marked The course of silver Tyne; And all was still, save for the bells On the necks of the grazing kine. On his fair demesne Sir Edward looked, Last of an ancient line. His face was fair, but it did not wear The sign of a soul at rest; Anon a shudder shook his frame, A sigh broke from his breast; He seemed as seems a man by some O'ermastering woe oppressed. "And yet among thy peers is known Than thine no prouder name, And wealth is thine and friendship's joy, A scutcheon void of blame; All this is thine, Sir Edward; why Thus bow thy head in shame? "Men call thee good, they know thee kind— Yet more, if aught beside There lacks thy happiness to crown, Thou hast a peerless bride; Why, then, Sir Edward, bow thy head?" A mocking demon cried. "Hell-hound! and art thou here to taunt My last—Yet 'tis thy meed: 'Twas thou that in this fevered breast Wrath and revenge didst feed, Till—woe unutterable!—I Wrought the accursèd deed. "'Twas at thy feet, a pupil apt, I learnt this lying art;— O God, that I—that I could stoop To play this loathly part! O God, that with a face so calm I cloak so black a heart! Yet the end is gained and the secret sure: They shall lay the tortured clod Of this vile clay in the open day With honour beneath the sod." That night 'twas known that a felon's soul Had gone to meet its God. PORTIONISTA.

'Twas in the dim Lyceum pit (And, O, that pit was hot) That several hundred folks did sit, And I amongst the lot; And some drank ale and some drank stout, From mug or pewter-pot. We watched the jovial robber-crew, The merry poaching clan, Chasing the sportive deer about As only robbers can; While the keeper kept himself at home, A conscience-stricken man. His hair was long and his dress was dark, And he strode with Irving's stride; A crime unconfessed he hid in the chest Kept ever by his side; Much painting had made him very pale And wan and hollow-eyed. And he saw his secretarial clerk, One Wilford (Norman Forbes), Go prying about in the ancient room Hung round with family daubs; And he "went" forthwith for that timid clerk, Whose name was Norman Forbes. "By hell!" he shrieked, and held him fast; "Untrusty youth, unstable—" He raved in his face and clenched his fists, And chased him round the table. "Wouldst read the secret? wouldst hear thy doom?" "I would, an I were able!" "If thou wert Abel, then I were Cain! But, 'fore I tell thee, swear—" And he swore and he swore and he swore again, Till on end arose our hair; And I couldn't help thinking what fines he'd have paid If there'd been a magistrate there. And that very night, when a somnolent snooze Was exciting the murderer's nose, Poor Wilford rose up, and he hied him away In a scanty assortment of clothes; And the baronet rummaged and routed his trunk, As we do when our "general" goes. And there he hid a fork and spoon In a most ingenious way, And a ring or so and a deed or two, And Wilford was tried next day; But the KNIFE had slipped in, and—ha, ha!—'twas found! * * * * * And that's the plot of the play! C. S.

LIFE! What depths of mystery wide In the oceans of Hate and the rivers of Pride, That mingle in Tribulations tide, To quench the spark—VITALITY! What chords of Love and "bands" of Hope Were "made strong" (without the use of rope) In the thread—INDIVIDUALITY. LIFE! What marvellous throbs and throes The Alchemy of EXISTENCE knows; What "weals within wheels" (and woes without woahs!) Give sophistry a handle; Though Hare himself could be dipped in the well Where Truth's proverbial waters dwell, It would throw no more light on the vital spell Than a dip in the Polytechnic bell, Or the dip—a ha'penny candle. * * * * Into being we come, in ones and twos, To be kissed, to be cuff'd, to obey, to abuse, Each destined to stand in another's shoes To whose heels we may come the nighest; This turns at once into Luxury's bed, Whilst that in a gutter lays his head, And this—in a house with a wooden lid And a roof that's none of the highest. We fall like the drops of April show'rs, Cradled in mud, or cradled in flow'rs, Now idly to wile the rosy hours, And now for bread to importune; Petted, and fêted, and fed upon pap, One prattler comes in for a fortune, slap— And one, a "more kicks than ha'pence" chap, For a slap—without the fortune! * * * * Yet, laugh if we will at those baby days, There was more of bliss in its careless plays, Than in after time from the careful ways Or the hollow world, with its empty praise, Its honeyed speeches, and hackney phrase, And its pleasures, for ever fleeting. Puck on Pegasus (Chatto and Windus), London.

YOUNG Ben he was a nice young man, An author by his trade; He fell in love with Polly-Tics, And was an M. P. made. He was a Radical one day, But met a Tory crew; His Polly-Tics he cast away, And then turned Tory too. Now Ben had tried for many a place When Tories e'en were out; But in two years the turning Whigs Were turn'd to the right-about. But when he called on ROBERT PEEL, His talents to employ, His answer was, "Young Englander, For me you're not the boy." Oh, ROBERT PEEL! Oh, ROBERT PEEL! How could you serve me so? I've met with Whig rebuffs before, But not a Tory blow. Then rising up in Parliament, He made a fierce to do With PEEL, who merely winked his eye; BEN wink'd like winking too. And then he tried the game again, But couldn't, though he tried; His party turn'd away from him, Nor with him would divide. Young England died when in its birth: In forty-five it fell; The papers told the public, but None for it toll'd the bell.

I. By different names were Poets call'd In different climes and times; The Welsh and Irish call'd him Bard, Who was confined to rhymes. II In France they called them Troubadours, Or Menestrels, by turns; The Scandinavians called them Scalds, The Scotchmen call theirs Burns. III. A strange coincidence is this, Both names implying heat; But had the Scotchmen call'd theirs Scald. 'Twere title more complete. IV. For why call'd BURNS 'tis hard to say (Except all sense to slaughter); Scald was the name he should have had, Being always in hot water. V. For he was poor,—his natal hut Was built of mud, they say; But though the hut was built of mud, He was no common clay. VI. But though of clay he was (a fate Each child of earth must share), As well as being a child of earth, He was a child of Ayr. VII. And though he could not vaunt his house, Nor boast his birth's gentility, Nature upon the boy bestow'd Her patent of nobility. VIII. It needed not for him his race In heralds' books should shine; What pride of ancestry compares With his illustrious line. IX. So he, with heaven-ennobled soul, All heralds held in scorn, Save one, the oldest of them all,— "The herald of the morn." X. Call'd by his clarion, up rose he, True liege of Nature's throne, Fields to invest, and mountain crest With blazon of his own. XI. His Vert, the morning's dewy green, His Purpure, evening's close, His Azure, the unclouded sky, His Gules, "the red, red rose." XII. His Argent sparkled in the streams That flash'd through birken bowers; His Or was in the autumn leaves That fell in golden showers. XIII. Silver and gold of other sort The poet had but little; But he had more of rarer store,— His heart's undaunted mettle. XIV. And yet his heart was gentle, too,— Sweet woman could enslave him; And from the shafts of Cupid's bow Even Armour[6] could not save him. XV. And if that Armour could not save From shafts that chance might wield, What wonder that the poet wise Cared little for a shield. XVI. And Sable, too, and Argent (which For colours heralds write) In BURNS' uncompromising hands Were honest black and white. XVII. And in that honest black and white He wrote his verses bold; And though he sent them far abroad, Home truths they always told. XVIII. And so for "honest poverty" He sent a brilliant page down; And, to do battle for the poor, The gauger threw his gauge down. XIX. For him the garb of "hodden gray" Than tabards had more charms; He took the part of sleeveless coats Against the Coats of Arms. XX. And although they of Oxford may Sneer at his want of knowledge, He had enough of wit at least, To beat the Heralds' College. XXI. The growing brotherhood of his kind He clearly, proudly saw that, When launching from his lustrous mind, "A man's a man for a' that!"

I. A WORLD of whim I wandered in of late, A limbo all unknown to common mortals; But in the drear night-watches 'twas my fate To pass within its portals. Dusk warders, dim and drowsy, drew aside What seemed a shadowy unsubstantial curtain, And pointed onwards as with pain or pride, But which appeared uncertain. I entered, and an opiate influence stole, Like semi-palsy, over thought and feeling, And with inebriate haziness my soul Seemed rapt almost to reeling. For over all there hung a glamour queer, A sense of something odd the spirit daunted, And said, like a witch-whisper in the ear, "The place is haunted!" II. Those women, ah, those women! They were white, Blue, green, and grey,—all hues, save those of nature, Bony of frame, and dim and dull of sight, And parlous tall of stature. Ars longa est,—aye, very long indeed, And long as Art were all these High-Art ladies, And wan, and weird; one might suppose the breed A cross 'twixt earth and Hades. If poor Persephone to the Dark King Had children borne, after that rape from Enna, Much so might they have looked, when suffering From too much salts and senna. Many their guises, but no various grace Or changeful charm relieved their sombre sameness; Of form contorted, and cadaverous face, And limp lopsided lameness. Venus was there; at least, they called her so: A pallid person with a jaw protrusive, Who palpably had found all passion slow, And all delight delusive. No marvel she looked passé, peevish, pale, Unlovely, languid, and with doldrums laden. To cheer her praise of knights might not avail, Nor chaunt of moon-eyed maiden. Laus Veneris! they sang; the music rose More like a requiem than a gladsome pæan. With sullen lip and earth-averted nose Listened the Cytherean. This Aphrodite? Then methought I heard Loud laughter of the Queen of Love, full scornful Of this dull simulacrum, strained, absurd, Green-sick, and mutely mournful. A solid Psyche and a Podgy Pan, A pulpy Cupid crying on a column, A skew-limbed Luna, a Peona wan, A Man and Mischief solemn; A moonlight-coloured maiden—she was hight Ophelia, but poor Hamlet would have frightened— A wondrous creature called the Shulamite, With vesture quaintly tightened; These and such other phantasms seemed to fill Those silk-hung vistas, which, though fair and roomy, Nathless seemed straitened, close, oppressive, still, And gogglesome and gloomy. For over all there hung a glamour queer, A sense of something odd the spirit daunted; And said, like a witch-whisper in the ear. "The place is haunted!" III. I could no more; I veiled my wearied eyes. I said, "Is this indeed the High Ideal? If so, give me plain faces, common skies, The homely and the real." But no, this limbo is not that fair land, Beloved of soaring fancies, hearts ecstatic; 'Tis the Fools' Paradise of a small band, Queer, crude, absurd, erratic. I turned, and murmured, as I passed away, "Such limbos of mimetic immaturity Have no abiding hold e'en on to-day, Of fame no calm security." For over all there hung a glamour queer, A sense of something odd the spirit daunted, And said, like a witch-whisper in the ear, "This place is haunted!" Punch, May 18, 1878.