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,
Life's one long unending bill-
Debts unpaid disturb your slumbers-
Tin will fly, do what you will.

Meat is high in real good earnest,
Far above the hungry soul;
Dust thou art, to dust returns, is
Very typical of coal.

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
At the aspect of affairs.

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,
As you cross the stormy main,
Thoughts of love, and home, and mother,
Listening for your step in vain.

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;
If for Gladstone still thou yearnest,

Ministerial slips to follow

Is our destined end and way,
So that we may throw each morrow
Stumbling blocks in Dizzy's way.

Dizzy's strong, but fame is fleeting;
Conservatism, now so brave,
In the Bills which we are greeting,
Yet may find an early grave.
Trust no Forster, howe'er pleasant,
Let past premiers bury their dead;
Act with Hartington at present,
Nor the coming session dread.
Hansard's pages all remind us
We have but to bide our time;
Dizzy some fine day may find us
In majority sublime.

Gladstone's gone, but till another,
Like him takes the helm again,
Let us help our leader, brother,
Hartington with might and main.
Let us then be up and doing,
Meeting Dizzy in debate,
Tory tactics still pursuing,

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 but a gourmet's dream!
Sure your sense is dead or slumbers:
Peptics are not what they seem.

Life is serious! Life is solemn !
And good grub is not its goal:
Menu-making by the column
Helps not the dyspeptic soul.
Not delight from cates to borrow
Is the aim of prudent will,

But to eat so that to-morrow
Finds us not exceeding ill.

Feeds are long and health is fleeting;
And old stomachs once so strong,
Find that indiscriminate eating
Very quickly puts them wrong.

In the banquet's dainty battle,
At the table's toothsome strife,
Feed not like dumb hungry cattle,
Wield a cautious fork and knife!

Trust no menu, howe'er pleasant;
Night-marc-Nemesis is dread ;
Swig and swallow like a peasant,

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH AS HE IS.

Under the spreading chestnut tree
The village blacksmith stands,

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
You can hear him tramp below,
Until the serjeant hath passed, and then
He soon doth leave his beat to go
To visit a sprightly area belle,
When the evening star is low.

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
Of nought but naughty boys,
Householders angrily impeach.

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).
Under the carved-oak canopy
Our ermined Justice sits;
The Judge, a mighty man is he,
With large and varied wits ;
And nobly to his land and Queen
His duty he acquits.

His wig is crisp, and gray, an 1 full,
And if his face you scan,

'Tis furrow'd deep with lines of thought;
'Twere hard his brow to span.

And he looks the whole world in the face,
For he fears not any man.

Term in, term out, from ten till four,
You can hear his accents clear;

You can hear him crush deceit and fraud
With authority severe,

But the innocent and helpless one

Has naught from him to fear.

And strangers "doing" London sights
Look in at the swinging door;

They love to see his massive form,

And to hear his legal lore,

And to catch the pearls of thought that drop
From his copious mental store.

At four for home he leaves the bench,
And 'midst his books and notes
His leisure far into the night

To" cases he devotes.

Nor counts his nights and mornings lost,
If justice he promotes.

With patient care he extricates
The tangled legal skein;
Whilst barristers and clients sleep,

Re-links the broken chain,

And ere the hour of ten has come
Is at his post again.

Toiling, re-searching, circuiting,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees new work begun,
But not each night its close;
And not till Long Vacation comes
Can he expect repose.

Thanks, thanks! then, to the English Judge
For the lessons he has taught !
For a life so earnest and so pure,
With good example fraught.

And may we all learn this from him,-
How duty should be wrought.

Truth Christmas Number, 1879.

THE VILLAGE BEAUTY.

Under a spreading Gainsborough hat
The village beauty stands,

A maiden very fair to see,
With tiny feet and hands,

As stately, too, as if she owned

Her hair is golden brown and long,
Her brow is like the snow,
Her cheeks are like the rosy flush
Left by the sunset's glow,

She greets the lads with a careless look,
She's the village belle, you know.

Week in, week out, at morn and night,

The young miller comes each day;
""Tis the nearest way to town," he says,
But 'tis rather out of his way,
And every night he seems to have
Plenty of time to stay!

And children, coming home from school
Look in at the door, and know
That the handsome fellow by her side
Is pretty Nellie's beau,

Who can hardly tear himself away,
When he finds 'tis time to go.

He goes on Sundays to the Church,
And sits in his proper pew,

But his eyes wander off to the transept near,
Where he sees a charming view,

For Nellie sits there, in her Sunday best,
With her bonnet of palest blue.

He hears the parson pray and preach
With his outward ear alone,

For he only listens for Nellie's voice,
And responds in a dreamy tone,

And when she smiles at the carpenter near,
He can't suppress a groan.

Despairing, hoping, fearing,
Onward thro' life he goes;
Each morning he sees Nellie,

And each evening, at its close;
She even haunts him sleeping,

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,
Onward the M. P. goes.
Each day sees aimless jaw begun,
No night beholds its close.
Little attempted, nothing done—
No work and no repose!

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
The peaceful village stands,
It's known for its tranquillitee

Throughout the neighbouring lands;
And it drinks but very weak Bohea,
Nor smokes the mildest brands.

Its hair is smooth, its patience long,
Its biceps, when you span,
You find they're more like dimples; and
You may hit them where you can,

And come off cheap with easy fame,
For it fights not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear the humming low

Of dogs who like to bark and bite
Because their nature's so;

And their cocks they're all put out of sight,
For the bullies used to crow !

Preaching, protesting, sorrowing,
Because of Eastern foes,

Each morning sees that village dawn,
Each evening sees it doze,

O'er asses' milk and ginger-beer,

And Peter Taylor's prose.

Thanks, thanks, to you, O happy vale!
It is a cheering thought

That somewhere waits a blessed spot

For one by yells distraught,

Where bray of Jingoes reaches not,
And Drummond-Wolff is nought.

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,
He must sit in silent woe,

Whilst WARTON vents his dullard spite,
With measured boom and slow,
Or SEXTON Soars in furious flight
When the morning lights burn low.

THE VILLAGE WOODMAN.
(With apologies to Mr. Longfellow.)

Under a spreading chestnut tree
The busy Gladstone stands ;
Ever this restless W. G.

Has something on his hands.
O'er field or meadow, park or farm,

O'er clay or gravelly lands,

He takes the sharpened axe in hand
With tree-destroying plan;

His brow is wet with woodman's sweat,

He fells whate'er he can,

And looks the proud tree in the face,