OUR OPERA.

To hear sweet strains by Glück or Gounod, Mascagni, Wagner, one must, you know, Pass slums; at dark it Is nice in Endell Street and Bow Street; Still better in that fragrant nose treat— "Mudsalad Market." Inside, say, Orpheus sings in Hades To gallant men and noble ladies— Rank, wealth, and beauty; Outside, Elysium is forgotten. To clear away these slums, half rotten, Is no one's duty. Inside, Mascagni's Intermezzo, Though heard in many places, yet so Delightful ever; Outside, cab touts and paper sellers, And other people's pert Sam Weller's, Delightful never! Inside, some day, the newest, Falstaff, Will occupy a far from small staff Of band and chorus; Outside, as now, old slums ill-smelling, And costermongers, shouting, yelling, Will be before us. Once someone started building greatly, Walls rose, arranged to form quite stately House, foyers, lobbies. They stopped, extremely gaunt and lonely, And, now the site is used, it's only A haunt of bobbies. So still Euterpe's home is hidden In ill-paved slums, through which we've ridden With jolts that jerk us. How unlike Paris! Did we follow Her taste, we should enshrine Apollo At Regent Circus.

I love you for your splendid hair, Your violet eyes, your swaying waist, Whose curves exactly suit my taste; Your radiant smile, your dimples rare. I love you for your store of pelf, Of course; but most of all, my sweet, Because of this—whene'er we meet, You let me talk about myself!

"Nobodies" have been Baronets, but still 'Tis wondrous to create one out of Nil! The Middlesex Artillery Volunteers Will "make the Wilkin ring" with hearty cheers. And for the last, he'll bear his honours meekly, He's Renals "going strong," not "Renals Weakly." (For the last, understand Reynolds' Weekly.)

She lived, this prophetess, too late, And plied an art that's out of date, Another age had seen her gain Her reputation not in vain, Had seen a crowd respectful wait Upon the arbiter of fate, While kings and rulers brought her gold To have futurity unrolled! In some Greek court where fountains play, Or dwelling by the Appian way, The prophetess would surely be Besought by each Leuconoë, And if for these she sometimes drew A future pleasanter than true, At least she gave them, you'll confess, Anticipated happiness! Ah! times are changed, and nowadays Such divination hardly pays; There comes no more the crowds that used, The fees are terribly reduced! And if our policemen caught the Sphinx Propounding "Missing Words," one thinks Our British justice could not fail To send her speedily to gaol!

I'll sing thee songs of Arabi, And tales of far Cash ne-ar! Strange yarns to move thee to a smile, Or melt thee to a te-ar! And dreams of delight shall hover bright, And smoke-born vi-i-sions rise Of artful "fake," which well may wake Wild wonder in thine eyes. I'll move thee to a smile With dreams of far Cash ne-e-e-e-ar!

Ye Royalties of England, how beautiful ye are! The special artists claim you, they track you from afar. In uniforms and diamonds, with sceptre and with crown, In many a picture-paper those artists set you down. And thus the British public may gaze upon its Queen— They make her small, but dignified, of most majestic mien. She smiles—the artist marks her; she frowns—the artist quails, And soothes himself by drawing H.R.H. the Prince of Wales. He draws him at foundation stones, a trowel in his hand (The point of silver trowels I ne'er could understand); He draws him opening railways, or turning sods of grass, And he draws him as a Colonel, in helmet and cuirasse. We see him dressed for London, a-riding in the Row— I wonder if he ever finds his London pleasures slow; And we see him down at Sandringham, his country-home in Norfolk, Where the Royal pair are much beloved, especially by poor folk. And oft at public dinners, in Garter and in Star, We see his Royal Highness enjoying his cigar. I wish they wouldn't vary quite so much his Royal figure. For they sometimes make him leaner, and sometimes make him bigger. But, be that as it may, I feel that, while my life endures, I know by heart my Prince's face, my future King's contours. A stiff examination in the Prince of Wales I'd pass, And in all his princely attitudes they'd give me a first-class. The Duke of York, our Sailor Prince, I think I've got him pat; I've never seen him face to face, but what's the odds of that? In illustrated papers I have watched him every day Since he went and popped the question to the pretty Princess May. I've seen them plain or coloured in fifty different styles, Just like a pair of turtle-doves, all bills and coos and smiles. I never saw a turtle-dove that smiled upon its pet afore, But he who writes of bridal pairs is bound to use the metaphor. Oh, Princess May, oh, Princess May, in crayon or in oil you Are loveable and beautiful, they can't avail to spoil you. They did their worst, and did it well, those special-artist wretches, To make you like a stolid block in all their special sketches. So this, my meek petition, to those artists is addressed, Give Royalties of every sort a little welcome rest. I cannot bear my Royal ones—of loyalty I'm full— To look like wax and sawdust, with limbs of cotton-wool. And thus, when next you draw them (oh, may the time be long) To make them human beings will surely not be wrong. And if you'll take a hint from me you'll earn a nation's thanks, By drawing these prize princely ones a little less like blanks.