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

They say he wears moustachios, that my chosen he may be ;
They say he's left off raking, mother-what is that to me?
I shall meet all the Fusiliers upon the Chiswick day;
And I will be queen, if I may, mother; I will be queen if I
may.

The night cabs come and go, mother, with panes of mended glass,

And all the things about us seem to clatter as they pass;
The roads are dry and dusty; it will be a fine, fine day,
And I'm to be queen, if I may, mother; I'm to be queen, if
I may.

The weather-glass hung in the hall has turned to "fair" from "showers.

The sea-weed crackles and feels dry, that's hanging 'midst the flowers,

Vauxhall, too, is not open, so 'twill be a fine, fine day; And I will be queen, if I may, mother; I will be queen, if I may.

So call me, if you're waking; call me, mother, from my

rest

The "Middle Horticultural" is sure to be the best.

Of all the three this one will be the brightest, happiest day: And I will be queen, if I may, mother; I will 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,"

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 fled, 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

The day

en women's rights are settled, then won't we have our Say;

And then 'midst England's patriots, my name shall I enrol, For I'm the Queen of the Poll, mother! I'm the Queen of the Poll!

A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN.

(From The World, July 23rd, 1879).

Long time I fed my eyes on that strange scene, Painted by Poynter, of the famous bay, Wherein Phæacian maids surround their queen Nansicaa in play.

And clearer on my tranced gaze there grew The celebrated beauties of the town; Leaping in front, I saw with wonder new

Those who have read Locksley Hall will greatly appreciate The Lay of the Lovelorn, a parody contained in the Bon Gaultier Ballads of Theodore Martin and Professor Aytoun.

Tennyson's original poem commences thus:

Comrades leave me here a little, while as yet 'tis early

morn;

Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the bugle horn.

'Tis the place, and all around it, as of old the curlews call, Dreary gleams about the moorland flying over Locksley Hall;

Here about the beach I wander'd, nourishing a youth sublime

With the fairy tales of science, and the long result of Time.

Love took up the glass of Time, and turn'd it in his glowing hands;

Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands.

Love took up the harp of life, and smote on all the chords with might;

Smote the chord of self, that, trembling, pass'd in music out of sight.

Many an evening by the waters did we watch the stately ships,

And our spirits rush'd together at the touching of the lips.

O my cousin, shallow hearted! O my Amy, mine no more, O the dreary, dreary moorland! O the barren, barren shore !

Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all songs have sung,

Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a shrewish tongue!

Is it well to wish thee happy? having known me-to decline On a range of lower feelings and a narrower heart than mine !

Yet it shall be: thou shall lower to his level day by day, What is fine within thee growing coarse to sympathise with clay.

As the husband is the wife is: thou art mated with a clown, And the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee down.

He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force,

Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse.

Cursed be the social wants that sin against the strength of youth!

Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the living truth!

Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest nature's rule.

Cursed be the gold that gilds the straightened forehead of the

THE LAY OF the Lovelorn,

Comrades, you may pass the rosy. With permission of the

chair

I shall leave you for a little, for I'd like to take the air. Whether 'twas the sauce at dinner, or that glass of ginger beer,

Or these strong cheroots, I know not, but I feel a little queer.

In my ears I hear the singing of a lot of favourite tunesBless my heart, how very odd! Why, surely there's a brace of moons!

See the stars! how bright they twinkle, winking with a frosty glare;

Like my faithless cousin Amy when she drove me to despair.

Oh, my cousin, spider hearted! Oh, my Amy! No, confound it!

I must wear the mournful willow,—all around my hat I've bound it.

Falser than the Bank of Fancy, frailer than a shilling glove, Puppet to a father's anger, minion to a nabob's love!

Is it well to wish thee happy? Having known me, could you ever?

Stoop to marry half a heart, and little more than half a liver?

Happy! Damme! Thou shalt lower to his level day by day,

Changing from the best of china to the commonest of clay.

As the husband is, the wife is,-he is stomach-plagued and old; And his curry soups will make thy cheek the colour of his gold.

When his feeble love is sated, he will hold thee surely then Something lower than his hookah,-something less than his cayenne.,

What is this? His eyes are pinky. Was't the claret? Oh,

no, no,

Bless your soul! it was the salmon,—salmon always makes him so.

Take him to thy dainty chamber-soothe him with thy lightest fancies;

He will understand thee, won't he?—pay thee with a lover's glances ?

Better thou wert dead before me-better, better, that I stood,

Looking on thy murdered body, like the injured Daniel Good!

Better thou and I were lying, cold and timber-stiff and dead,

With a pan of burning charcoal underneath our nuptial bed. Cursed be the Bank of England's notes, that tempt the soul to sin!

Cursed be the want of acres,-doubly cursed the want of

VAUXHALL.

Cabman, stop thy jaded knacker; cabman, draw thy slackened rein;

Take this sixpence- do not grumble, swear not at Sir Richard Mayne!

'Tis the place, and all around it, as of old the cadger's bawl

Sparkling rockets, squibs and crackers, whizzing over gay Vauxhall.

Gay Vauxhall! that in the summer all the youth of town attracts,

Glittering with its lamps and fireworks, and its flashing

cataracts.

Many a night in yonder gilded temple, ere I went to rest, Did I look on great Von Joel, mimicking the feathered nest ;

Many a night I saw Hernandez in a tinsel garb arrayed, With his odorif'rous ringlets tangled in a silver braid;

Here about the paths I wandered, chaffing, laughing all the time,

Laughing at the piebald clown, or listening to the minstrel's rhyme;

When beneath the business-counter linendraper's men reposed,

When in calm and peaceful slumber, sharp maternal eyes are closed;

When I dipt into the pewter pot that held the foaming stout,

When I quaffed the burning punch, or wildly sipped the "cold without."

In the spring a finer cambric's wrapped around the lordling's breast;

In the spring the gent at Redmayne's gets himself a Moses' "vest ;

In the spring we make investment in a white or lilac glove; In the spring my youthful fancy prompted me to fall in love.

Then she danced through all the ballet, as a fairy blithe and young,

Stood a tiptoe on a flow'ret, or from clouds of pasteboard swung

And I said, "Miss Julia Belmont, speak, and speak the truth to me,

Wilt thou from this fairy region with a heart congenial flee?"

On her lovely cheek and forehead came a blushing through her paint,

And she sank upon my bosom in the semblance of a faint;

Then she turned, her voice was broken (so, if I must tell the truth,

Was her English-all I pardoned in the generous warmth of youth),

Saying, "Pray excuse my feelings, nothing wrong, indeed, is meant,"

Saying, “Will you be my loveyer?" weeping, “you are

Love took up the glass before me, filled it foaming to the brim,

Love changed every comic ballad to a sweet euphonious hymn !

Many a morning in the railway did we run to Richmond, Kew,

And her hunger cleared my pockets oft of shillings not a few!

Many an evening down at Greenwich did we eat the pleasant "bait,"

Till I found my earnings going at a rather rapid rate.

Oh! Miss Belmont, fickle-hearted! Oh, Miss Belmont known too late,

Oh, that horrid, horrid Richmond, oh, the cursed, cursed "bait."

Falser far than Lola Montes, falser e'en than Alice Gray, Scorner of a faithful press-man, sharer of a tumbler's pay !—

Is it well to wish thee happy? having once loved me-to

wed

With a fool who gains his living by his heels, and not his head!

As the husband is, the wife is: thou art mated with a clown, And pursuing his profession, he will strive to drag thee down.

He will hold thee in the winter, when his fooleries begin, Something better than his wig, a little dearer than his gin.

What is this? his legs are bending! think'st thou he is weary, faint?

Go to him, it is thy duty; kiss him, how he tastes of paint ! Am I mad, that I should cherish memories of the bygone time?

Think of loving one whose husband fools it in a pantomime!

Never, though my mortal summers should be lengthened to the sum

Granted to the aged Parr, or more illustrious Widdicomb

Comfort !-talk to me of comfort! What is comfort here below?

Lies it in iced drinks in summer, aquascutum coats in snow?

Think not thou wilt know its meaning, wail of all his vows the proof,

Till the manager is sulky, and the rain pours through the roof.

See, his life he acts in dreams, while thou art staring in his face,

Listen to his hollow laughter, mark his effort at grimace!

Thou shalt hear "Hot Codlins" muttered in his visionhaunted sleep,

Thou shalt hear his feigned ecstatics, thou shalt hear his curses deep.

Let them fall on gay Vauxhall, that scene to me of deepest

woe,

But-the waiters are departing, and perhaps I'd better go!—

By EDMUND H. YATES,