Volume 93 — THE MUSE IN MANACLES.

Bored by the Ballade, vexed by Villanelle, Of Rondeau tired, and Triolet as well! THE BALLADE. (In Bad Weather.) Oh! I’m in a terrible plight— For how can I rhyme in the rain? ’Tis pouring from morn until night: So bad is the weather again, My language is almost profane! Though shod with the useful galosh, I’m racked with rheumatical pain— I think that a Ballade is bosh! I know I am looking a fright; That knowledge, I know, is in vain; My “brolly” is not water-tight, But hopelessly rended in twain And spoilt by the rude hurricane! Though clad in a stout mackintosh, My temper I scarce can restrain— I think that a Ballade is bosh! Oh, I’m an unfortunate wight! The damp is affecting my brain; My woes I would gladly recite, In phrases emphatic and plain, Your sympathy could I obtain. I don’t think my verses will wash, They’re somewhat effete and inane— I think that a Ballade is bosh! Envoy. I fancy I’m getting insane, I’m over my ankles in slosh; But let me repeat the refrain— I think that a Ballade is bosh! THE VILLANELLE. (With Vexation.) I do not like the Villanelle, I think it somewhat of a bore— This tinkle of a Muffin-bell! The reason why I cannot tell; Each day I fancy, more and more, I do not like the Villanelle! It makes me stamp and storm and yell, It makes me wildly rage and roar: This tinkle of a Muffin-bell! I look upon it as a sell, Its use I constantly deplore; I do not like the Villanelle! Poetic thoughts it must dispel, It very often tries me sore: This tinkle of a Muffin-bell! For this I know, and know full well— Let me repeat it o’er and o’er!— I do not like the Villanelle, This tinkle of a Muffin-bell! THE TRIOLET. (In a Temper.) A triolet’s scarcely the thing— Unless you would carol in fetters! If lark-like you freely would sing, A Triolet’s scarcely the thing: I miss the poetical ring, I’m told that it has, by my betters! A Triolet’s scarcely the thing— Unless you would carol in fetters! THE RONDEAU. (In a Rage.) Pray tell me why we can’t agree To bid the merry Muse run free? Pray tell me why we should incline To see her in a Rondeau pine, Or sigh in shackled minstrelsy? Why can’t she sing with lark-like glee, And revel in bright jeux d’esprit? Where form can’t fetter or confine— Pray tell me why? Pray tell me why that frisky gee, Called Pegasus, should harnessed be? Why bit and bridle should combine To all his liveliness consign,— To deck the Rondeau’s narrow line— Pray tell me why?