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Whence came it that, whilst yet the sunny moon
Of roses showed her crescent horn; the day
Fix'd for the pageant dawn'd on Coventry;
And Sanger-he of circus fame-arose
Betimes; for much was on his mind. Perchance
An elephant had shed its trunk; perchance
Some giant camel had "the hump" too much;
Or piebald horse had moulted all its spots.
Most feared he, though, lest she who had agreed
To act Godiva, having slept on it,

Should from her bargain flinch; so sought he her
With, "Well, and ride you through the town to-day ?"

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Thus rode she forth, clothed on with scantiness, And in the pageant duly took her place, Along with camels and with elephants And men-in-armour, weakest at the knee, And Foresters with horns that wouldn't blow, And clumsy bows, and Odd-fellows as well, In fool regalia; and the Volunteers, And Fire Brigade, and several brazen bands. But chiefly 'twas on her all eyes were fix'd, And women wondered what she could have got For making of herself a show; and men Opined that cotton wool she'd freely used; And one low churl, compact of thankless earth, Drawing a pin and rushing at her horse Prick'd-but it was no good, the steed jogged on As theretofore: and thanks to frequent bangs And shouts of "Right" did reach the end at last Of the day's progress, much to its delight. And she was glad, and hastening to her room She slipp'd her garments on, and issuing claim'd Her fee, and took the earliest train to town, And in the ballet, in the foremost row,

Danced with her fellows, winning great renown, As one who rode through Coventry in "tights,"

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THE BATHER'S DIRGE.

By Tennyson Minor.

Break, break, break,

On thy cold hard stones, O Sea! And I hope that my tongue won't utter The curses that rise in me.

O well for the fisherman's boy,

If he likes to be soused with the spray!

O well for the sailor lad,

As he paddles about in the bay!

And the ships swim happily on

To their haven under the hill:

But O for a clutch at that vanish'd hand,
And a kick-for I'm catching a chill!

Break, break, break,

At my poor bare feet, O Sea!

But the artful scamp who has collar'd my clothes Will never come back to me.

From Funny Folks, 1879.

The two following are taken from Punch:THE MUSICAL PITCH.

BREAK, break, break,

O voice!-let me urge thy plea !—

O lower the Pitch, lest utter

Despair be the end of me!

'Tis well for the fiddles to squeak,

The bassoon to grunt in its play: 'Twere well had I lungs of brass,

Or that nothing but strings gave way!

Break, break, break,

O voice! I must urge thy plea, For the tender skin of my larynx is torn, And I fail in my upper G!

TENNYSON AT BILLINGSGATE IN 1882. Apropos of the Ring of Wholesale Fish Dealers.

Take! Take! Take!

Oh grabber of swag from the sea, And I shouldn't quite like to utter The thoughts that occur to me!

Oh, ill for the fisherman poor

That he toils for a trifle all day, And ill for the much-diddled public That has through the nose to pay.

And the swelling monopolist drives

To his villa at Haverstock Hill,

But it's oh for the number of poor men's lives Food-stinted to plump his till!

Take! Take! Take!

Oh grabber of swag from the sea,

But you'll render a reckoning one of these days

In June, 1882, the Editor of The Weekly Dispatch awarded a prize of Two Guineas to M. Percivale, for a parody on Locksley Hall. The somewhat uncomplimentary allusions to a young Esthetic poet are too obvious to require any elucidation.

Cousins, leave me here a little, in lawn tennis you excel; Leave me here, you only bore me, I shall come at "luncheon bell!"

'Tis the place (but rather older)—I was in my eighteenth year,

When I first met utter Oscar, and I thought him such a dear!

How about the beach I wandered, listening while that youth sublime

Spouted verses by the dozen, which he said he wrote for Time.

But his form was somewhat fatter than should be for one so young,

And his round eyes spoke the language of his glib and oily tongue.

In the spring the fleshly poet writes a sweet and soothing

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Leave me here, and if I'm wanted, mum's' the word to

'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 can. not 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 CENONE.-AN EPIC FRAGMENT. (With Apologies to the Poet Laureate.)

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

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

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;

To all most welcome, seeing men in power
Then only are like gods, having attained
Rest in another place," and quiet sea's
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 were 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."

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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 apple.
And I beheld great Heré's angry eyes

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

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