(ON ITS REPORTED INSUFFICIENCY.)

You-you-if you have fail'd to understand-
The Fleet of England is her all in all-
On you will come the curse of all the land,
If that Old England fall,

Which Nelson left so great

This isle, the mightiest naval power on earth,
This one small isle, the lord of every sea-
Poor England, what would all these votes be worth,
And what avail thine ancient fame of "Free,"
Wert thou a fallen State?

You—you—who had the ordering of her Fleet,
If you have only compassed her disgrace,
When all men starve, the wild mob's million feet
Will kick you from your place-
But then-too late, too late.

TENNYSON,

The above lines appeared in large type, and a prominent position, in the Times of Thursday, April 23rd, 1885. Many persons thought a hoax had been played on the Times, refusing to believe that such a dismal appeal ad captandum vulgus could have been penned by the Poet Laureate. Although it is true that all his recent productions have given signs of failing powers, both intellectual and poetical, nothing yet has been published so damaging as this to the reputation of the author of "The Idylls of the King," It is, indeed, greatly to be regretted that he has no sincere and discriminating friend who could kindly, but firmly, dissuade him from the publication of such lines, which pain his friends, and give rise to endless satires at his expense. Journals representing all parties and every shade of opinion, at once set to work to ridicule The Fleet, and numerous parodies of it have already appeared, from which the following are selected :— THE BARD.

(On his reported imbecility.)
You-you-if you have failed to understand-
The bard of England is no bard at all-
And but a thumb on great St. Jingo's hand.
See lines of his that sprawl
Across the Times so great.

That bard, the mightiest bard on all the earth,
That one great bard is very much at sea;
Poor England, what would poetry be worth

If thou could'st boast no wiser bards than he?
A pitiable state.

You-you-who wrote those verses indiscreet,
If you have only covered so much space
With lines as bad as these, or rather worse,
Why then we'll take your place,
And not too soon-too soon.

The Weekly Echo, April 25, 1885.

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A LAUREL.

You-you-and neither He nor She nor It,
But if; if but, you fail to understand,
Oh! shaker of this tiny English land,
Eagle in war; in peace a mild tomtit-

That Runnymede and Ashmead are the same,
And blood is after all your little game,
And peace an endless heritage of shame!

You-you-who watch the Baltic and the Belt, Commingling verses to the whale and smelt.

Great Nelson's heart would melt

If he could read'em.

For such a Hanwell Muse,

The public's myriad shoes

Would kick themselves with freedom,
You-you-if but a single soul would heed'em.
J. Fox TURNER.

The Manchester Examiner and Times.

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"WE WE" TO THE POET-Laureate.

On reading a (surely !) misreported insufficiency called "The Fleet."

You-you-we do not fail to understand

You, Laureate, are not England's all in all;
On you is poured the laughter of the land
For your wild Jingo call;

Although you once were great.

Wild jingo cry!" We mightiest upon earth,
Our naval power supreme on every sea."
Poor England! What are all these howlings worth
And what avails thy poet's fame to thee?—

A drivelling Laureate !

(On his reported Lunacy.)

You-you-if you have failed to understand
That England thought you knew the poet's trick,
On you now comes the laughter of the land
For that mysterious kick

Which falls too late-too late.

Poet of perfect diction highly wrought,
Poet whom England loved in every sea,
Poor Baron, what shall million kicks be drought,
And what avails the ancient fame of thee
Whom once we called "the Great?"
You-you-who had the ear of all the world,
If you can compass only pathos, see!
When all men laugh, a million lips are curled,
To send a jeer at thee,
Our laughed-at Laureate !

The Liverpool Mercury.

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TENNYSON TACKLED.

I.

THE FLIGHT!

Companion Poem to "The Fleet." A Rejoinder. You-you-if you have failed to understand

How ships are built on paper at Whitehall, Have picked up from the Pall Mall, second-hand, Facts which but after all

Make circulation great.

You-you-if you have read the silly rhymes About our Fleet just published in the TimesShould raise your hands and righteously exclaim: If this be poetry,

What the de'il is fame?"

"This isle the mightiest naval power on earth,
This one small isle-the land of every sea-

Poor England!"-what are Poets Laureate worth?
And what avail thy ancient fame, oh T.,
When thou art fallen from thy high estate ?
You—you—who had the penning of those lines-
If you have compassed your own disgrace,
When all men laugh-"the wild mob's million feet"
Will kick thee to a place-the name's not long-
It's called by the polite-" Hong Kong!"

Moonshine, May 9, 1885.

"I am informed by a perfectly unreliable correspondent that the following poem-evidently composed by a dynamiter who reads his Times and his Tennyson attentively-was picked up in Mr. Swainson's room at the Admiralty after the recent explosion."

You-you-if you have failed to understand
The lesson taught by previous blow-ups,
Learn that on you the weight of Rossa's hand-
When he's not in his cups-

Still falls, despotic State!

YUM YUM, believed to be Japanese Muse of Hypothetical Poetry, corresponding to " You, you."

This man, the noisiest Fenian on the earth,
Has sworn a swear to ne'er let Britain be.
Poor England! what are all thy bobbies worth,
And what avail detectives unto thee,
To guard thee from his hate?
You--you-who catch a Cunningham or so,
If you imagine that the danger's o'er,
You're much mistaken, as you'll shortly know,
So now to gain the door

And slope-ere it's too late!

Funny Folks, May 9, 1885.

[This poem is founded upon two erroneous assumptions, namely that the explosion at the Admiralty was caused by dynamite, and that it was of Fenian origin. Colonel Majendie has expressed his confident opinion that the explosion was caused by the firing of about 12-lbs. of gunpowder enclosed in a metal pot; and the personal unpopularity of the unfortunate Mr. Swainson is considered a far more likely cause for the outrage, than any political motive.]

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The eight following parodies of The Fleet, were published in The Weekly Dispatch Prize Competition of May 10th, 1885, the First Prize of Two Guineas was awarded to Mrs. Emily Lawrence, for the following:

WHEW! Whew! if you are hailed the master-hand-
The Laureate of England over all-

On you will come the laugh of all the land
If you to bathos fall,

Who erst did things so great.

This verse--the veriest doggrel verse on earth-
For this small beer were you a lord to be?
Poor Tennyson! what is your purple worth?

And what avails thine ancient fame to thee,
Now in thy fallen state?

Whew! whew! with all your orders thus replete,
If you can only compass your disgrace,
When all men read these lines of halting feet.
They'll hurl you from your place

As England's Laureate !

A CONSERVATIVE,-(ON HIS LEADER'S REPORTED
INEFFICIENCY.)

You-you-if you have failed to understand
That hope of office is our all in all-

On you will come the curse of all our band
If that old Party fall,

Which Beaconsfield made great

This hope, our mightiest motive power on earth,
This one great hope, that fills our hearts with glee-
Poor Party, what would all thy votes be worth,
And what avail our love of place and fee,
Wert thou a fallen State?

You-you-who should have led to Downing-street
If you have been too laggard in the race,
Ere we all starve, our roused rebellious feet
Will kick you from your place-
But then-too late, too late!

HENRY L. BRICKELL,

This creed, the maddest vainest creed on earth,
That one small isle should lord o'er all lands be-
Poor jingo! what would this small isle be worth,
Where its great wealth, its ancient name of "Free,"
Wert thou to rule our state?

You-you-when you'd the ordering of the Fleet,
Did you not strive to compass our disgrace?
Do you forget 'twas once the "wild mob's" feat
To kick you from your place?

You'll mend-too late, too late!

GEORGE MALLINSON.

JOHN CARTER.

THE LAUREATE.—(On his Regrettable DECADENCY),

You-you-if you have ceased to understand
Why once your song did England's heart enthral-
On you will come the gibes of all the land
If that old grandeur fall
From eminence so great,

'Tis vile, thou sweetest singer upon earth-
'Tis very vile, thou bard of every sea-
Poor poet, what will bygone praise be worth,

And what avail thine ancient fame to thee,
If bathos blur thy state?

You-you-whose Muse had dainty, dancing feet,
If with a careless pen you mar her grace,
While true men sigh, the million, as 'tis meet,
Will laugh you from your place-
But then-too late, too late!

Exe.

FEW-few-so few can really understand
Why all this fighting to our share should fall-
Or why Old England should protect a land
That is not hers at all,

Although she is so great

This isle, the mightiest meddling power on earth,
The would-be lord of every land and sea-
Poor England, what is all the honour worth,
To crush a people struggling to be free,
And help a rotten state?

Few-few-there are who would not wish to fight
If Russia should encompass our disgrace,
And make for India-why, then with right
We'd kick her from the place-
But now-we'll wait, we'll wait,

GLADSTONE'S REBUKE.

EDWARD SCOTT.

You-you-if you have failed to understand
The peace of nations is our all in all-
On you will come the blame of all the land
If those strong efforts fall
That we have used of late.

This isle, once fairest spot in all the earth,
This one small isle that boasts the name of " Free "
Poor England! what will that fair name be worth,
And what will be thy "prestige" presently,
At war with every State?

You-you-who grovel still at Jingo's feet,
If you shall plunge us in this dark disgrace
While thousands, starving, walk about the street,
They'll hiss you to your face;

But all-too late, too late!

JESSE H. Wheeler.

THE CORPORATION (ALDERMAN LOQ.)

WE-we-who have not failed to understand
That soup of turtle is our all in all-
On us may fall the anger of the land,
And that old charter fall,

Which kings have left so great

That charter, noblest instrument on earth,
That grand old charter, gift of royalty-
Poor charter, what will all thy words be worth,
And what avail thine ancient liberty,
When in a lapsed state?

We-we-who strove to hold our powers complete,
If we have only fought and toiled in vain,
When all men kick, the region of our seat

Will suffer mortal pain

Too hard-too hard a fate!

THOMAS H. KNIGHT, JUN.

TO THE JINGO.-(ON HIS REPORTED REAPPEARANCE.)

You-you-since you have failed to understand
The Brag of England serves no turn at all-
Will never rise to curse again this land,
And never have the fall

Five years ago your fate.

The Tories shout and yell, Gladdy, awhile the Quakers pray,

For there'll be a war, they say, Gladdy—there'll be a war, they say.

All in the wild March morning I heard the trumpet call, As Russian upon Afghan did mercilessly fall;

The shots began to whistle, and the drums began to roll, And in the wild March morning fled many a trooper's soul.

O, strange it seems to me, Gladdy, that ere this done

is

year Some thousands of my bravest may be rotting 'neath the sun,

Just like my noble Gordon, the gallant and the trueBut what of that, the Jingoes say, why make ye such ado?

For ever, and for ever, they rave and stamp and roamWhy can't they wait a little while, until th' elections come?

For then you'll go up, Gladdy to yon House and wear a crest,

And the Russian cease from troubling, and the Jingo be at rest! J. ARTHUR ELLIOTT.

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HODGE'S EMANCIPATION.

THE elections will be early, will be early, brother dear; There is no doubt we'll have to vote before another year.

The parson and the squire, they say, are quite polite today,

And think it will be most unkind if we don't vote their way.

They forget we were the black sheep-the blackest of our time

Were only fit to till the ground and feed our master's swine;

Now they declare by us to stand for ever and a day, If we will vote their way, brother-will only vote their way.

As I came up the valley brother, whom think ye I should

see

But the parson arm-in-arm with Hodge, as merry as could be?

He thought of those sharp words, brother, I gave him. yesterday

When I refused to tell him, brother, if we should vote his way.

Now they may lose our votes brother, they think we're in the right,

Although they failed to see our wrongs till Gladstone gave them light.

They may call us cruel-hearted-I care not what they say

For we will vote by ballot, brother—why should we vote their way?

You must wake me and poll early-poll early, my brother dear

That morrow will be the merriest time of all this glad new year!

That morrow may be to all of us our emancipation day,
If we vote for those who helped, brother-who helped
us on our way!
JOHN H. GIBSON.

The Weekly Dispatch, April 26, 1885.

PICKED UP OUTSIDE THE LYCEUM.

You must wake and call me early-call me early mother dear,

Our Irving, as you'll recollect, does now once more appear, And so I'm bound, ere yet 'tis dawn, my humble couch to quit,

For I have to book for the pit, mother-I have to book for the pit.

Funny Folks.

LYCEUM-Special Notice-With a desire to increase the comfort of the people, all seats in the pit and gallery of this theatre may, during Mr. Irving's management, in the future be booked, and the pit and gallery will be reseated for this purpose by Mr. J. C. Phipps.-Advertisement in the Daily Papers, April, 1885,

[This arrangement did not meet with general approval, and was soon abandoned.]

WAGES.

HUNDREDS of sovereigns, hundreds of sterling, hundreds of cash,

Paid with a cheerfulness, eager to gain a poem from me; Hundreds of sterling to write, to utter, to make a dashNay, but the Editor aim'd not at poetry, no lover of poetry he:

Give me the pleasure of going on for the s. d.!

The wages of rant is great: if the wages of merit be just Would the publishers scramble who should be first to bargain with me?

I desire them not to come hither, unless it be with the dust,"

To make me a golden grove, or to add to my stock of gree;
Give me the pleasure of going on for the £ s. d.!
Judy, February 19, 1868,

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GIVE ME NO MORE,

(With apologies to LORD TENNYSON.)

GIVE me no more: a man might drink the sea-
If it were drinkable, and yours to give-
Might drink while Heaven allowed him grace to live
And not exhaust your hospitality;
Give me no more.

Give me no more: I'm nearly tight already,
Behold my flaming cheek and bloodshot eye;
Yes, O my friend, 'tis time to say good bye,
My tongue feels thick, my knees are far from steady
Give me no more.

Give me no more: ofttimes I might be glad

To drink with you all night, and glass for glass, But not just now-my honest word I passYour liquor is so execrably bad,

Give me no more!

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THE ONION-EATERS.

"COURAGE!" she said, and pointed with one hand (A hand that held a heavy metal spoon), "Ere dies the day ye all will understand The solemn myst'ry of this afternoon, The luscious dish will ready be full soon!"

In reply to a letter from the poet Whittier respecting General Gordon, Lord Tennyson has written as follows"Dear Mr. Whittier,-Your request has been forwarded to me, and I herein send you an epitaph for Gordon in our Westminster Abbey-i.e. for his cenotaph:

"Warrior of God, man's friend, not here below'
"But somewhere dead far in the waste Soudan;
"Thou livest in all hearts, for all men know
"This earth hath borne no simpler, nobler man.'
"With best wishes, yours very faithfully,

"

"TENNYSON."

ON which the Globe (May 7th, 1885,) remarked-" Lord Tennyson must really decline to be prodded. The poet Whittier has been egging him on to write about Gordon, and the result is an epitaph of four lines, giving the infor(i.e., in Westmation that Gordon is not "here below minster Abbey), but in the Soudan. The Times, in giving this epitaph, heads it "Gordon, Tennyson, and Whittier," and the association of three such names with the starveling verse under them, is an ideal example of the short and simple step from the sublime to the ridiculous."

"MY MOTHER."

HE kind correspondent who sent the pathetic poem entitled "Another," which appeared in the May number of Parodies, correctly described the difficulty of compiling this collection so as to make it fairly complete, without being tedious, especially as new Parodies on every popular poem are continually appearing. Since Part 18 appeared many other parodies on "My Mother" have been sent in, some of which are so good that they are here inserted, although it had not been intended again to refer to that particular poem in this volume.