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Precept and law they broke, Curate and rector spoke, Dealing the Church a stroke Shaken and sundered-

Then they divided, and

Lost the six hundred !

Clergy to right of chair,
Clergy to left of chair,
Clergy in front of chair,

Shouted and thundered!
Stamping, with groan and yell,
Past any power to quell,
They who had roared so well

Went blessed, and out of breath,

Back to their flocks to tell

All that was done by them-
Nice fourteen hundred !

When will the scandal fade
Of the wild row they made?
All the world wondered

Why such a noise was made

All by the Church BrigadeBlind fourteen hundred!

IV..

Balls to the right of me!
Balls to the left of me!
Balls, too, behind me!

Bounded and thundered!
Then came a sudden thwack,
Right on my poor old back,
Earthward I tumbled smack,
Knocked out was all my breath
With this untimely crack;
Whether my bones were smashed,
I lay and wondered.
Ne'er will the memory fade
Of the large bruise it made,
Not if six hundred
Years on this earth I stayed.
Why cricket's ever played,
Often I've wondered!

From Lays of Modern Oxford, 1874.

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Thirsty, with elbows bare,
Bowlers were bowling there;
Cricket-balls through the air
Whizzed past their heads the while.
Muchly I wondered

Why no one's head was broke,
For at each mighty stroke
Close past the legs or head
Of some unconscious bloke,

Fast the balls thundered;

Which, had they hit him, would

The following is a fair specimen of the Puff Poetical, taken from the Daily News of January, 1878:

CHARGE OF THE FAIR BRIGADE.

With the Junior Partner's Apologies to Mr. Tennyson. Half a league, half a league,

Half a league onward,

All on the underground line

Rode the six hundred.

Right cried the guard of the train;
Right! for the Sale, he said,
Into the Terminus then

Glide the six hundred.
Forward the bright brigade!
Was there a heart dismayed,
Not tho' it seemed too true
Someone had fainted.
Their's not to call a fly,
Aldgate, the station nigh;
Their's but to try and buy,
Into the premises

Came the six hundred. Counters to right of them, Counters to left of them, Counters in front of them,

Dighted and lumbered;

Greeted with chair and grace
Boldly they entered apace,
Into the matter fain,

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On the occasion of the Six Hundredth performance of this most successful comedy at the Vaudeville Theatre, the following verses were composed :

Keep the league! keep the league,

Keep our league onward!

We twain have run" a piece

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Though but a light brigade,
Not such great guns 'tis said.
Yet we a play have played

Nights full Six Hundred ! "Here's your piece," Byron said, "Take it friends, undismayed,"

So we did, for we knew

Seldom he's blundered!
Ours not to talk, but buy,
Ours but to act (or try!)
How fared the Comedy!
Into two years we've run,
Nights now Six Hundred.

Prophets to right of us,
Prophets to left of us,
Prophets in front of us,

Volleyed and thundered!
Wiseacre shot and shell.
"May, for a time, do well!"
Ne'er, in their jaws (so right !)
Ne'er in their mouths that night
Boded Six Hundred.

“Flashy! a thing of air !
Flashy! but very fair!"
So said these wonders there,
Stage-wise alarmists! while
All who of fun'd heard,
Crushed in the groaning pit.
Fought thro', fought bit by bit!
Coster and Nobleman
Laughed at the same old hit,
Laughed at, and wondered,
Thought of that night, but not
Dreamed of Six Hundred !

Dresses wore spite of us,
Scenes waned each night of us,
Stitches made light of us,
Severed and sundered;
Summers on "houses" tell,
Business," tho', never fell,
Everything turned out well,
So, we are playing still,
Playing each night with will,
All that is left of us

After Six Hundred !

When shall this fortune fade?
No increased charge we've made
(Herein we blundered !)
Thanks to all, true as steel!

Thanks to the Public, we'll
Double Six Hundred.

These stanzas, which bore the signature of Mr. Robert Reece, were circulated among the audience, but were not spoken from the stage.

The extraordinary run of Our Boys, which closed in April, 1879, will long excite the curiosity and wonder of the theatrical world. Mr. Byron's comedy was produced January 16, 1875, and was played continuously for four years three months and three days. This would allow about 1,321 nights, but extra day representations have raised the total number of performances to

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Into the Commons' House went the three hundred.

Forward the "Rad." Brigade! Who is a whit afraid?
What tho' the Tories say we have all blundered?
Theirs but to moan and cry-let Jemmy Lowther sigh, and
ask Sir Stafford "Why?"

Into the Commons' House went the three hundred.

Leaguers to right of them, Whiggites to left of them,
Tories in front of them, shouted and thundered.
Stormed at with hoot and yell, while weak-kneed Lib'rals
fell,

Into the lobby drear, into the House pell-mell, rushed the three hundred ;

Flashed all their tongues quite bare, each one his speech to air,

Crushing the Leaguers there, dishing the Tories while Salisbury wondered.

Plunged in the hot debate, those who the rules had brokeParnell and Dillon-reeled from brave Gladstone's stroke

shattered and sundered;

Then they went out, but not-not the three hundred.

Leaguers to right of them, Whigs on the left of them,

Tories behind them, stamped, roared, and thundered, Stormed at with hoot and yell, while many a weak one fell, They that had voted well came from the lobby back, baek to the House pell-mell

All that was left of the happy three hundred.

When will they e'er be paid? Oh, the grand vote they gave ! Salisbury wondered!

Honour the vote they gave! Long live the "Rad." Brigade! Gladstone's three hundred.

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Up the stairs, down the stairs,
Farther and farther yet;
Here we come out of breath,
Flustered and sundered.
Barriers to right of us,
Barriers to left of us,

Barriers in front of us!

Bad words we thundered.

Most doors are barred and locked,

All sense of safety shocked;
Why is our business blocked

By those who blundered?
Back to the charge we're led;
Corridors dark we tread;
Had we gone heels o'er head

Who could have wondered?
No friend to say "Beware!"
No warning, "Pray, take care!"
Each step another snare!

If one, there's five hundred.
Ours not to make reply;
Ours not to reason why;

Still we may raise the cry,
Some one has blundered!

Funny Folks, 1883.

THE LATEST CHARGE.

[At a meeting in Ireland recently, when Mr. Biggar got up to speak, six hundred ladies rose and quitted the room.] On their legs, on their legs, On their legs onward, All with face pale as death Rose the Six hundred.

How dare he show his head?
"Rush from the wretch !" they said.
Straight to the street beneath

Strode the Six Hundred.
Forward the fair brigade,
No woman there dismayed.
Not though each fair one knew
Biggar had blundered.
His not to reason why,
His not to make reply,
Best take his hat and fly,
When with rage out of breath
Rushed the Six Hundred.
Married to right of him,
Single to left of him,
Widows in front of him

Volleyed and thundered.
No storm of shot and shell
E'er silenced man so well.
Joe! ne'er his tale shall tell
When near an Irish belle-

Noble Six Hundred !

The Nineteenth Century, March 1878, contained a poem entitled

THE REVENGE.

A Ballad of the Fleet.

I.

At FLORES, in the Azores, Sir Richard Grenville lay, And a pinnace, like a flutter'd bird, came flying from far away:

"Spanish ships of war at sea! we have sighted fifty-three!" Then sware Lord Thomas Howard; "Fore God I am no coward;

But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of gear, And the half my men are sick. I must fly, but follow quick. We are six ships of the line; can we fight with fifty-three?'

The rugged metre, and the exaggerated national sentiment of this ballad were thus amusingly parodied :

RETRIBUTION-A XIXTH CENTURY BALLAD OF THE SLOE.

By the Author of " Vengeance, a Ballad of the Fleet." AT his chambers in the Albany Sir Richard Tankard lay, And a missive, like brown buttered toast, was brought him on a tray;

"Come, drink my Spanish wine-fifty dozen, all is thine, And bring your friends with you, we'll drink till all is blue."

Then sware Lord Thomas Drunker: "By jingo, I'm no funker ;

But I cannot go, I fear, for my liver's out of gear,

And my head feels like to burst, and I only slake my thirst With Apollinaris water, for I dare not touch port wine."

Then spake Sir Richard Tankard, "I know you are no funker,

And fly wine for a moment to return to it again,

But my liver and my brain are free from ache and pain.
I should count myself the funker if I left them, my Lord
Drunker,

Unsatisfied, and craving for the purple wine of Spain."
He called his friends together to go with him and dine.
He told them of the telegram that told him of the wine.

"We will go for we are dry;
Good Sir Richard, we are thine,
And the vintage we will try.

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If good there will be little left ere morrow's sun be set!
And Sir Richard said again, "We be all good Englishmen ;
Let us empty all the bottles down our sturdy British throttles,
For I never turned my back upon glass or bottle yet."

Sir Richard spoke and he laugh'd, and we roared a hurrah, and so,

Like true-born sturdy Englishmen, we all of us would go. And found the wine all laid along the floor in many a row, And half was laid on the right-hand side, and half on the left was seen,

And the table, like the white sea foam, ran down the room between.

The dim eyes of the waiters winked with an inward laugh; They seemed to mock the notion that we the wine would

But as the night was waning they watched the rows grow small,

And whispered to each other, "I bet they'll drink it all!" For the wine was flowing swiftly down, as a cataract might be When it leaps from a mountain to the sea!

And the moon went down and the stars came out o'er the smoky London town;

And never a moment ceased the flow of the purple liquor down!

Glass after glass, the whole night long, the mighty magnums went,

And bottle after bottle was away from the table sent.

"Dead men," as in a battle field, lay strewn upon the floor, But still there was no cry of "Hold !" but constant shouts for "more!"

For he said, "Drink on, drink on!"
Though he scarce could lift his hand.

And it chanced when more than half of the summer night was gone

That he rose up on his feet and tried to stand,
But he sunk into his chair, and lay back grinning there,
And close up to his side we stept,
Then the rule in such a case-we cork'd him on the face,
And he fell upon the floor, and he slept.

So pass'd we all, and when we woke each knew of a heavy head,

For not a soul of all of us had found the way to bed!
And a tempest of indignation swept over our surging brains,
That we could be floored by vintage, ay, ev'n of a hundred
Spains!

"It never was PORT"! we cried, and so we tasted it once again-'twas SLOE!

Vile SLOE, with all our might, we had drunk for half the night!

And brave Sir Richard Tankard said, "Boys, although we drank hard,

'TIS SLOE-JUICE, and not Spanish wine, is giving us such pains!"

Then in a sink, that day, we poured the rest away,

To be lost evermore in the drains.

On the 15th March, 1882, at one of the London Ballad Concerts, Mr. Santley sang, for the first time, a patriotic song, written by Alfred Tennyson, the music composed by Mr. C. V. Stanford. This song was announced with much ceremony as a new work, whereas it was simply an abbreviated, and somewhat modified, arrangement of a poem in five verses, entitled Hands all Round, which had appeared in the Examiner in 1852, over the signature Merlin. The song did not arouse any enthusiasm, and is now only memorable for the offence its chorus gave to the temperance party. The first verse is quoted to illustrate the parodies:

"First pledge our Queen, my friends, and then
A health to England, every guest;
He best will serve the race of men

Who loves his native country best !
May freedom's oak for ever last,
With larger life from day to day;
IIe loves the present and the past

Hands all round! God the traitor's hope confound! To the great cause of Freedom, drink my friends, And the great name of England round and round.

On this poem getting into the papers, the Good Templars attached far too much importance to it, and wrote to remonstrate with the Poet Laureate. The following reply was sent to Mr. Malins, the Chief Templar:

"86, Eaton-square, London,-Sir,-My father begs to thank the Committee of the Executive of the Grand Lodge of England Good Templars for their resolution. No one honours more highly the good work done by them than my father. I must, however, ask you to remember that the common cup has in all ages been employed as a sacred symbol of unity, and that my father has only used the word drink'in reference to this symbol. I much regret that it should have been otherwise understood.-Faithfully yours, HALLAM TENNYSON."

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To all our Statesmen, so they be
Forwarders of our League's desire,

To both our Houses, if with glee

They'll quench, in water, Freedom's fire, What odds though Freedom's flag should sink,

Shall Britons bondsmen be to Drink

Through fear of being Slopdom's slaves?
Slops all round!

Heaven the Wittlers' hopes confound!

To the great cause Teetotal swig, my friends, And the great name of LAWSON round and round!

DRINKS ALL ROUND.

(Being an attempt to arrange Mr. Tennyson's noble words for truly Patriotic, Protectionist, and Anti-Aboriginal Circles) :

A health to Jingo first, and then

A health to shell, a health to shot!
The man who hates not other men
I deem no perfect patriot!
To all who hold all England mad

We drink; to all who'd tax her food!
We pledge the man who hates the Rad!

We drink to Bartle Frere and Froude !
Drinks all round! Here's to Jingo, King and crownel!
To the great cause of Jingo drink, my boys,
And the great name of Jingo round and round!

To all the Companies that long

To rob as folk robbed years ago;
To all that wield the double thong,
From Queensland round to Borneo !
To all,that, under Indian skies,

Call Aryan man “a blasted nigger;"
To all rapacious enterprise;

To rigour everywhere, and vigour !-
Drinks all round! Here's to Jingo, King and crowned!
To the great name of Jingo drink, my boys,
And every filibuster round and round!

To all our statesmen, while they see
An outlet new for British trade,
Where British fabrics still may be
With British size all overweighed !
Wherever gin and guns are sold

We've scooped the artless nigger in ;
Where men give ivory and gold,

We give them measles, tracts, and gin!
Drinks all round! Here's to Jingo, King and crowned !
To the great name of Jingo drink, my boys,
And to Adulteration, round and round.

From The Daily News, March 17, 1882.

THE LAUREATE'S LAST LYRIC; OR, NORTHAMPTON'
FREEMEN.

Come! pledge Northampton, friends, and then
A health to Freemen's every guest;

He best will serve the race of men
Who loves his country's freedom best!
May Freedom's reign for ever last,
With wider bounds from day to day;
He loves the present, not the past,

Who breaks the tyrant's chain away!

CHORUS-Hands all round! All despotic laws confound! Northampton's Freemen, cheer, my friends,

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