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And the throng is quickly scattered ;

Yet was very full the chamber-
Full of Lords, and full of strangers,
All come down, and feeling curious
How the Earl and eke the Marquis
Would get on when brought together ;
Some there were who thought the Marquis
Would upon the Earl his back turn;
Some who thought the Earl would curl his
Upper lip, and snub the Marquis ;
Others that the Marquis, smarting
With the knowledge that he'd been offered
Coolly on the Eastern altar,
That he had been made a victim ;
Had been sent to wreck his prestige,

Mongst the diplomatic breakers,
Would dig up the buried hatchet
From the Quarterly's shut pages,
Would dash down the friendly peace-pipe,
And his tomahawk turn wildly
On his former foe, Ben Dizzy ;
But it did not come to pass so,
For on Thursday all was quiet,
And the Salisburian lion
Lay down with the Dizzian lambkin.
And the Marquis keeps his vengeance
For a more convenient season,
If, indeed, he has not hopes still
Of a dukedom for his failure.

After this they talked for four hours,
But the talk meant simply nothing !

As the “ brave" re-seeks his wigwam,
Lest deserted in the autumn,
When the early spring-tide tempts him
To return and hunt the bison-
To return and trap the beaver-
To return and scalp the “pale-face "-
To return, in short, and do for
Many beasts and birds and fishes;
So unto their long-lest places,
To their worn and padded 'places,
Where they sought for reputation-
Where they strove for loaves and fishes-
Where they hounded down the helpless-
Where they vexed those in office-
Where they howled and snored and hooted -
Where they quite wore out the Speaker,
Harried Adderley and Holker,
Tried in vain to draw Ben Dizzy,
And gave forth such endless rubbish-
Came the M.P.'s for the Session.
Came in state, too, Mr. Speaker
With the mace and with his chaplain ;-
Gold the mace, and Byng his chaplain ;
Whereupon did Captain Gossett,
In his normal tights and ruffles,
“ Tile” the door till prayers were over.
Thus all present fell to praying,
Let us hope they prayed in earnest,
For delivery from envy,
Spite and malice and Kenealy.
Prayed for sense (God knows most want it),
p'rayed for very frequent count-outs,
Ind for early dissolution.

(Left Praying: Now the mace is on the table i 'rom his oaken throne the Speaker, in his hand the Queen's speech holding,

Tries to read it, but half through it,
Something ails him, and he saliers.
May we not trace his emotion
To the thought of what's before him ?
How can he fail to remember
That the bores have re-assembled.
Stronger both in lung and purpose,
That when they left town last August.
And he knows he can't escape them,
That his eye perforce will caught be
By the Lewises and Lawsons,
By the Biggars and the Whalleys,
By the Newdegates and Parnells,
This is why his voice completely
Fails him and prevents his reading,
This is why his accents die out,
Like the last song of Pu-kee-wis,
Of the dying swan, Pu-kee-wis;
This is why they have to bring him
or the water from his cistern
(Let us hope it first was filtered),
Which he drinks, and so recovers ;
Drinks, and so concludes his reading.

Then, since there is no amendment,
One would think that when the mover
And the seconder had spoken
That the House would straightway scatter ;
Little do they know, who think so,
Of the ways of Mr. Gladstone !
Little do they understand him,
If they think he can keep silence
When the Eastern question's talked of!
Could they fancy Whalley speechless,
With the Jesuits on the tapis ?
Could they picture Doctor “Dewdrops”
Dumb upon the Magna Charta ?
Or the Common Serjeant henceforth
Dropping his deceased wife's sister ?
Could they e'en think Holker clever ?
Couple modesty and Jenkins ?
Take from Lewis his white waistcoats,
Or from Plimsoll his last hobby?
Could they do all this ? it's doubtful,
Even then, if Mr. Gladstone
Could be really kept from speaking.
When the Eastern question's mentioned,
He is always running over
With a tide of verbal sulness;
At a moment's notice ready
To break through his lips or flow out
In a pamphlet from his study,
Just as when the cat, Me-aw-nee,
Sees a mouse she pounces on it ;
As the bussalo. Shu-shu-kah,
At the sight of crimson's maddened ;
As the sturgeon, Minhe-nah-ma,
Meets a mackerel, but to bolt it,
As the 'possum, Pau-ku-kee-wis,
When it finds a gum-tree, climbs it,
So does this M.P. for Greenwich
Seize upon the Eastern question,
Be it in, or out of, season,
Be it apropos or useless,
Be it positively dangerous
To allude to it in public;
So on Thursday seized he on it,
Even though he knew the time was
Not yet come to talk upon it,
Poured his stream of words upon it,
Swamped it with his fluent diction ;

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And when he had talked a column,
Was informed by Gathorne Hardy,
That the questions he'd propounded
Would be answered in the blue-books;

That the information asked for
Would be printed in the blue-books ;
That, in short, his speech was useless-
l'erba et praterea nihil.
Whereupon the Speaker vanished,
And the blouse broke up its sitting.

Truth, February 15, 1877.

The SONG OF PAHTAHQUAHONG. “The Rev. Henry PAHTAHQUAHONG CHASE, hereditary Chief of the Ojibway tribe, President of the Grand Council of Indians, and missionary of the Colonial and Continental Church Society at Muncey Town, Ontario, Canada, has just arrived in England, on a short visit." - The Standari.

STRAIGHT across the Big-Sea-Water,
From the Portals of the Sunset,
From the prairies of the Red Men,
Where Suggema, the mosquito,
Makes the aggravated hunter
Scratch himself with awful language ;
From the land of Hiawatha,
Land of wigwams, and of wampum,
Land of tomahawks and scalping,
(See the works of J. F. COOPER),
Comes the mighty PAHTAHQUAHONG,
Comes the Chief of the Obijways.

Wot ye well, we'll give him welcome,
After manner of the Pale Face,
Show him all the old world's wonders,
Griffins in the public highways,
Gormandising corporations,
And the Market of Mud-Salad.
Show him, too, the dingy Palace,
And the House of Talkee-Talkee ;
Where the Jossakeeds--the prophets-
And the Chieftains raise their voices.
Like Iagoo the great boaster,
With immeasurable gabble,
Talking much and doing little,
Till one wishes they could vanish
To the kingdom of Ponemah-
To the Land of the Hereafter !

We will show him all the glories
Orthis land of shams and swindles,
Land of much adulteration,
Dusting tea and sanding sugar,
And of goods not up to sample ;
Till the Chief of the Obijways,
l'resident of Indian Council,
Missionary swell, and so forth,
Cries, “Oh, let me leave this England,
Land of Bumbledom and Beadles,
Of a thousand Boards and Vestries;
Le me cross the Big-Sea-Water,
With Keewaydin - with the Home Wind, .
And go back to the Ojibways !"

Punch, March 12, 1881.

burgh. It is entitled "Rejected Tercentenary Songs, with the comments of the Committee appended.” Edited by Rolus Ray.

It will be remembered that the Edinburgh University has just been celebrating its Tercentenary, and the contents of this amusing little sixpenny pamphlet consist of the Poems supposed to have been serit in, by matriculated students of the University, in competition for a prize of Ten Guineas, offered by the Tercen. tenary Committee for the best song in honour of the occasion.

It contains numerous Latin and Macaronic verses, a long parody of Walt Whitman, one of Gilbert, and two of Longfellow, which I venture to quote. The first is incomplete :-

“I stood in the quad at midnight,
As the bells were tolling the hour ;
And the moon shone o'er the city,
Behind the Tron Kirk tower.”
“ Among the black stone gables
The ghostly shadows lay ;
And the moonbeams from the rising moon,
Falling, made them creep away.”
“ With weary brain and mind opprest,

I stood in the quad and pondered - " Here it breaks off abruptly; the otlier is a very fair parody of the Song of Hiawatha, although, of course, some of the allusions are only of local interest. The poem is entitled


By Alfred Longiove.
Should you ask of what I'm writing,
With the scented smoke of segars
Curling around my weary head,
With the odours of the class-rooms,
And its wild reverberations
Of the many interruptions
Ofits bands of many students,
Rankling in my ears and nostrils ?
Why my head I scratch so often ?
Why I ask my muse to aid me
With her bright poetic fire ?
Why I burn the gas at midnight?
Why I have so many books-
Poetry books on prosy subjects,
Books of songs by Burns and Moore,
Ponderous books for words referring,
Webster's Unabridged and Walker's
Poet's Rhyming Dictionary-
Strewerl around me on the table ?
I should answer, I should tell you,
"'Tis because I am composing
A natal song to Alma Mater."
'Tis thy year, 0 Alma Mater,
Of thy great Tercentenary.
Time, thy years three hundred measures
With his glass ; the mighty Hour-glass
Marks thy seconds, passing quickly,
With grains of sand for e'er falling

A jeu d'esprit somewhat in the nature of The Rejected Adaresses has recently been published by Mr. George Dryden, of Lothian Street, Edin

Hail to thee, the great Drug Speaker !
Hail to thee, her Story-teller !
Hail to thee, the great Dissector !
Hail to thee, O Damsonjamer !
Hail to thee, her Organ Grinder !
Hail to thee, thou Fossilfeller!
Hail to thee, O Afterglower !
Hail to thee, the Celtic Chairer !
Hail to thee, O Wandering Jew !
Hail to thee, the Magna Charta !
Hail to thee, O great Kirkpaddy!
Hail to thee, Cephalic Mewer !
Hail to thee, no Small Pertater !
Hail to thee, the great Schoolboarder!
Hail to thee, her Comet-gazer !
Hail to thee, the Soda-fountain !
Hail to thee, thou Cubic Crystal !
Hail to thee, O Science Gossip !
Hail to thee, the Engine-Driver !
Hail to thee, thou great Darwiner !
Hail to thee, the Eye-restorer !
Hail to thee, () great Lunatic !
Hail to thee, her long Gatekeeper!
Hail to ye, her famous Children !
Hail to ye, O Students' Council !
Hail to ye, her many Students !
Hail to me, her Song Composer !
Hail to ye, all her Children, Friends,
And Near Relations, on that day!
All hail to our Alma Mater
On her natal morn be given !!! *

Through its glassy neck so slender, Let us sing to her, O students, A pæan song of natal greetings, Let us spread our lanquet-tables In the hails of Edina's town. Let us drain to her good welfare Many bottles filled with good wine From the vineyard of the Loire, From the Spanish town of Xeres, From the town of great Oporto, From the country of the Deutchers, From the flow'ry land of Champagne; Let us drain the pewter tankards, Filled with Bass's bittery beer And with Dublin's triple X stout; Let us drain our glassy goblets, Filled with the wine of Gooseberry, Filled with clarets made in London, And with other imitations ; Let us brew the Festive Toddy From the whisky, great Tangleseet, On that morn- her natal morning! Sons and daughters of old Scotland, Land of Oatcakes and of Whisky, Don your costumes made for Sunday ; O ye students of Edina, Put your "go-to-meetings ” on you ; O ye Dons, that festal morning, Don ye your gowns and mortar boards ; Let the Billirubin warble One of his impromptu ditties, Physiologic songs of praiseSing the praise of Alma Mater ; Let the great, her mighty surgeon, Throw his dazzling, lustrous sheen or his intellect most massive, In a speech of his own making, Stock full of jokes and anecdotesSpeak the praise of Alma Mater ; Let them all, her swell Professors, Puff her up above the skies. From the Gardens to the Meadows, From the Loch-great DudaingstonTo the station of Haymarket, From the Place of the Lunatics To the town of PortobelloWhere the many donkey-riders Ride along its dirty sands ; Where the fellows go on Sunday For a walk, and drink the Ozone Wafted round promiscuously ; Where they go to meet their damsels, And walk with thein along the strandFrom Merchiston to Warriston, Let merry songs of praises ring On that day, her happy birthday. Now join with me, ye students all, Wish her now, your Alma Mater, Greatest wealth and prosperity. Hail to thee, O) Alma Mater, School above schools upon this earth ! Hail to thee, thou great Alchemist ! Hail to thee, O Verdant Pasture ! Hail to thee, O Parenchyma ! Hail to thee, thou Grecian Pet ! Hail to thee, the great Kail Runter ! Hail to thee, O Billirubin ! Hail to thee, O Wells of Water ! Hail to thee, the Kitchen Surgeon ! Hail to thee, thou Man of Physic! Hail to thee, thou Just Lawgiver !

The author of The Dagonet Ballads has produced so many pathetic poems, descriptive of the terrible miseries of our London poor, that one is rather apt to overlook the humorous poetry proceeding from the same pen. But, like all true masters of pathos, this poet of the people has the power to summon up smiles through our tears. It was well said of Tom Hood “that the blending of the grave with the gay which pervaded his writings, makes it no easy task to class his poems under the heads of serious' and “comic.'” This remark applies with equal force to the poems of George R. Sims, and were it possible to anticipate the verdict of posterity we might expect to find the names of Hood and Sims classed together; indeed, so far as practical results are concerned, the philan. thropical efforts of the younger poet are likely far to exceed anything that was achieved by the author of The Bridge of Sighs and The Song of the Shirt.

But this is not the place to consider Mr. Siris' position as a serious writer, although, indeed, even the following poem has a moral :

(An Episode of a rapid Thaw.)
The dirty snow was thawing fast,

As through the London streets there passed

A youth, who, mid snow, slush, and ice,
Exclaimed, “I don't care what's the price--

A Plumber !”.
* We shall not publish the vocabulary with this song. -Ed.

O blood-bitten lip all aflame,
O Dolores and also Faustine,
O aunts of the world worried shame,
Lo your hair with its amorous sheen,
Meshes man in its tangles of gold;
( aunts of the tremulous thrill,
We are pining---we long to enfold
The Deceased Wife's Fair Relative Bill.


His brow looked mad, his eye beneath

Was fixed and fierce-he clenched his teeth,
While here and there a bell he rung,
But found not all the shops among

A Plumber.
He saw his home, he saw the light

Wall-paper sopped- a gruesome sight.

He saw his dining-room afloat,
He cried, “I'll give a fi' pun note --

A Plumber !"
“O stop the leak !" his wife had said ;

“ The ceiling's cracking overhead.

The roaring torrent's deep and wide”“I'll go and fetch," he had replied,

"A Plumber." “ Pa ain't at home," the maiden said,

When to the plumber's house he sped.

He searched through London low and high,
But nowhere could he catch or spy

A Plumber.
Next morn, a Peeler on his round,

A mud-bespattered trav'ller found,

Who grasped the “Guide to Camden Town”
With hand of ice-the page turned down

At “Plumbers.”
They brought a parson to his side,

He gently murmured ere he died

“My house has floated out to sea, I am not mad-it's not d. t.

It's Plumbers.” This parody is to Be found in a small volume entitled The Lifeboat and other Poems, by George R. Sims (John P. Fuller, Wine Office Court, London, 1883).

By the author's kind permission. I am also enabled to quote the very funny, although slightly incoherent, remarks of


Although the above lines were written several years ago, they may be appropriately quoted now that the House of Commons has once again carried, and by a large majority, a resolution in favour of the repeal of the law prohibiting marriage with a deceased wife's sister.

(In a division in the House of Commons on May 6, 1884, Mr. Broadhurst's motion was carried by 238 to 127, or a majority of u in favour of the repeal.)

It comes as a boon and a blessing to men
When your missus as was disappears from your ken.

When from the wise you get a parting benison,
Her sister will console yo:-

ALFRED TENNYSON. When weary, worn, and nigh distraught with grief, You mourn Maria in your handkerchief, Rush, rush to Aunty, and obtain relief.

AN F.S.A. OF OVER 100 YEARS. Beneath the spreading chestnut tree

The village smithy stands-
With Mrs. Smith it's all UP,

She's gone to other lands.
But he goes on Sunday to the church,

And hears her sister's voice ;
lle leaves his scruples in the lurch,

And she makes his heart rejoice.
The morning sees his suit commenced,

The evening sees it done-
Next day the Parson ties the knot,
And Pa and Aunt are one.


The dinner hour had come at last,
The evening sun was sinking fast ;
I sat me down in sorry mood,
And darkly look'd upon the food.

Dyspepsia !
My happy comrades' bright eyes beam'd,
And o'er the steaming potage gleam'd ;
Alas! not mine to find relief
In whitebait's flavour bright and brief.

“ Try not the duck," my conscience said ;
'Twill lie upon your chest like lead ;
Delusion all, that bird so fair ;
The sage and onions are a snare.

Dyspepsia !
“ Oh, taste !" our hostess cried, and press'd
A portion of a chicken's breast;
I view'd the fowl with longing eye,
Then answer'd sadly, with a sigh,

Dyspepsia !
I mark'd with fix'd and stony glare
A brace of pheasants and a hare ;
A tear stood in my bilious eye,
When helping friends to pigeon-pie.

Dyspepsia !
“Beware the celery, if you please ;
Beware the awful Stilton cheese."
This was the doctor's last good-night;
I answered feebly, turning white,

“Dyspepsia !"
The scarcely-tasted dinner done,
Old Port and walnuts next came on ;
I kept my mouth all closely shut ;
But how I long’d for just one nut !

Dyspepsia !
Some nuts I had, at early day,
(Morn was just breaking cold and grey),
I, starting up, with loud ha! ha!
Felt falling, like a falling star.

Dyspepsia !
The Mocking Bird, by Frederick Field (John Van Voorst,
London, 1868.)


(By a young lady aged fourteen).
The shades of night were falling fast,
As through a lonely village passed
A youth, who rode 'mid snow and ice
A two-wheeled thing of strange device-

A Bicycle.
His brow was sad, his eye below
Flashed like his bicycle's steel glow,
While like a silver clarion rung
A bell, which on the handle hung-

Of the Bicycle.
In cosy sheds he saw the light
Of bicycles well cleaned and bright ;
Along the road deep ruts had grown,
And from his lips escaped a moan-

“My Bicycle !!!
“ Try not that road," the old man said,
“'Tis full of holes, you'll break your head ;
The farm pond, too, is deep and wide ;'
But loud the bicyclist replied,

“Rot! Bicycle !"
“ Beware the oak-tree's withered arm,
Beware the holes, they'll do you harm !"
This was the peasant's last good-night;
A voice replied, “Don't fear, all right-

Vive Bicycles !"
At break of day, as in a brook
A passenger did chance to look,
He started back, what saw he there?
His voice cried through the startled air,

“A Bicycle !"
A bicyclist, upon the ground,
Half buried in the dirt, was found
Still hugging, in his arms of ice,
That two-wheeled thing of strange device,

The Bicycle.
There in the twilight cold and grey,
Helpless, but struggling, he lay,
While, now no longer bright and fair,
Ilis bicycle lay broken there-

Poor Bicycle ! WVhiss ; the Christmas number of The Bicycling Times, 1880.

“Oh take care,” cried an old man, “stop;
It's blowing gales up there on top ;
You'll be blown right off the other side,”
But the humorous stranger still replied,

“ Upidee, Upida."
“ Beware the branch of the sycamore tree,
And rolling stones, if any you see ;"
Just then the farmer went to bed,
And a singular voice replied overhead,

“ Upidee, Upida.”
“Oh, stay!” the maiden said, “and rest,
Your weary head upon this breast."
On his Roman nose a tear-drop come,
As he ever kep' a shoutin' as he upward clum,

Upidee, Upida !”
About a quarter to six in the next forenoon
A man accidentally going up too soon
Heard repeated above him, as much as twice,
Those very same words, in a very weak voice,

“Upidee, Upida.” The very same man about a quarter to seven (He was slow a-gettin' up, the road being uneven), Found buried up there, among the snow and ice, That youth with the banner with the strange device,

Upidee, Upida.”
He was dead, defunct, beyond any doubt,
The lamp of his life was quite gone out,
On the dreary hill-side the youth was a layin',
There was no more use for him to be sayin',

“Upidee, Úpida !"

The shades of night were falling fast,
As through the streets of London passed
A party with a packet nice,
On which was seen the strange device --

“ Hli, stay !" the Bobby cried, “ you man."
Says he, “ You'll catch me if you can.”
Three rapid strides, and he was gone ;
From Bobby's lips escaped a groan-

At break of day, as in a fright,
The Bobbies came from left and right,
Each murmured, starting in a scare ;
A crash resounded through the air-

There in the twilight cold and grey-
In ruins stately buildings lay,
And o'er the land the news is spread :
“ Another Fenian escapade!"

Exilium. Scraps, 14 May, 1884.

THE SETTLER'S VERSION OF Excelsior. The shades of night were a coming down swift,

Upidee, Upida. The snow was heapin' up, drift on drift,

Upide:, Upida.
Through a Yankee village a youth did go,
Carrying a flag with this motto-

"Upidee, Upida.”
On his high forehead curled copious hair,
He'd a Roman nose, and complexion fair,
A bright blue eye, with an auburn lash,
And he ever kep' a shoutin' thro' his moustache,

Upidee, Upida !
About half-past nine, as he kep’gettin' upper
He saw a lot of families a sitting down to supper ;
He eyed those slippery rocks, he eyed 'em very keen
And he fled as he cried, and he cried as he was fleein'-

“Upidee, Upida.”

Use not the coke, the old man said,
The stove must be by small coal sed.
The heap of slack is deep and wide,
But still their saucy voices cried,

Don't bother us!
Printer's Devil, Northampton, 1984.

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