VOLUME V. (continued 16)

As i sate A-drynkynge. The last words of Jonas Jingoldsby. (Before going to by-by). As I sate a-drynkynge, a-drynkynge, a-drynkynge, Merrie sang the Birde as she hopped about the floore; There came a gay reporter Of a “daily,” nothynge shorter, And he ordered halfe of porter, And he swore, As I sate a-drynkynge, to have a lyttel more. As I sate a-drynkynge, a-drynkynge, a-drynkynge, Swetely sang the Birde as she perched upon the bar; There came a lovely maide, Who took the coyne he payde, And giving change, she sayde, “Here you are.” As I sate a-drynkynge, her face was as a star. As I sate a-drynkynge, a-drynkynge, a-drynkynge, Blythely sang the Birde as she pecked about my shoes; This journalistic childe Continuously smyled, And got to mixing “mild” With Chartreuse. As I sate a-drynkynge he was upon the booze. 311 As I sate a-drynkynge, a-drynkynge, a-drynkynge, The Birde declined to sing, having started on the feed: This youth did sing and shout, Till there came a chucker-out; But he stood hym halfe of stout And a weed, As I sate a-drynkynge—he did in very deed. As I sate a-drynkynge, a-drynkynge, a-drynkynge, Merrie sang the Birde as it finished up its feast, The maiden she did say, “Now, there’s one and nyne to paye So you had better goe awaye. Tipsy beast!” As I sate a-drynkynge, I thought it rude, at least. As I sate a-drynkynge, a-drynkynge, a-drynkynge. Sleepily the Birde did its song again begin. There came a gallant crew Of officeres in blue, And I shuddered—so would you At their grin. As I sate a-drynkynge, they took and ran him in. As I sate a-drynkynge, a-drynkynge, a-drynkynge, The Birde was gettynge hoarse, and could hardly force a squeak; My blood was turned to curds When a beak, but not the Birde’s, Pronounced these solemn wordes, “For your freak, I deeply grieve to saye Twentye shyllynges you must paye, Or in Chokey you must staye For a week!”

It must be so—Plato thou reason’st well— Else why this pleasing hope, this fond desire, This longing after immortality? Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror, Of falling into nought? Why shrinks the soul Back on herself, and startles at destruction? ’Tis the Divinity that stirs within us; ’Tis Heaven itself that points out an hereafter, And intimates eternity to man. Eternity! Thou pleasing, dreadful thought! Through what variety of untried being, Through what new scenes and changes must we pass! The wide, th’ unbounded prospect lies before me! But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it. Here will I hold—If there’s a Power above us (And that there is, all nature cries aloud Through all her works), he must delight in virtue; And that which he delights in must be happy. But when, or where?—This world was made for Cæsar. I’m weary of conjectures—this must end ’em. Thus am I doubly armed—My death and life, My bane and antidote are both before me. This in a moment brings me to an end; But this informs me I shall never die. The soul, secur’d in her existence, smiles At the drawn dagger, and defies its point: The stars shall fade away, the sun himself Grow dim with age, and Nature sink in years; But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth, Unhurt amidst the war of elements, The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds.

It must be so—Tailor, thou reason’st well!— Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire, This earnest longing to discharge thy Bill? Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror, Of an arrest? Why shrinks the conscious soul Back on herself, and startles at a Bailiff? The Justice of a cause prevails within us; ’Tis Honesty that points out better days, And intimates even Money to a Bard! Money, thou pleasing, anxious, dreadful thought! Through what variety of untry’d life, Through what new scenes and changes must we pass? The wide, th’ unbounded prospect lies before me; But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it. Here will I hold. If a Mæcenas be, (And that there is, Fame publishes abroad Thro’ British realms) he must delight in goodness; And that which he delights in must be happy. But when, or who?—at present I’m in need, And dun’d for debt—but this must bring relief. (Taking his pen in his hand.) Thus am I doubly arm’d. My pain or pleasure, My bane and antidote are both before me. This in a moment claps me in a gaol; But that informs me I shall yet be rich. The Muse, secured by inspiration, smiles At sight of Catchpoles, and defies a Writ. Nobles may perish, and the King himself Submit to fate, the very realm be ruined; But Bards shall flourish in immortal youth, Unhurt amidst the Whig and Tory broils, 312 Our civil fury, and our foreign wars. What means this heaviness that hangs upon me? This lethargy that creeps thro’ all my senses? Nature, oppress’d and harrass’d out with care, Sinks down to dulness.—Let me drink a Bottle, That my awaken’d Muse may wing her flight, Renew’d in all her strength, and fresh with life, An off’ring fit for Stair. Let guilt or fear Disturb man’s rest: Mitchell knows neither of them, Indifferent in his choice to live or die, If he, great Lord! vouchsafe me not his favor.

It must be so—smart plume thou reason’st well Else whence this springing joy, this fond desire, This longing after concerts, plays, and balls? Or whence this loathing dread and chill ennui, At staying oft at home? Why hate we all Immur’d to sit alone, and start at crickets! ’Tis scenes of polished life which prompt our longings, ’Tis Fashion’s self, that points out public places, And intimates Bon Ton to well-bred females. Bon Ton, thou heart-reviving, pleasing thought! Thro’ what variety of frolic parties; Thro’ what bright scenes and changes may we pass; The brilliant masquerade lies straight before me, But gods and milk-maids, clowns and demons throng it.— Here will I hold—if there’s a Queen of Fashion, (And that there is, each milliner declares In every cap you buy!) she must love gadding, And that which she approves the great must follow. But when or where!—Cits go to the Pantheon! I cannot make decision; this must close it. (Laying her hand on the Purse.) Thus am I doubly arm’d; my cash and trappings, Money and Domino are both before me;— This, in a moment, purchases a ticket: But this informs me I shan’t be much spoke to. The Belle, secure in Indian princess’ robes, Smiles at the Domino as ’neath her notice! Colours shall fade; new Irish steps grow old With lapse of time; ev’n laced Pellice be scorn’d, But Diamonds still shall flourish and attract, Unchang’d amid the varyings of caprice, The coiffure powder’d, or the natural wig! From Poems, by John Peter Roberdeau. Chichester. 1803.

Lady Townley’s Soliloquy. It must be so—great Hoyle, thou counsell’st well; Else whence this anxious hope, this thirst of gain, This longing after Faro, Whist, Quadrille? But whence this secret dread, and inward horror Of staking all I’m worth? Why shrinks my soul? Does Reason’s secret impulse strive to shake My firm resolve of going to a drum! No:—’Tis last night’s ill run at which I start; ’Tis want of gold that dictates stay at home, And intimates ’twere better not to play. Must I not play? Oh, serious hated thought! From what variety of pleasing hopes, From what gay scenes of joy, would’st thou exclude me, And tempt my steps to tread Discretion’s paths? The wild, the dreary prospect lies before me, And none but prudent fools can rest upon it. Here I will hold: if there is chance at play, (And that there is, Hoyle proves in every line, Through all his works) I yet may be successful; And if successful, then I must be happy. But when, or where?—Home has no charms for me— I’m weary of conjectures.—Bring me my jewels. (To her maid.) Thus am I doubly arm’d; jewels and gold, My purse and casket, now are both before me: This, in a moment, may perchance be lost; But this insures me credit for a week. My heart elate, depending on good fortune, Smiles at Sans prendre, and defies Codille. The stars shall fade away, the tapers waste, Morning appear, my husband wake alone; But I shall flourish heroine at play, Unhurt by fears of war with France or Spain, Prussia’s defeat, or Brunswick’s overthrow.

“Ovid, it must be so—thou reason’st well; Else whence this pleasing pain—these tender doubts— This longing after something unpossess’t?” Etc., etc., etc.

When Music, heavenly maid! was young. While yet in early Greece she sung, The Passions oft, to hear her shell, Thronged around her magic cell; Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, Possessed beyond the Muse’s painting; By turns they felt the glowing mind Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined; ’Till once, ’tis said, when all were fired, Filled with fury, rapt, inspired, 313 From the supporting myrtles round, They snatched her instruments of sound; And as they oft had heard apart Sweet lessons of her forceful art, Each—for madness ruled the hour— Would prove his own expressive power. First Fear his hand its skill to try, Amid the chords bewildered laid; And back recoiled, he knew not why, Even at the sound himself had made. Next Anger rushed, his eyes on fire, In lightnings owned his secret stings In one rude clash he struck the lyre, And swept with hurried hand the strings. With woful measures wan Despair, Low sullen sounds his grief beguiled A solemn, strange, and mingled air; ’Twas sad by fits, by starts ’twas wild. * * * * * But oh! how altered was its sprightly tone, When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, Her bow across her shoulder flung, Her buskins gemmed with morning dew, Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung, The hunter’s call, to Fawn and Dryad known; The oak-crowned sisters, and their chaste eyed Queen, Satyrs and sylvan boys were seen Peeping from forth their alleys green; Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear, And Sport leaped up and seized his beechen spear. Last came Joy’s ecstatic trial: He, with viny crown advancing, First to the lively pipe his hand addressed; But soon he saw the brisk, awakening viol, Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best. They would have thought, who heard the strain, They saw, in Tempe’s Vale, her native maids, Amidst the festal sounding shades, To some unwearied minstrel dancing: While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings, Love framed with Mirth, a gay fantastic round, Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound; And he, amidst his frolic play, As if he would the charming air repay, Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings. * * * * *

Ode to the Passions. “Revenge impatient rose; He threw his boxing gloves in haste away, And, with a knowing look, A set of Scottish bagpipes took, And blew a strain so full of fears, The very Passions melt in tears. (Tears! such as you’ve heard Shakespeare say, A Bagpipe’s drone WILL bring away.) And ever and anon he’d hum The Giant’s Song of Fe Fa Fum. * * * * *

The Aspirants: An Ode for Music. When George our Prince, first sway’d the land, While yet Restriction cramp’d his hand, Aspirants oft, with smiles and bows, Throng’d the door of Carlton House, Expecting, hinting, praying, striving, To get the reins, and shew their driving. By turns they found the Princely mind Disturb’d or calm, displeased or kind, Till once, ’tis said, when one and all Met impatient in his hall, From a music room beyond They snatch’d the instruments of sound; And, having heard, perhaps, at school, How fiddling Orpheus rose to rule, Each, for Madness ruled the hour, Would tempt the self-same path to pow’r. First fiddle Grenville needs must try,— And strain’d the chords, to make them sure: Then back recoil’d, he knew not why, From the unfinish’d overture. Next, Brougham came pushing from behind, His native bagpipe at his side: In one rude roar he forced the wind, And sounded strong, and far, and wide. The organ fell to Byron’s share, Low sullen sounds his grief beguil’d: A solemn, strange, and mingled air! ’Twas sad by fits, by starts ’twas wild * * * * * But thou, O Croker, bard of flame, What was thy prophetic story? Still it spoke of promised glory, And bade the lofty hopes at distance hail. Still would his touch the strain prolong: And from the fort, the height, the vale, He call’d on Wellington through all the song; And as that noble theme he chose, Britain responsive cheer’d at every close, And Croker smil’d, well pleas’d, and Britain boasts his fame. * * * * * Sheridan came last to trial: He, with viny crown advancing,[142] First to the lively pipe his hand address’d; But soon he saw the soul-awak’ning viol, Whose tone his nobler judgment loved the best: While, as his skilful fingers kiss’d the strings, Wisdom and mirth framed a harmonious round: Then wisdom gracious smiled, with zone unbound, And mirth, amid his frolic play, Beating brisk measure to the jocund lay, Waved in the Sun his gaily burnished wings.

314 The Victims. When Glo’ster, humpback’d Prince was young, While yet on fostering breast he hung, His mind being, like his body, made ill, The Vices throng’d around his cradle; Exulting, sneering, grinning, fighting, They set his early teeth a biting; By turns they taught the embrio King, To roar and cry for everything; Once, while he slept, and all were fired, Fill’d with fury, rapt, inspir’d Each fiend prophetic snatch’d a page; And, as they oft had shewn apart, Dark lessons of their forceful art, Each borrow’d from the future hour, Some victim of the tyrant’s power; And mutually agreed to pry Into their darling’s destiny. First Clarence came, his taste to try, (Near him a Malmsey butt they laid Who back recoil’d, he knew not why, Even at the choice himself had made. Next Henry’s Son, his eye on fire, With just reproof the tyrant stings, One savage blow speaks Richard’s ire, And the youth soars on seraph wings. In woeful guise of sad despair, King Henry mourns his hopes beguil’d, ’Till Glo’ster’s dagger ends his care, And sends the father to his child. But thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair, What was thy delusive measure? Still it whisper’d royal pleasure To Edward’s son, and promis’d thrones and pow’r. Still did her voice the cheat prolong, While their fell uncle in the Tower, Thought fit to echo the deceitful song, And where of loyalty the theme she chose His hypocritic voice was heard at ev’ry close; And York and Edward fell into the snare. And longer had she sung, but with a frown The Duke impatient rose, He threw his artful mask in fury down, And with a withering look, Of Hastings, Rivers, Vaughan and Grey he took The lives: and bid his hellish agents do A deed so horrible and dread— Ne’er were half-stifled shrieks so full of woe, As when the fell assassins press’d Against each struggling infant’s breast; And tho’ some time each dreary pause between, Dejected pity at their side, Her soul subduing voice applied: Still on the couch of innocence they lean, ’Till each strained ball of sight announce the victim’s dead! Unsteady Buckingham, whose friendship fixed The crown on Richard, mourns his fallen state; His cup of death ungrateful Glo’ster mix’d, And one he cherish’d sells him to his fate. With eyes upraised, as one inspired The Wife of Richard sat retired; And from her wretched regal seat, In notes by sorrow render’d sweet, Pour’d to Prince Edward’s shade her plaintive soul; And deeply grieves that e’er she found, Like Eve, the soft beguiling sound Of the keen serpent’s voice, which gently stole Within her heart, her duty to betray; When after once or twice refusing, Oh woman’s weakness! past excusing, She on the Crook-back threw herself away! But oh! how alter’d was the mournful tone, When Harry Richmond, arm’d with title true, His Baldrick ’cross his shoulder flung, And, with enliv’ning trumpet, blew A call to arms that thro’ the island rung! His claim announcing to the English throne. Elizabeth, late Edward’s Queen, With age so gay, and youth so green, To join his standard soon were seen; And Stanley inwardly rejoiced to hear, And Rice Ap Thomas seized his Cambrian spear. Last came Bosworth’s warlike trial, Richard for his crown advancing; First to the soldiery some words addressed, But soon he saw brave Henry defy all, (And fighting, far than talking he lov’d best). They might have thought who heard the fray, That in dark Pandœmonium’s shade, All Milton’s demons were arrayed; Such clang of arms and coursers prancing. While, as at sounding shield the falchion rings, Death, in his ebon car, drove fiercely round; And Richard’s corse among the slain was found! And Henry on that well fought day, His worth and valour to repay, Received a crown upborne on Victory’s wings. Just at this scene young Glo’ster ’woke, And begg’d, not relishing the joke, His tutors would so civil be, As alter the catastrophe. But that which is decreed by fate, Must surely happen, soon or late; And what, as fiction has been stated, All came to pass, as we’ve related.

The Sessions. An Ode for Music. When Parliament was fresh and young, While yet election squibs were sung, The M. P.’s throng’d to take their seats, Through London’s country-leading streets, Exulting, trembling, burning, glowing, With patriotic zeal o’erflowing, By turns they felt the teeming mind To silence forced, to speak inclined; Till once, ’tis said, when all were fired, Fill’d with speeches, rapt, inspired, From the surrounding benches nigh 315 They strove to catch the Speaker’s eye; And as they oft had tried apart Lessons in the forensic art, Each, as the Speaker ruled the hour, Would prove his own expressive power. First Dizzy rose his skill to try, Mid wild abuse bewilder’d stray’d, Accusing those in places high Of making statesmanship a trade! Next * * rush’d—his eye’s clear fire Told of power that lurk’d within— In some few words he squashed the liar, And stripp’d the falsehoods bare and thin. With woeful measures, poor Joe Hume! Low plaintive sounds beguiled his soul, In solemn, strange, and fearful fume, He summ’d the “tottle of the whole.” But thou, old boy! with tongue so glib, What was thy expected pleasure? Still it cried “Repale’s the measure!” And bid the friends of Ireland “agitate!” Still did his tongue that word prolong, And now deject, and now elate, He spoke of Erin’s worth, and Erin’s wrong; And as his eyes and hands uprose, Each Tory’s finger touch’d the scornful nose, And Dan O’Connell smiled and waved his Irish “sprig!” * * * * * Last came Peel’s ecstatic trial! With majority advancing, First to New Tariff laws his lore address’d, But soon he pourèd from his wrath-full phial The Income Tax, whose ease he loved the best, They would have thought who heard his strain They saw in ancient Rome her saviour stand, Amid the lyres of the Imperial band, To the triumphant notes unwearied dancing, While, as his pearl-white pinions swept the strings, Joy pranced with fear a wild fantastic round, Plain were all profits seen, strong chests unbound; And he amid his frolic play, As if he would some part repay, Shook promises by thousands from his wings! O Parliament! the people aid! Friend of debtors! wisdom’s shade! Why now to us, thy worth denied, Lay’st thou thy ancient strength aside? As in that old forensic place You learn’d to body forth with grace! St. Stephen’s now, alas! for these, Cannot recall old memories! Is all thy ancient power dead, And with that chapel echoes fled? Arise! as in that olden time, Warm, energetic, true, sublime! Thy speeches in that golden age Fill many a glowing, storied page, ’Tis said, and I believe the tale, Then an humblest speech could more prevail— Had more of truth, and patriot rage, Than all that linger through this age; E’en all at once together bound, One inane senseless world of sound! Oh! bid our modern M.P.’s cease This war of Party, and in Peace, Learn to sincerely legislate, Not for themselves, but for the state. Punch. November 5, 1842.

Ode to the Fashions. When Fancy, heavenly maid, was young, And roved the hills and dales among, The Fashions, to produce a swell, Would throng around her magic cell, Exulting, strutting, almost fainting, Possessed beyond e’en Planché’s painting, By turns they showed creative mind In costumes curiously designed, When all at once, they all desired, Each goddess much to be admired. They from imagination caught, The wondrous power of Fancy’s thought. And by that aid sought to impart The lessons of her graceful art, And each—for Fashions rule the hour— Would prove its own delusive power. First Ancient Briton sought to try His hand upon the tailoring trade, And back recoiled—pray don’t ask why— E’en at the fright himself had made. A Templar next with eyes on fire, Looked through a helmet made of chain, And Fancy cried she’d ne’er desire, To see such head-dress worn again. Then came the elongated toe And hose that made the legs look taper, With movement that of course was slow, The wearer couldn’t cut a caper. But thou, oh hoop, with ruffles grand, What was thy extended measure, In which Queen Bess could take her pleasure, And bade her courtiers keep their distance all? She scarcely could her train prolong; It must have awkward been when at a ball, Especially if there had been a throng. And when her sweetest dress she chose, Soft voices from soft men bepraised her clothes, And she enchanted, smiled, and waved her bright red hair. And long this Fashion reigned, till with a frown, The Puritan uprose; He raised his sword, and thundered at the gown, And, with determined look, Ruffling the ruffles, took A sight; and as he did so said, That such a bauble from the scene must go. And ever and anon he beat The “Devil’s Tattoo” with his feet, With scarcely any pause whate’er between. Dejected Cavaliers tried Their deep vexation all to hide, As thus the Puritan maintained his mien, And spoke as though a cold affected his round head. Then came the Restoration with nought fixed, Sad proof of what had been the state Of parties—for then all kinds were mixed— 316 And now they courted lace to show their Roundhead hate. With curls turned up beneath the tile, The wig full bottomed showed its style, The wearing which, when in the street, Could surely not have been a treat; The style passed through three reigns, dating from Anne, This Brunswick fashion all around, In circles quite genteel, was found; Through promenades the hideous head-dress ran, And e’en the country spots, the histories say, Found the strange taste diffusing, Love of wigs ’twas quite amusing; At length the costume died away. And now how altered is the Fashion’s tone! When silks and satin of most brilliant hue Their show across each shoulder flung, Their flounces gemmed with ribbons, too, Had a distingué air when seen upon the young, A charm that’s in Belgravia well-known, In nez retroussé, or in beauty’s queen, So that e’en beardless boys are seen Looking quite sheepish or quite green, Till exercise gives them a leer, As love leaps up where Fashion doth appear. Last came crinoline into the trial; She, with mighty hoops advancing, First with flowing flounces it was dressed, But soon she saw, for beauty quick doth eye all, That something yet should her fair form invest. They would have thought, who saw the train, That it could scarcely be on English maids, Here, where decorum oft upraids Our Mabille mode of dancing, And modesty looks sheepish at such things. Love raised up mirth on this fantastic round, Which looked like a balloon just coming to the ground, ’Neath which the ankles made display, Which, with Balmoral boots, looked very gay As military heels displayed their rings. Oh, Fashion, most fantastic maid! Friend of pleasure, frailty’s aid; Why, goddess, it can’t be denied That thou dost many a blemish hide. But where is now the simple art That did in ages past impart A grace, which scarcely now is thine, Unto the human form divine? Arise, as in the elder time, When simple grace was quite sublime: The triumph of that graceful age, Display once more upon the page Of Fashion’s book, Le Follet named, Through which new fashions are proclaimed. ’Tis said, and I believe the tale, The simplest dress did more prevail, Had much more charm folks to engage Than the strange guise of modern age! Then bid your vain displays to cease, Give the simplicity of Greece, Return us to that simple boast, That beauty unadorned’s adorned the most. The Comic News. May 21, 1864.

Oh! that the chemist’s magic art Could crystalize this sacred treasure! Long should it glitter near my heart! A secret source of pensive pleasure. The little brilliant, ere it fell, Its lustre caught from Chloe’s eye; Then, trembling left its coral cell— The spring of Sensibility! Sweet drop of pure and pearly light! In thee the rays of Virtue shine; More calmly clear, more mildly bright, Than any gem that gilds the mine. Benign restorer of the soul! Who ever fly’st to bring relief, When first we feel the rude controul Of Love or Pity, Joy or Grief. The sage’s and the poet’s theme, In every clime, in every age; Thou charm’st in Fancy’s idle dream, In Reason’s philosophic page. That very law which moulds a tear, And bids it trickle from its source, That law preserves the earth a sphere, And guides the planets in their course.

On a Tear. (Suggested by the above Poem.) Oh! that the tailor’s modish art Could fashion trousers to our measure, Secure and strong in every part, A source of inexpensive pleasure!— I little thought, mistrustless swell, Whose garments Snip and Shears supply, That trousers were but made—to sell— The test of gullibility! Yet, though these hands had scarce arrayed In tourist suit my ugly body, The fabric frail my trust betrayed, I thought it cloth, but found it shoddy. What power malignant sent it here? Vile rent; my peace of mind it drowns, It proves these flimsy bags were dear, That only cost me five half-crowns. Here must I, sorrowing, wait repairs, And moralize the mournful scene, My sad refrain, “Tears, hideous tears, I know, confound them, what they mean!” Come, Jane, with silver finger-sheath, With thread and needle heal my woes; Come, armed like Curtius to the teeth, And bid the yawning chasm close! Fun.

The setting sun now gilds the mountain tops, The busy shepherd pens his fleecy care, Domestic fowls now seek their fav’rite props, And leave the fields, barn-doors, and stack-yards fare.

Elegy in Newgate. The Curfew tolls the hour of locking up, The grating bolts turn heavy on the key, The turnkey hastens on beef-steaks to sup, And leaves the cell to treason and to me. Now fades the glittering dram glass from the sight, And through the gaol a horrid stillness reigns, Save where the watchman bawls the hour of night, Or restless felon shakes his clanking chains. Save that beneath the prison’s outward bound, Some drunken Cyprian wrathfully complains Of such as, wandering near her nightly round, Forestal the market of her wanton gains. * * * * *

The Hangman’s Speech. Here bleeds his head upon the traitor’s stage, A wretch to Virtue and to Truth unknown, Foul Faction frown’d not on his lying page, And Infamy had mark’d him for her own. Large was his bounty,—so he would you cram,— The law rewarded him beyond his hope, He gave to misery, all he pleased—a damn, The law bestow’d, ’twas all he feared—a rope. No further seek his villainies to know, Nor bid me all his hateful libels tell, For now with him they burn in fires below And serve the cause of Faction still, in Hell.

A Parody. The ruin spread by war is wisely o’er, The grateful mob receive a peace with glee, The drooping party cease their wonted roar, And leave these shades to silence and to me. * * * * *

Written in the Temple Gardens. The gard’ner rings the bell at close of day, The motley crowd wind slowly home to tea; Soft on the Thames the daylight fades away, And leaves the walks to darkness and to me, Now shine the glimmering gas-lights on the sight, The warders now the outer portals lock, And deepest stillness marks th’ approach of night, Save when the watchman calls “Past ten o’clock.” Save, also, when from yonder antique tower[143]; With solemn sound, the bell strikes on the ear, And wand’ring damsels, as they hear the hour, Trip through the gloomy courts with haste and fear. In those high rooms, where clients ne’er intrude, And here and there a light doth dimly peep, Each in his lonely set of chambers mewed, The briefless crowd their nightly vigils keep. The grave attorney, knocking frequently, The tittering clerk, who hastens to the door, The bulky brief, and corresponding fee, Are things unknown to all that lofty floor. Small comfort theirs when each dull day is o’er: No gentle wife their joys and griefs to share, No quiet homeward walk at half-past four To some snug tenement near Russell Square. Oft have they read each prosing term report, Dull treatises, and statutes not a few; How many a vacant day they’ve pass’d in court; How many a barren circuit travell’d through. Yet let not judges mock their useless toil, And joke at sapient faces no one knows, Nor ask, with careless and contemptuous smile, If no one moves in all the long back rows? Vain is the coif, the ermined robe, the strife Of courts, and vain is all success e’er gave; Say, can the judge, whose word gives death or life, Reprieve himself when summon’d to the grave? Nor you, ye leaders, view them with ill-will If no one sees their speeches in The Times, Where long-drawn columns oft proclaim your skill To blacken innocence, and palliate crimes. Can legal lore or animated speech Avert that sentence which awaits on all? Can nisi prius craft and snares o’er reach That Judge whose look the boldest must appal? 318 Perhaps, in those neglected rooms abound Men deeply versed in all the quirks of laws, Who could with cases right and wrong confound, And common sense upset, by splitting straws. But, ah! to them no clerk his golden page, Rich with retaining-fees, did e’er unroll; Chill negligence repress’d their legal rage, And from the quibbling current of the soul, Full many a barrister who well could plead, Those dark and unfrequented chambers bear; Full many a pleader, born to draw unfee’d. And waste his counts upon the desert air! Some Follett, whom no client e’er would trust, Some Wilde, who gain’d no verdict in his life; In den obscure, some Denman there may rust; Some Campbell, with no peeress for his wife. The wits of wond’ring juries to beguile, The wrongs of injured clients to redress: To gain or lose their verdict with a smile, And read their speeches in the daily press, Their lot forbad—nor was it theirs, d’ye see? The wretched in the toils of law to lure; To prostitute their conscience for a fee, And shut the gates of justice on the poor. To try mean tricks to win a paltry cause, With threadbare jests to catch the laugh of fools, Or puff in court before all human laws, The lofty wisdom of the last New Rules. Not one rule nisi, even “to compute,” Their gentle voices e’er were heard to pray, Calm and sequester’d, motionless and mute, In the remote back seats they pass’d each day. Yet e’en their names are sometimes seen in print, For Frail memorials on the outer doors Disclose, in letters large, and dingy tints, The unknown tenants of the upper floors. Door-posts supply the place of Term Reports, And splendid plates around the painter sticks, To show that he, who never moved the courts, Has moved from number two to number six. For who, to cold neglect a luckless prey His unfrequented attic e’er resign’d, E’er moved with better hopes across the way And did not leave a spruce tin-plate behind? Strong is the love of fame in nobler minds, And he whose bold aspiring fate doth crush, Receives some consolation when he finds His name recorded by the painter’s brush. For thee who, mindful of each briefless wight, Dost in these motley rhymes their tale relate. If, musing in this lonely attic flight Some youthful students should inquire thy fate, Haply some usher of the court may say— “At noon I’ve mark’d him oft, ’tween nine and ten Striding, with hasty step, the Strand away, At four o’clock to saunter back again. There in the Bail Court, where yon quaint old judge, Doth twist his nose, and wreath his wig awry, Listless for hours he’d sit, and never budge, And pore upon a book-the Lord knows why. Oft would he bid me fetch him some report, And turn from case to case with look forlorn, Then, bustling, would he run from court to court, As if some rule of his were coming on. One morn I miss’d that figure lean and lank, And that pale face, so often mark’d by me, Another case—nor yet was he in Banc, Nor at th’ Exchequer, nor the Pleas was he. The next day, as at morn I chanced to see Death’s peremptory paper in The Times, I read his name, which there stood number three, And there I also read these doleful rhymes,” Epitaph “Here rests a youth lamented but by few; A barrister, to fame and courts unknown. Brief was his life—yet was it briefless, too, For no attorney mark’d him for his own. “Deep and correct his knowledge of the laws, No judge a rule of his could e’er refuse; He never lost a client or a cause, Because, forsooth, he ne’er had one to lose. “E’en as he lived unknown—unknown he dies, Calm be his rest, from hopeless struggle free, ’Till that dread court, from which no error lies, Shall final judgment pass on him and thee.” By the late Mr. Justice Hayes.

Elegy written in a Ball-room. The beaux are jogging on the pictured floor The belles responsive trip with lightsome heels; While I, deserted, the cold pangs deplore, Or breathe the wrath which slighted beauty feels. * * * * * This does not continue in the vein of parody.

The “Elegy” Travestied. The shops are closed—the sign of closing day The sewing-girl glides glibly home to tea; The drayman homeward drives his noisy dray, And leaves “down town” to watchmen and to me. Now fade the lightless lamp-posts on the sight; O’er all the street a soothing stillness reigns, Save where the stages wheel their distant flight, And random sprinklings tap the window panes. Save that, from yonder “Square,” upon the ear Fall sounds of “Presses,” with a buzzing din, Where hordes of “Scribblers” take their “Bitter Beer,” And “Midnight Bounders” drink their fighting gin. * * * * * Observe, ye chaste, who promenade the way In spotless satin and unsullied fame, Where, thro’ the crowded streets, in open day, The painted wanton publishes her shame. 319 Can rounded arm, or well-developed bust Pertain alike to women of our clime? Can Kalydor disguise the cheek of lust, Or Rouge conceal the ravages of time? Perhaps beneath those flaunting robes are locked Hearts once recoiling at the name of “Flirt”— Hands that a nursery cradle might have rocked, Or sewed the buttons on a husband’s shirt! And who so bold as venture to presage The fate of seeming best or seeming worst? For woman’s the same mystery to the age, She was to Senor Adam at the first. Full many a fair, to hopeless love a prey, Still in life’s drama plays a smiling part; Full many a lover sighs his soul away, And wastes his passion on a “Marble Heart.” * * * * * Yet who, despite the frailties of the fair, A Bachelor existence long can brook; Dwell in dull lodgings up a dozen pair, Nor cast upon the “Sex” one longing look? On some fond breast the aching head must lean, Some heart must beat in union with ours; In this alone their proper “sphere” is seen, Even in our weakness live their vaunted powers. For thee, who mindful of the yet unwed, Dost in these lines extol the married state, If chance, by British disposition led, Some curioso shall inquire thy fate, Haply some old associate may say: “Oft have we seen him through the deepest snows, Rushing with hurried strides and features gay To reach the play-house, ere the curtain rose. “There, at the end of yonder circling row That skirts the stage, above the foot-light’s glare, His careless length at evening would he throw, And gaze upon the girl that dances there. “Hard by yon bar, now swearing, as in spite, Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove; Now talking awful wild, like one half ‘tight,’ Of some new ‘mash,’ his latest love! “One night we missed him ’mong the accustomed bloods’ Within the corner near his favourite she; Another came; not yet among the ‘gods,’ Nor near the bar, nor in the pit was he, “The next, with favours white, and strange designs. Swift up the church-way path we saw him whirled; Just take your eye and throw it o’er the lines That show he’s lost for ever to the world.” The Epigraph. Here lives, retired, with no more to excite, A youth to all the corps de ballet known; Fair woman smiled upon him every night, Till Matrimony marked him for her own. Strange though his fancies, yet his heart was warm; Fraught with aversion for a form uncouth, Was down on Humbug in its wildest form: His motto—“Every man his own Kossuth!” No farther seek his merits to disclose, Or paint the follies of his single life, For they, alike, quiescently repose Within the bosom of his faithful wife. The Umpire. (Manchester), May 5, 1888.

Wimbledon—An Elegy. July 21st, 1888. The sound of gunfire marked the closing day Of that last meeting on the breezy lea; Now marksmen homeward plod their weary way, And leave the Common they no more shall see: For fades the latest glimmering hope from sight That he who by ill-fate the land doth hold, Hard by where bullets sped their rapid flight Might yet a portion of that land have sold. Round yon trim cottage and the windmill’s tower The moping owl shall hoot his sad refrain, And with the bat disport at twilight’s hour; Nought to disturb their solitary reign. Where stood the umbrella tent, whose welcome shade They often sought—to smoke, to flirt, to sleep; Where Henton’s[144] band such charming music played; Now, noisome creatures o’er the turf shall creep. The cheery call of bugles in the morn, Or thunder rain-drops trickling on their head; Or worse, the shriek of bag-pipes, zephyr borne, No more shall wake them from their palliasse bed. And they no more upon those beds shall turn, Making perchance, in dreams, tall scoring there. No comrades greet them in hot haste to learn What they have made, their joy or sadness share. Oft did the targets to their science yield The welcome “eyes” when they past records broke. How jocund then they sped across the field! Scarce bent the grass beneath their feet’s light stroke. And yet, more oft, mocked was ambition’s toil, Modest outers, and “mags,” scarce less obscure, Rewarding hope with a disdainful smile! Provoking language the reverse of pure. They freedom asked for, from vexatious strife. Their well-aimed bullets never learned to stray, And never yet endangered limb or life, While to the butts they sped their noiseless way. Full many a budding shot, with vision keen, Strove hard to woo the fickle goddess there; But now, alas! they live to blush unseen And waste their sweetness on the desert air! 320 Perhaps, on that neglected range have laid Embryo prizemen, who, if they could fire, Might with their fame have distant empires swayed! And, being chaired, have invoked the living lyre! And thou, proud Duke, ’twill be indeed thy fault If mem’ry o’er thy tomb no trophies raise! If, after long-drawn years, thy fretted vault Bears no inscription graved in words of praise. No storied urn, or marble sculptured bust, Shall e’er record thy name—but fleeting breath— For thou hast brought the N.R.A. to dust, And laid thereon the dull cold hand of death. ’Twas thou forbade it—yes, thou, and thou alone Their growing talents crushed; the deed’s confined To thee, who, although dwelling near a throne Hast shut the gates that bound thee to thy kind. The gnawing pangs of conscience try to hide, Go, quench the blush caused by thy action’s shame, Heap on thyself discredit for thy pride; Thou’st sunk for gain, thy erstwhile honour’d name. That name, thy years, thy choice to power misuse, Thy selfish deed, this elegy supply, Which round thy fame unholy blessings strews, For thou hast left the N.R.A. to die. The Epitaph. There now lies dead upon this spot of earth An institution once to fame well-known, A Queen was present at its humble birth! Success unrivalled marked it for its own. Large was its mission, and its work sincere, The Volunteers its meets did well attend; They give its mem’ry (all they have)—a tear, And pray for (that which “George” was not) a friend. No further need the merits to disclose Of that Common, so long by marksmen trod, Those marksmen now in trembling hope repose Their future in the Council, and their God. E. B. Anstee.

The bell now tolls, soon after dawn of day, The lawyer herd wind slowly up the street, The macer court-ward plods his weary way, Anxious, in haste, each learned judge to meet. And soon the bustling scene delights the sight, In yonder gorgeous and stupendous hall, While eager macers call, with all their might, The busy lawyers from each judge’s roll. E’re long, from yonder velvet-mantled chair, The angry judge does to the bar complain, Of counsel who, by way and means unfair, Molest his potent and judicial reign. Beneath yon fretted roof that rafters shade, Whare lie huge deeds in many mouldering heads, Each, in its narrow cell, far too long laid, Many a dusty process often sleeps. The dreadful call of macer, like a horn, The agent, tottering from some humble shed, The lawyer’s claron, like the cock’s, at morn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the agent’s lamp shall burn, Or busy clerk oft’ ply his evening care, No counsel run to hail their quick return, Or long their client’s envied fees to share. Oft’ did the harvest to their wishes yield, And knotty points their stubborn souls oft’ broke. How keenly did they, then, their clients shield! How bow’d the laws beneath their sturdy stroke. Let not derision mock their useful toils, Forensic broils, and origin obscure, Nor judges hear, with a disdainful smile, The short and simple causes of the poor. The boast of sov’reignty, the rod of power, And all the sway that judges ever have, Await alike the inevitable hour When all must yield to some designing knave. Nor you, ye vain, impute to such the fault, If mem’ry o’er his deeds no trophies raise, Where, thro’ the long drawn hall and fretted vault, The well-fee’d lawyer swells his note of praise. * * * * * For thee, who mindful of each agent’s deeds, Dost in these lines their artful ways relate If chance, or lonely contemplation leads Some kindred spirit to enquire thy fate; Haply some hoary headed sage may say,— Oft’ have we seen him, at the peep of dawn, Brushing, with hasty steps, the dews away, To meet the judges, at the court in town. One morn I miss’d him in th’ accustomed hall, Upon the boards, and near his favourite seat; Another came, and answered to the roll: Nor at the bar nor in the court he sate. The next, with dirges due, in sad array, Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne: Approach and read, for thou canst read the lay Grav’d on his stone, beneath yon aged thorn. Epitaph. Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, A youth to Business and to Law well known; Fair Science frown’d not on his humble birth, And Litigation marked him as her own. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, Heaven did a recompense as largely send: He gave to Mis’ry (all he had), a tear; He gain’d from Heav’n (’twas all he wished), a friend. No further seek his merits to disclose, Nor draw his frailties from their dread abode; (There they, like many a lawyer’s, now repose) The bosom of his Father and his God.

Peggy the Gay, and the Bold Roger Gray. A plowman so stout and a damsel so rare, Conversed as they sat on the hay; They ogled each other with simpering stare; Pretty Peggy the Gay, was the name of the fair, And the plowman’s the Bold Roger Gray. “And O!” said the nymph, “since to-morrow you go Far hence with a sergeant to list, Your tears for your Peggy soon ceasing to flow, Your love for some wealthier maiden you’ll show, And she’ll by my Roger be kiss’d.” “What nonsense you talk!” cried the youth in a pet; For by the Lord Harry I swear, Nor cheeks red as cherries, nor eyes black as jet, Nor moist lips, nor of teeth the most beautiful set, Shall make me untrue to my fair. “If ever by money or love led aside, I forget my sweet Peggy the gay, With the power of a justice’s warrant supplied, May a constable come as I sit by my bride, And bear me to prison away!” To Glos’ter then hastened this plowman so bold, His sweetheart lamented him sore, But scarcely nine months had over him roll’d, When a rich butcher’s widow, with bags full of gold, Bold Roger entic’d to her door. Her mutton and beef, so red and so white, Soon made him untrue to his vows; They pamper’d his palate, they dazzled his sight, They caught his affection, so vain and so light, And she carried him home as her spouse. From church the fond couple adjourn to the “Crown,” The company laugh, drink, and sing, The bacon and greens they go merrily down, And the mugs were all frothing with liquor so brown, When the bell of the alehouse went—Ding! Now first Roger Gray with amazement descried A stranger stalk into the room; He spoke not, he mov’d not, he look’d not aside, He neither regarded the landlord nor bride, But earnestly gaz’d on the groom. Full stout were his limbs, and full tall was his height, His boots were all dirty to view, Which made all the damsels draw back in a fright, Lest by chance they should sully their petticoats white, And poor Roger began to look blue. His presence all bosoms appear’d to dismay: The men sat in silence and fear; Till trembling at length, cried poor Roger, “I pray Aside your great coat, my old cock, you would lay, And deign to partake of our cheer.” The swain now is silent—the stranger complies,— His coat now he slowly unclos’d! Good Gods! what a sight met poor Roger’s gray eyes, What words can express his dismay and surprise, When a constable’s staff was expos’d! All present then utter’d a terrified shout, All hasten with hurry away; For as no one knew whom he came to seek out, Some tried to creep in, some tried to rush out, Till the constable cried “Roger Gray!” “Behold me, thou false one!—behold me!” he cried; “Remember fair Peggy the gay, Whom you left with a child to possess a new bride; But his Worship, to punish thy falsehood and pride, Has sent me to fetch thee away.” So saying, he laid his strong arm on the clown, Calling vainly for help from the throng; He bore him away to the gaol of the town, Nor ever again was he seen at the “Crown,” Or the catchpole who dragg’d him along. Not long staid the bride—for, as old women say, The meat in her shop was all spoil’d, All her beef and her mutton were carried away, And sold to buy caudle for Peggy the gay, And biggins and pap for the child. Four times in each year, when in judgment profound The Quorum all doze on the Bench, Is Roger brought up, and is forc’d to be bound, With a friend, in the sum of at least forty pound, To provide for the child and the wench. The Church-wardens sit round the treat they don’t pay, Their cares all with ’bacco beguil’d, They drink out of mugs newly form’d of bak’d clay, Their liquor is ale, and this whimsical lay They sing—“Here’s a health to fair Peggy the gay, And the false Roger Gray and his child.”

The wind whistled loud! Farmer Dobbin’s wheat stack, Fell down! The rain beat ’gainst his door! As he sat by the fire, he heard the roof crack! The cat ’gan to mew and to put up her back! And the candle burnt—just as before! 322 The farmer exclaimed, with a piteous sigh, “To get rid of this curs’d noise and rout, Wife, gi’e us some ale.” His dame straight did cry, Hem’d and cough’d three times three, then made this reply— “I can’t, mun!” “Why?” “’Cause the cask’s out!” By the side of the fire sat Roger Geeho, Who had finished his daily vocation: With Cicely, who’s eyes were as black as a sloe, A damsel, indeed, who had never said no, And because—she ne’er had an occasion, All these were alarmed by some loud piercing cries, And thrown into a terrible state; Till opening the door, with wide-staring eyes, They found to their joy, no less than surprise, ’Twas the old sow stuck fast in a gate! The Spirit of the Public Journals for 1804. Volume VIII.

John Oldstock was a store-keeper, In far-famed Seven-Dials; An ebon nymph grac’d his shop-door— He dealt in rags and phials. * * * * *

The Dutchman and the Raven. Vonce upon a midnite dreary, as I pondered, veak and veary, Ofer many a glass of lager, vot I drank in days of yore, In my bed I vas faschd nabbing, ven I dream I heert some dapping, As if some von gently drowing brickbats at my voodshed door; “Dis dot Snyder poy,” I muttered, “trying to preak my voodshed door— Only dis, and noding more.” Yah, disdinctly I remember, it was in dot pleak December, Und each seberate dying ember vos gone oud long pefore; Dot nide I felt quoide heardy, for Louise vent to a bardy, Und of cause I drunk more lager as I nefer did pefore; But schdill I know dot somedings sthruck my oudside voodshed door— Only dot, und noding more. From oud mine bed I makes von jumb, und see vot vos dis drubble, Mine Got! vot makes mine legs so veak? I feel so not pefore; I sckarce could valk, I could not talk, mine mind was in a muddle; But I dought it vas Johnny Snyder dryin’ to open schud mine door, Und mit cabbage-sdumps to hit me, as he often doned before— Dis I said, und noding more. Py und py I vos got praver; den I takes mine gun and sabre, Und schloly valks, midout mine pants, up to mine voodshed door; Und dare for von half hour I sdood mitout no power, So veak I vos I could not lift mine hands up any more; But at vonce I got more polder, und I opened vide de door— Plack as darkness, noding more. Deep into dot plackness peeping, all around mine voodshed creeping, Dreaming dreams no Dutchman efer dare to dream pefore. Der silence vos unbroken, und der sdillness gave no token; But I hear somepody spoken, “You vill vare dem pants no more.” “Vot is dot?” I cried, and someding answered back the vord, “No more.” Merely dis, und noding more. Back indo my bedroom turning, all my sole mitin me burning, Den vonce more I heert a tapping, someding louder as pefore. Now I cries out, “Dunder vetter! vot the devil ish the madder?” Surely dis ain’t Johnny Snyder hitting cabbage mit mine door? No! I dink dis cannot be, for I bet, by geminee! ’Twas the vind, und noding more. Oben here I flung mine vindow, ven dere all at vonce came into A ding just like a big plack cat I never saw pefore; Von fearful vink he gafe me, not von moment sdoped nor sdayed he; His pack he humped, und den he jumped upon mine bedroom door. Dare he sat, und noding more. The air dew was so funny, for it schmells no more like honey, Und den I squease mine nose hard until it vas quide sore; Den vonce I cried mid all my mide, “I vant to vare mine pants to-night, 323 Und of you dink dot I vos dighd, chust chumped down off dot floor;” Again I heard it gently say: “You’ll vare dem pants no more.” Dis it said, und noding more. “Profid,” said I, “ding of efil; profid sdill, if dorg or devil, For vot you comes into mine house? I vant you here no more; Leafe no ding here as a doken of dot lie vich you hafe spoken; You go home, I vas not joking, for I told you once pefore, Chust dake dot smell frum out mine house, und jump down off mine door!” But it vinked, and said no more.

Canada, my Canada. The haddock’s feet are on thy shore, Canada, my Canada; The halibut is at the door, Canada, my Canada; For smelt and gudgeon, chub and eel, For codfish, hake and mackareel, Arise and meet the Yankee steal. Canada, my Canada. Thou wilt not cower in the brine, Canada, my Canada; Thou wilt not drop thy fishing line, Canada, my Canada; Defend thy sculpin, save thy skate, Strike for thy shad with soul elate, Don’t swear, and spit upon thy bait. Canada, my Canada. Deal gently with a herring race Canada, my Canada; Put up your swordfish in its place, Canada, my Canada; If for reprisal you would sue, Just turn your other cheek—please do, And take a Yankee smack or two, Canada, my Canada. The Brooklyn Eagle, U.S.

How strange it should be that the beautiful snow Should robe with its brightness this world in its woe! Yet the soft crystals so tenderly falling, Speak to my heart as if angels were calling, Lovingly, earnestly, bidding me come, Offering this soul of mine rest and a home; Away in the mansion of glory above, I’ll plead for admission through pardoning love, There, robed in that mantle God’s grace can bestow, I’ll rival the whiteness of beautiful snow.

The Gallant Three Hundred. Three hundred brave warriors with pistols and rifles, Who will not be daunted by dangers or trifles Have taken an oath and are ready to go, On a hunt for the author of “Beautiful Snow.” Too long has he lived on this suffering earth, Too long has he haunted the family hearth, Too long been permitted his trumpet to blow, That cold-blooded author of “Beautiful Snow.” If they find him—and surely we hope that they will— They will finish him up, for they’ll hunt him to kill; The gallant Three Hundred will follow the chase, Till they come within sight of his back or his face. Then fearlessly charging the terrible foe, They will pepper the author of “Beautiful Snow,” So let the brave heroes in battle array, Dash off to “the front” well equipped for the fray. Accomplish their purpose they can and they must, For their cause is the people’s, their warfare is just, And when their good work is effectively done, When the battle is fought and the victory won, They’ll return with their banner star spangled and bright, And high on their flagstaff plainly in sight Will dangle what all must feel happy to know, Is the scalp of the author of “Beautiful Snow.”

Der Good-lookin Shnow. Oh! dot shnow, dot goot-lookin shnow, Vhich makes von der shky out on tings below, Und yoost on der haus vhere der shingles vas grow, You come mit some coldness, vherefer you go; Valtzin und blayin und zinging along. Goot-lookin shnow, you dond cood done wrong. 324 Ofen of you make on some oldt gal’s scheek, It makes notting tifferent, ofer das shendlesom freak. Goot-lookin shnow, von der glouds py der shky, You vas bully mit cold vedder, und bully von high. Oh! dot shnow, dot goot-lookin shnow, Yoost dis vay, und vot you make vhen you go; Fhlyin aroundt, you got matness mit fun, Und fhreeze makes der nose of efery von; Lafein, runnin, mit gwickness go py, Yoost shtobbin a leedle, den pooty gwick fhly; Und efen der togs, dot vas out in der vet, Vood shnab at der bieces vhich makes on dhere hedt. Der peobles vas grazy, und caddles vood crow Und say how you vas, you goot-lookin shnow. Und so gwick you vas dhere, und der vedder did shnow, Dhey shpeak out in dones so shweeder as low, Und der shleigh-riders, too, vas gone py in der lite, You doond cood saw dhem, dill quite out of site. Schwimmen, shkimmen, fhlirdin dhey go Rect on der tob of dot goot-lookin shnow. Dot shnow vas vhite glean vhen it comes der shky down, Und yoost so muddy like mud, ven it comes of der town; To been valked on py more as dwo hoondret fife feet, Dill gwick, vas yoost lookin so phlack like der shtreet. * * * * *

Good-bye to the Season!—’Tis over! Pavilions no longer are gay; Bat, bowler, and leal Cricket-lover, Are scattered like M.P.’s away. Walter Read bobs no longer his brown end At point, watching Bannerman’s “shape;” Gilbert Grace has gone home to dear Downend, Bob Abel is bound for the Cape. For want of a fuller enjoyment, Till Bat, Ball, and Stumps, can come out, At Football a few find employment, But Cricket is done, beyond doubt. Good-bye to the Season!—The weather Has bowed at the shrine of St. Gamp; Wet wickets have sodden the leather, And stumps have been pitched in a swamp. Chill deluges, varied with thunders, The Cricket-crack’s “average” queer. Bad hits and bad misses are blunders Scarce blamed in so beastly a year. There are all sorts of excellent reasons All round for the prevalent “duck;” So, Good-bye to this wettest of Seasons! Its memories are mainly of muck. Good-bye to the Season!—The chances That filled even champions with gloom; The rascally tricks and rare dances Devised by the demon of doom. The “bad hits” that should have been “beauties,” The good ones so palpably “flukes”; The fielders so slack in their duties, The Captains so tart in rebukes; The cocksures who dropped bobs and tanners On matches like Surrey v. Notts; The consequent breaches of manners; The subsequent downfall of “pots.” Good-bye to the Season!—Another Will come with the coming of May; Though the new county boundaries bother, The cry of the boys will be “Play!” Will it come like this terrible “tryer?” Or come very much the reverse? Will its scorings be lower or higher? Will its weather be better or worse? Will it favour the bowler or batter? Will it come with dry turf and clear sky, Or washy and squashy?—No matter:— Good-bye to the Season—good-bye!