The following beautiful lines, which occur in The Princess, have been the subject of many parodies :

Home they brought her warrior dead;

She nor swoon'd nor utter'd cry:

All her maidens, watching, said,

"She must weep or she will die."
Then they praised him soft and low,
Call'd him worthy to be loved,
Truest friend and noblest foe;

Yet she neither spoke nor moved.

Stole a maiden from her place,

Lightly to the warrior stept,
Took the face cloth from the face;
Yet she neither moved nor wept.

Rose a nurse of ninety years,

Set his child upon her knee-
Like summer tempest came her tears--
"Sweet my child, I live for thee."

An excellent parody, by Shirley Brooks, appeared in Punch, December 30, 1865.

HOME THEY BROUGHT.

(With abject apologies to Mr. Tennyson, Miss Dance, and Miss Dolby).

HOME they brought her lap-dog dead,
Just run over by a fly,

JEAMES to Buttons, winking, said,
"Won't there be a row, O my!"

Then they called the flyman low,

Said his baseness could be proved: How she to the Beak should goYet she neither spoke nor moved. Said her maid (and risked her place), "In the 'ouse it should have kept, Flymen drives at such a pace "— Still the lady's anger slept.

Rose her husband, best of dears,

Laid a bracelet on her knee.

Like playful child she boxed his ears

"Sweet old pet !-let's have some tea."

And the following by Mr. Sawyer is also worthy of preservation :

THE RECOGNITION.

Home they brought her sailor son,
Grown a man across the sea,
Tall and broad and black of beard,
And boarse of voice as man may be.

Hand to shake and mouth to kiss,
Both be offered ere he spoke;
But she said-"What man is this

The 1842 volume of Tennyson's works contained a short poem in four verses entitled

A FAREWELL.

Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea, Thy tribute wave deliver:

No more by thee my steps shall be, For ever and for ever.

*

A thousand suns will stream on thee, A thousand moons will quiver; But not by thee my steps shall be, For ever and for ever.

The following parody is taken from Odd Echoes from Oxford, 1872.

A FAREWEll.

After sleeping in the Argyle Hotel, Dunoon.

Bite on, thou pertinacious flea,

And draw the tiny river;

No more for thee my blood shall be,
For ever and for ever.

Bite, fiercely bite, and take with glee
From each unwilling giver ;
No food for thee my blood shall be,
For ever and for ever.

And here will toss some wretched he,
And here he'll tear and shiver;
Bed-making she will hunt the flea
For ever and for ever.

A thousand limbs may smart for thee,
A thousand skins may quiver;
But not for thee my blood shall be,
For ever and for ever.

A still closer imitation of the versification of the original is contained in The Shotover Papers, published in Oxford in 1874

Rise up, cold reverend, to a see,
Confound the unbeliever!

Yet ne'er 'neath thee my seat will be
For ever and for ever.

Preach, softly preach, in lawn and be
A comely model liver,

But ne'er 'neath thee my seat shall be
For ever and for ever.

And here shall sleep thine alderman,
And here thy pauper shiver,
And here by thee shall buzz the "she,"
For ever and for ever.

A thousand men shall sneer at thee,
A thousand women quiver,

But ne'er 'neath thee my seat shall be

ODE TO ALDGATE PUMP.

Flow down, false rivulet, to the sea
Thy sewage wave deliver;
No longer will I quaff from thee
For ever and for ever.

The dust of citizens of yore, Who dwelt beside the river, And leakages of sewers pour Into thy stream for ever.

A thousand hands may pump from thee, A thousand pails deliver

Their sparkling draughts, but not to me For ever and for ever.

Oh, let them lock thy nozzle up, And drain thee to the river; Nor any mortal fill his cup Again from thee for ever.

From Funny Folks.

THE UNDERGRAD.

His fists across his breast he laid,
He was more mad than words can say ;
Bareheaded rushed the undergrad
To mingle in November's fray.
In cap and gown a don stepped down
To meet and greet him on his way;
"It is no wonder," said his friends,

"He has been drinking half the day."

All black and blue, like cloud and skies,
Next day that proctor's face was seen;
Bruised were his eyebrows, bruised his eyes,
Bruised was his nose and pummelled mien.
So dire a case, such black disgrace,
Since Oxford was had never been;
That undergrad took change of air
At the suggestion of the dean.

This is taken from Odd Echoes from Oxford, 1872, and is a parody on The Beggar Maid and King Cophetua, which was also in the 1842 collection.

In a little volume by C. S. Calverley entitled "Fly Leaves," (George Bell & Sons, 1878) there are several clever parodies, and one, entitled Wanderers, is an especially happy imitation of the style of Tennyson's Brook :

THE TINKER.

I turn'd me to the tinker, who
Was loafing down a by-way:

I asked him where he lived--a stare
Was all I got in answer,

As on he trudged: I rightly judged

THE RINKER

By Alfred TenRY SIG,

I start from home in happy mood,
Arrayed in dress so pretty,
And sparkle out among the men,
Who come up from the City.

But first I linger by the brink,
And calmly recompoître,

For when I'm fairly on the rink,
I never care to loiter.

Then "follow me," I loudly call,

At skating I'm so clever,

For men may come, and men may fall,
But I rink on for ever.

I chatter with my little band
Of friends so gay and hearty.

And sometimes we go hand in hand,
And sometimes in a party.

I slip, I slide, I glance, I glide,
There is no one can teach me,
I give them all a berth fall wide,
And not a soul can reach me.

And after me I draw them

I now come to a clever and most amusing little work entitled Puck en Frana by H. Chas mondeley-Pennell, which was published about sixteen years ago by the late Mr. John Camion Hotten. In the original edition this work was a small quarto, with numerous illustrations & në a characteristic frontispiece designed and etched by dear old George Cruikshank it lassine DA through numerous editions, and is now included in the series known as The Magis de. published by Chatto and Windes It opens the following parodies:-"Song of lacha Water, after Lager: The Da Ch Controversy," after The 51 Car Sa "The Fight for the Championship" after Tom Macamay; How the Daughters come down at Dunoon," after Robert Shutter ; “ Was ever wId' after Tom Moore; Exexolor:"ater ImtTLUN S Excelsior; "Charge of the Light, Irish Brigade" after Tennyson.

The incidents referred to in the last-mentioned parody have now somewhat faded from the public memory. It is suficient to say that the warlike behaviour of the one brigade was que as great a contrast to the action of the other, as the parody here given presents to the original poem :

CHARGE OF THE LIGHT (ASH' BRIGADE
(Not by A—d 7——

Southward Ho-Here we go!
O'er the wave onward
Out from the Harbour of Cork
Salled the Six Hundred :
Salled like Crusaders thenCR.
Burning for Peter's peace-
Barning for fight and fame-
Barning to show their real-

It would be difficult to find a better example both of the merits, and, so far as mere parody is concerned, of the defects of Mr. Cholmondeley Pennell's style than in the following lines, which he has kindly permitted me to insert in this collection. They parody the Morte D'Arthur:

LINES SENT TO THE LATE CHARLES BUXTON, M.P., WITH MY FAVOURITE HUNTER, WHITE-MIST.

The sequel of to-day dissevers all

This fellowship of straight riders, and hard men To hounds-the flyers of the hunt.

I think

That we shall never more in days to come
Hold cheery talk of hounds and horses (each
Praising his own the most) shall steal away
Through brake and coppice-wood, or side by side
Breast the sharp bullfinch and deep-holding dyke,
Sweep through the uplands, skim the vale below,
And leave the land behind us like a dream.

I tear me from this passion that I loved-
Though Paget sware that I should ride again-
But yet I think I shall not; I have done :
My hunt is hunted: I have skimmed the cream,
The blossom of the seasons, and no more
For me shall gallant Scott have cause for wrath,
Or injured farmer mourn his wasted crops.

Now, therefore, take my horse, which was my pride
(For still thou know'st he bore me like a man—),
And wheel him not, nor plunge him in the mere,
But set him straight and give his head the rein,
And he shall bear thee lightly to the front,
Swifter than wind, and stout as truest steel,
And none shall rob thee of thy pride of place.

IN THE SCHOOLS AT OXFORD.

TO AN EXAMINER.

(Suggested by the Laureate's conundrum "In the Garden at Swaintson.")

Butcher boys shouted without,
Within was writing for thee,
Shadows of three live men

Talked as they walked into me.

Shadows of three live men, and you were one of the three.

Butcher boys sang in the streets,

The bobby was far away,
Butcher boys shouted and sang

In their usual maddening way.—

Still in the Schools quite courteous you were torturing men all the day.

Two dead men have I known,
Examiners settled by me.
Two dead men have I scored,

Now I will settle with thee.

Three dead men must I score, and thou art the last of the

three.

REGNOLD GREENLEAF.