"Tis the place, I can assure you, if from funds you wish to part;

Yet for these you'll get a mixture, wisely stirred will warm the heart.

This old house is situated in a street well-known as High; Here the choicest spirits gather, when the moon is in the sky.

Oft at night I've seen the taper seemingly to multiply
And assume these quaintish fashions so deceptive to the eye.
Till in fancy I've been lifted high above this earthly ball;
And the lights, like stars have twinkled, in the mirrors on the
wall.

In the happiness that followed, I've forgot life's cankering

care,

Yet from these Elysian dreamings I've waked to misery and despair.

In this mood I've heard, with pleasure common mortals cannot know,

Grand debates, and songs and speeches, which from sparkling genius flow.

Then I've built aerial castles towering up to heights sublime, And I've questioned in my fancy, if such blissfulness were mine.

For the nonce, a powerful statesman, I have ruled with iron

sway,

Millions of my fellow-creatures, who, of course, were rougher clay.

Changing, then, to mighty warrior, at the head of armies bold,

I've crushed all who dared oppose me, just for glory, not for gold.

Or, again, as learned historian, I've noted down the deeds of yore,

Woven in a graceful fashion, mines of thought from ancient lore.

Burning passions, that consumed me, caused my throbbing heart to swell,

Or, when seized with poet's fancy, I've attempted oft to tell. But the finest of our fancies very quickly disappear,

If from thoughtfulness we're wakened by the foolish jest or jeer.

White-sleeved waiters can't appreciate thoughts superior to red wine,

And that Act, by one Mackenzie, foeman is to Muses Nine.
In my rev'rie I was shaken, by a hand, and gruffly told
That the hour had just departed, when with safety wine was
sold.

From The Modern Athenian, 18th March, 1876.

THE NEW (ENONE.-AN EPIC FRAGMENT. (With Apologies to the Poet Laureate.)

O BRITISH Public, many-fadded public,
Queer British Public, harken ere I die!

It was the bright forenoon: one silvery cloud
Had with soft sprinkle laid the gathered dust
Of Mayfair. To the studio they came.
Scant-robed they came before the camera.

And at their feet was laid a carpet fair,
Lemon, and cinnamon, and ghostly grey,
Purple, and primrose. And the artist rose
And overhead the swift spring-curtains drew
This way and that in many a subtle shift
For fine effect of light and shade, and placed
Background of statuary and drooping boughs,
With cloud and curtain, tower and portico.

O British Public harken ere I die !

I heard great Heré. She to Paris made
Proffer of popular power, public rule,
Unquestioned, an elastic revenue
Wherewith to buoy and back Imperial plans,
Honour (with Peace) she said, and tax and toll
From many a Place of Arms and haven large,
And Scientific Frontiers, and all else
That patriotic potency may crave;

66

To all most welcome, seeing men in power
Then only are like gods, having attained
Rest in another place," and quiet seats
Above the tumult, safe from Dissolution,
In shelter of their great majority.

O British Public harken ere I die!

She ceased, and Paris held the golden fruit

Out at arm's length, so much the thought of power
Flattered his spirit; but Pallas where she stood
Somewhat apart, her straight and stately limbs
Uplifted, and her aspect high, if cold.
The while above her full and earnest eye
Over her firm set mouth and haughty cheek
Kept watch, waiting decision, made reply.

"Unselfishness, high honour. justice clear,
These three alone give worth to sovereign power.
Yet not for power (power of itself

Is a base burden) but to hold as law
The fiat high,Be just and do not fear.'
And because right is right to follow right,
With a serene contempt of consequence."

And Paris pondered, and I cried, "Oh! Paris,
Give it to Pallas! But he heard me not,
Or hearing, would not heed me. Woe is me!

O British Public, many-headed Public,
Crass British Public, harken ere I die!
Audacious Aphrodite, beautiful
Fresh as the purple hyacinth's rain-washed bells,
With soft seductive fingers backward drew
From her bold brow and bosom her long hair
Auricomous, and bared her shining throat
And shoulder; on the carpet her small feet
Shone lily-like, and on her rounded form,
Between the shadows of the studio blinds,
Shifted the cunning "high lights" as she moved.

O British Public, harken ere I die!
She, with a subtle smile in her bold eyes,
The herald of her triumph, well assured,
Half whispered in his ear, "I promise thee
The negative of my next photograph!”
She spoke and laughed, I shut my eyes in fear,
And when I looked, Paris had not the aj ple.
And I beheld great Here's angry eyes

As she withdrew from forth the studio door,
And I was left alone within the place!

From Punch, December, 1879.

At morn, the noise of boys aloof,
Inspectors' orders, and the chaff
Of cads upon the busses' roof,

To Poplar bound, too much by half Did prove; but m st he loathed the hour When Mr. Jardine chose to say

Five shillings he would have to pay,
Now he was in policeman's power.

Then said he, "This is very dreary;"
"Bail will not come," he said;
He said, "I'll never more get beery,
But go straight home to bed!"

THE BOW STREET GRANGE.

By Alfred Tennyson.

With blackest mud, the locked-up sots Were splashed and covered, one and all. And rusty nails, and callous knots,

Stuck from the bench against the wall. The wooden bed felt hard and strange; Lost was the key that oped the latch ; To light his pipe he had no match, Within the Bow Street station's range.

He only said, "It's very dreary;"
"Bail will not come," he said;
He said, "I have been very beery,
I would I were a bed!"

The rain fell like a sluice that even;

His Clarence boots could not be dried, But had been soaked since half-past sevenTo get them off in vain he tried.

After the smashing of his hat,

Just as the new police came by,
And took him into custody,

He thought, I've been a precious flat,

He only said, "The cell is dreary ;'
"Bail cometh not," he said;
He said, "I must be very beery,
I wish I were in bed!"

Upon the middle of the night,

Waking, he heard a stunning row; Some jolly cocks sang out till light,

And would not keep still anyhow. He wished to bribe, but had no change Within his pockets, all forlorn, And so he kept awake till morn Within that lonely Bow Street grange. He only said, "The cell is dreary;" 66 Bail cometh not," he said; He said, "I must be very beery, I'd rather be in bed!"

All night within that gloomy cell

The keys within the padlock creaked; The tipsygents' bawled out as well,

And in the dungeons yelled and shrieked. Policemen slyly prowled about;

Their faces glimmered through the door, But brought not, though he did implore, One humble glass of cold without.

He only said, "The night is dreary;"
"Bail cometh not," he said;

He said, "I have been very beery,
I would I were in bed!"

In 1855, Messrs. G. Routledge & Co., published a small volume, by Frank E. Smedley and Edmund Hodgson Yates, entitled Mirth and Metre, which contained several excellent parodies, one entitled Boreäna, after the The Ballad of Oriana; and another, called Vauxhall, which imitated Locksley Hall. Most of the parodies in the book were written by Mr. Edmund H. Yates, but he gave the credit of Boreäna to Mr. Frank Smedley, the author of several well-known novels, who died in May, 1864.

One year I gazed upon that much-loved plate,
Till at the last the sight began to pall.

I said, "How know I 'tis of ancient date,
Or China-ware at all?"

So when one year was wholly finished,

I put that willow-pattern plate away. "Now rather bring me Satsuma !" I said, "Or blue-green Cloisonnée.

"For I am sick of this pervading hue,

Steeped wherein this landscape, stream, and sky, To my heart-weary question, 'Is all blue?' 'Yea, all is blue,' reply.

"Yet do not smash the plate I so admired,
When first my high æsthetic house I built;
I may come back to it, of Dresden tired,
And Sèvres gaily gilt.'

Although taken from Cruikshank's Comic Almanack, for 1846, the following parody of The May Queen is so fresh and so funny that it might have been written yesterday :

THE QUEEN OF THE FÊTE. By Alfred Tennyson.

I. THE DAY BEFORE.

[To be read with liveliness.]

If you're waking, call me early, mother, fine, or wet, or bleak;

To-morrow is the happiest day of all the Ascot week;
It is the Chiswick fête, mother, of flowers and people gay,
And I'll be queen, if I may, mother, I'll be queen, if I may.
There's many a bright barege, they say, but none so bright
as mine,

And whiter gloves, that have been cleaned, and smell of turpentine ;

But none so nice as mine, I know, and so they all will say ; And I'll be queen, if I may, mother, I'll be queen, if I

may.

I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake, If you do not shout at my bedside, and give me a good shake;

For I have got those gloves to trim with blonde and ribbons gay,

And I'm to be queen, if I may, mother; I'm to be queen, if I may.

As I came home to-day, mother, whom think you I should meet,

But Harry-looking at a cab, upset in Oxford Street;

He thought of when we met, to learn the Polka of Miss Rae

But I'll be queen, if I may, mother; I'll be queen, if I may.

II. THE DAY AFTER.

[Slow, and with sad expressiou.]

If you're waking, call me early; call me early, mother dear; The soaking rain of yesterday has spoilt my dress I fear; I've caught a shocking cold, mamma, so make a cup for me, Of what sly folks call, blackthorn, and facetious grocers, tea. I started forth in floss and flowers to have a pleasant day, When all at once down came the wet, and hurried all away; And now there's not a flower but is washed out by the rain: I wonder if the colours, mother, will come round again.

I have been wild and wayward, but I am not wayward now,

I think of my allowance, and I'm sure I don't know how
I shall make both ends meet. Papa will be so very wild;
He says, already mother, I'm his most expensive child.
Just say to Harry a kind word, and tell him not to fret ;
Perhaps I was cross, but then he knows it was so very wet;
Had it been fine-I cannot tell he might have had my

arm;

But the bad weather ruined all, and spoilt my toilet's charm.

I'll wear the dress again, mother; I do not care a pin,Or, perhaps, 'twill do for Effie, but it must be taken in ; But do not let her see it yet-she's not so very green, And will not take it until washed and ironed it has been.

So, if you're waking, call me, when the day begins to dawn;

I dread to look at my barege-it must be so forlorn ; We'll put it in the rough-dried box: it may come out next year;

So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, mother dear

Light Green, a magazine published at Cam. bridge, in 1872, contained another parody of the same original, it is called "The May Dream," by Alfred Pennysong.

The following appeared in The Tomahawk, of December 5th, 1868.

ELECTIONS' EVE!

A Song of the Future (?).

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

Though November is the dullest month of any in the year, Yet to-morrow I shall represent my country-oh! how droll!

For I'm the Queen of the Poll, mother! I'm the Queen of the Poll!

There'll be many a black, black eye, mother (I hope one won't be mine),

But ten thousand voting virgins will be flocking to my sign, Supported by my Coleridge-Mill, 'neath Becker's steadfast soul,

Shall I be the Queen of the Poll, mother! I, be the Queen of the Poll!

The Benches soon shall welcome me, the Lobby be my haunt,

That spinster Speaker by her winks and frowns shall ne'er me daunt.

My rights are good as any, and my name is on the roll, And I'm the Queen of the Poll, mother! I'm the Queen of the Poll.

I have been wild and wayward, but those days are past and gone,

The Valse is filed, the Kettledrum, the Croquet on the Lawn ;

Another Lawn, clear-starched and white, rises before my eye,

The Speaker's risen to orders, why the Dickens shouldn't I? Pardon my slang, for auld slang syne, I'm still a woman true,

And women's tongues were never made to say what they might rue;

But there's one thing on my mind, mother, to ask you I'd forgot,

Shall I repair to Parliament in petticoats or not?

Now, good night, good night, dear mother, ah! to-morrow 'll be the day

When women's rights are settled, then won't we have our