were such that detraction, envy, and malice were dumb, and criticism itself was almost silenced. Hence the parodies will be found to consist principally of imitations of his style, language, or ideas, or of reproductions of his poems in a grotesque form. In some cases a few verses of the original are given for the convenience of comparison with the parodies. A NOBLE AMBITION. Tell me not in mournful numbers, Meat is high in real good earnest, In the weekly market battle, For the cheapest things and best, Be not like dumb-driven cattle, Stand out bravely, all the rest. Not enjoyment, hardly sorrow, Feel we, when small debts we pay; Still, we know that each to-morrow Finds them larger than to-day. Duns are hard, and time is fleeting, Bills are sadly in arrears, And our hearts, tho' brave, stop beating Bailiffs are not very pleasant, Lock your door and keep the key; Act, act in the living present Leave your country, cross the sea. Lives of great men, too, remind us, Big debts sometimes clogged their feet; And, like them, we leave behind us Some few bills we cannot meet Bills that make you try to smother, Let us then be up and doing With an eye to making tin, Any likely trade pursuing, Learn to gain your end and win. From The Figaro, December 3, 1873. THE LIBERAL PSALM OF LIFE. Tell us not in mournful numbers Liberal union is a dream: Bright is cranky, Bob Lowe slumbers; Yet things are not what they seem. Opposition must be earnest, Or we shall not win the goal; Ministerial slips to follow Is our destined end and way, Dizzy's strong, but fame is fleeting; Gladstone's gone, but till another, Find a policy-and wait! From Funny Folks, February 27, 1875, when the Conservative party, led by Mr. Disraeli, was in power, and the Liberal Opposition was led by Lord Hartington. A PSALM OF LIFE AT SIXTY. What the Heart of the Old Man said to the Genial Gusher at Christmas Time. TELL me not in Christmas Numbers Life is serious! Life is solemn ! But to eat so that to-morrow Feeds are long and health is fleeting; In the banquet's dainty battle, Trust no menu, howe'er pleasant; THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH AS HE IS. Under the spreading chestnut tree The smith an awful cad is he With very dirty hands. For keepers and the rural police He doesn't care a hang. He swears, and fights, and whops his wife, Gets drunk whene'er he can ; In point of fact, our village smith's THE NIGHT POLICEMAN. (Not by Henry W. Longfellow.) Beside a noisy tavern door The night policeman stands, And a foaming pot of half-and-half, He clutches with eager hands; But little doth our Robert know He is watched by thievish bands. His voice is thick, his speech too strong For any sober man ; His brow is wet with his tall helmet, He drinks whene'er he can ; But the merry prig laughs in his face, He arrests not any man. Through the dark night to the broad daylight When the burglar, fixing a handy tool, Breaks in through the bolted door, And quickly pockets the notes and gold, And the glittering jewelled storeHearing the laugh, as he gaily flies, Come from the kitchen floor. When Robert makes report next morn He hears the inspector's voice; And he knows that his stately form no more THE ENGLISH JUDGE. (As sung by Dr. E. V. Kenealy). His wig is crisp, and gray, an 1 full, 'Tis furrow'd deep with lines of thought; And he looks the whole world in the face, Term in, term out, from ten till four, You can hear him crush deceit and fraud But the innocent and helpless one Has naught from him to fear. And strangers "doing" London sights They love to see his massive form, And to hear his legal lore, And to catch the pearls of thought that drop At four for home he leaves the bench, To" cases he devotes. Nor counts his nights and mornings lost, With patient care he extricates Re-links the broken chain, And ere the hour of ten has come Toiling, re-searching, circuiting, Thanks, thanks! then, to the English Judge And may we all learn this from him,- Truth Christmas Number, 1879. THE VILLAGE BEAUTY. Under a spreading Gainsborough hat A maiden very fair to see, As stately, too, as if she owned Her hair is golden brown and long, She greets the lads with a careless look, Week in, week out, at morn and night, The young miller comes each day; And children, coming home from school Who can hardly tear himself away, He goes on Sundays to the Church, But his eyes wander off to the transept near, For Nellie sits there, in her Sunday best, He hears the parson pray and preach For he only listens for Nellie's voice, And when she smiles at the carpenter near, Despairing, hoping, fearing, And each evening, at its close; And disturbs his night's repose. Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, For the lesson thou hast taught ; Thus at the flirting time of life Our fortunes may be wrought, So we cannot be too careful Over every word and thought! L. P. From The Dunheved Mirror, Cornwall, March, 1880. Boiling and bored, no fight, no fun, Punch, March 24, 1883. THE VILLAGE PAX. (With Deprecatory Acknowledgments to Longfellow.) ["A PEACEFUL PARISH.—It is worthy of remark that in a parish near Blandford a petition in favour of peace has been signed by every grown-up man and woman, with the exception of one farmer."- Times.] Under the spreading olive tree Throughout the neighbouring lands; Its hair is smooth, its patience long, And come off cheap with easy fame, Week in, week out, from morn till night, Of dogs who like to bark and bite And their cocks they're all put out of sight, Preaching, protesting, sorrowing, Each morning sees that village dawn, O'er asses' milk and ginger-beer, And Peter Taylor's prose. Thanks, thanks, to you, O happy vale! That somewhere waits a blessed spot For one by yells distraught, Where bray of Jingoes reaches not, THE BRITISH M. P. (A Song of St. Stephen's.) UNDER St. Stephen's high roof-tree The British M. P. sits: M.P. a mighty man is he, With sharp and seasoned wits, And an eloquence that, once set free, Would give opponents fits. Week in, week out, from noon to night, Whilst WARTON vents his dullard spite, THE VILLAGE WOODMAN. Under a spreading chestnut tree Has something on his hands. O'er clay or gravelly lands, He takes the sharpened axe in hand His brow is wet with woodman's sweat, He fells whate'er he can, And looks the proud tree in the face, |