Not to swindle, or to borrow,
Is the reputable way;
Not to marry, and to-morrow

Kill your bride, and run away. Arson's wrong, and poisoning dreary, And our hearts, though pretty brave, Now and then get rather weary

Of the gallows and the grave.

In the great domestic battle,

In the matrimonial strife,

Be not like those Mormon "cattle,"
Give your hero but one wife.

Wives and daughters should remind you
There are women without crime;
Draw them, and you'll leave behind you
Fictions that may weather time ;-
Fictions free from that Inspector

Who is sent by RICHARD MAYNE,
And finds footmarks that affect a
Solemn butler in the lane.

Let us, then, have no more trials,
No more tampering with Wills;
Leave the poisons in the phials-
And the money in the tills.

Punch, December 1, 1866.

A PSALM OF FARMING.

Bell's Messenger, December 9th, 1878. WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG FARMER SAID TO THE OLD 'UN.

(After Wrongedfellar).

TELL me not in cheerful numbers

You have known when times was wuss, Kip on sowin' wutts and barley,

And things will come right for us. Rents are too much, labour's heavy,

And our fair share's not the goal, Landlords take all they can gather, Cow and calf, both mare and foal.

Not enjoyment and not profit

Seems our destined end or way; But to act that each to-morrow Finds us poorer than to-day. The world is big and steam is quick, But our hearts, though stout and brave, Do not like to leave the "dear" land, 'Cause our wives do look so grave! With the world's broad field for farming, With the chance of a free life, Be not like dumb, driven donkeys, With such prospects have no strife. Trust no landlord, howe'er pleasant; Let the dead past bury its dead. Act, act in the living present, Heart within and God o'erhead. Happy Colonists do teach us

We can go and be the same, And, departing, leave behind us

Wiser landlords, much more tame. Landlords, that perhaps another

Year or so might make so wise, Might then know that 'tis quite certain Rents must fall as well as rise.

Let us, then, be up and going,
With a heart for any fate,

Then succeeding, more persuading
That 'tis good to emigrate.

Reproduced in "Farming," by Joseph Mangoldwurzel, London, W. Ridgway, 1879.

(A small pamphlet on Free Trade versus Protection).

A SONG OF ST. STEPHEN'S.

TELL me not in mocking numbers
We shall have to come to town,

And resume our wonted slumbers,
When the leaves are sere and brown.

*

Lives of patriots all remind us

We can show uncommon nous, And, departing, leave behind us Relays that shall " keep a House." Relays that perchance our Leaders O'er that legislative main May observe, while we are pleaders Autumn leisure to attain.

Punch, July 1, 1882.

A PSALM OF BURIAL.
TELL me not with words inflated
Bodies were not meant to burn;
For the moo-cow when cremated
Doth to "frosted silver" turn.
Not the grave-yard, not interment
Is the cheapest, healthiest way;
But to rob the worm preferment
Finds with cultured men to-day.
Lights of learning all have told us
We can shunt the gloomy pall,
And, when churchyards will not hold us,
Roast our flesh for funeral.

Let us, then, keep time with culture:
"Earth to earth" is out of date-
Leave no carrion for the vulture,
Spurn the sexton, and cremate.

Moonshine, May 17, 1884.

ON READING A LIFE AND LETTERS.
"LIVES" of great men all remind us
Friends may after our last breath
Publish what we leave behind us,
Adding thus new fears to death.
Wives of rich men oft remind us,
We may make our wives sublime;
But ten pounds for a lady's bonnet
Knocks a cheque-book out of time.

X X X X X

"THE DAY IS DONE." THE day is done, and darkness From the wing of night is loosed, As a feather is wafted downward, From a chicken going to roost.

I see the lights of the baker

Gleam through the rain and mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me,
That I cannot well resist.

A feeling of sadness and longing
That is not like being sick,
And resembles sorrow only

As a brickbat resembles a brick.

Come, get for me some supper-
A good and regular meal-

That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the pain I feel.
Not from the pastry bakers,
Not from the shops for cake;
I wouldn't give a farthing
For all that they can make.
For, like the soup at dinner,

Such things would but suggest

Some dishes more substantial,

And to-night I want the best.

Go to some honest butcher,

Whose beef is fresh and nice,
As any they have in the city,
And get a liberal slice.

Such things through days of labour,
And nights devoid of ease.
For sad and desperate feelings,
Are wonderful remedies.

They have an astonishing power
To aid and reinforce,

And come like the "finally, brethren,"
That follows a long discourse.

Then get me a tender sirloin

From off the bench or hook.

And lend to its sterling goodness

The science of the cook.

And the night shall be filled with comfort,
And the cares with which it begun

Shall fold up their blankets like Indians,
And silently cut and run.

Poems and Parodies. By Phoebe Carey,
Boston, United States, 1854.

*****

THE ARROW AND THE SONG.

I SHOT an arrow into the air,

It fell to earth, I knew not where ;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in his flight.

I breathed a song into the air,

It fell to earth, I knew not where ; For who has sight so keen and strong, That it can follow the flight of song? Long, long afterwards, in an oak

I found the arrow, still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.

THE BIRDS AND THE PHEASANT.

I SHOT a partridge in the air,

It fell in turnips, "Don," knew where;
For just as it dropped, with my right
I stopped another in its flight.

I killed a pheasant in the copse,

It fell amongst the fir-tree tops; For though a pheasant's flight is strong, A cock, hard hit, cannot fly long. Soon, soon afterwards, in a pie, I found the birds in jelly lie;

And the pheasant, at a fortnight's end,

I found again in the carte of a friend.

BALLAD.

Punch, October 12, 1867.

THE EX-PREMIER. (Mr. Gladstone).

I WROTE a pamphlet t'other day;

It fell still-born in the usual way;
For the public knew 'twas the old, old tale,
And they thought it just a wee bit stale.

I wrote an article in a "mag,"

And it made its circulation flag;
For the readers knew 'twas my only work
To speak about th' unspeakable Turk !
Not long after my spirits sunk,

For I found the pamphlet lining a trunk ;
And the article (degradation utter)
Was round a pat of the best salt butter.

Truth. Christmas Number, 1877.

THE ARROW AND THE HOUND.
At Shanklin, in the Isle of Wight,

I shot an arrow such a height,
It fell to earth, I know not where,
And, sooth to say, I do not care.
A poem to a mag. I sent,
Receiving no acknowledgment;
The subject was, I know not what-
If e'er I knew I have forgot.

A traveller the arrow found
Half-buried in his faithful hound,
And what he said in his distress
I do not know-I dare not guess.

And soon, when reading in the train,

I found my poem once again;
But on the fire that in it burned,
A comic hydrant had been turned.
What verse with arrow had to do

I know not now-I never knew!

But that such things should hap no more

I called upon the editor.

I aimed an arrow with such care,

It hit I scarce remember where ;
A tear stood in his bright blue eye,

He turned, and called me with a sigh-
But what, to tell you were not right;
Besides, I have forgotten quite;
But arrow, editor, and hound,
Are famed to earth's remotest bound.
EXCELSIOR JUNIOR.

The Topical Times, June 14, 1884.

THE SOIRÉE.

(After "The Arsenal at Springfield.")
THIS is the Soirée: from grate to entrance,
Like milliners' figures, stand the lovely girls;
But from their silent lips no merry sentence
Disturbs the smoothness of their shining curls.
Ah! what will rise, how will they rally,

When shall arrive the "gentlemen of ease!"
What brilliant repartee, what witty sally,

Will mingle with their pleasant symphonies!

I hear even now the infinite sweet chorus,
The laugh of ecstacy, the merry tone,

That through the evenings that have gone before us
In long reverberations reach our own.
From round-faced Germans come the guttural voices,
Through curling moustache steals the Italian clang,
And, loud amidst their universal noises,

From distant corners sounds the Yankee twang.

I hear the Editor, who from his office

Sends out his paper, filled with praise and puff,
And holy priests, who, when they warn the scoffers,
Beat the fine pulpit, lined with velvet stuff.

The tumult of each saqued, and charming maiden,
The idle talk that sense and reason drowns,

The ancient dames with jewelry o'erladen,

And trains depending from the brocade gowns—
The pleasant tone, whose sweetness makes us wonder,
The laugh of gentlemen, and ladies, too,

And ever and anon, in tones of thunder,
The diapason of some lady blue,—

Is it, O man, with such discordant noises,
With pastimes so ridiculous as these,

Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices,
And jarrest the celestial harmonies ?

Were half the wealth that fills the world with ladies,
Were half the time bestowed on caps and lace,
Given to the home, the husbands, and the babies,
There were no time to visit such a place.

Foems and Parodies. By Phoebe Carey (Ticknor, Reed, and Fields). Boston, United States, 1854.

X X X X X

The following old parody was written in imitation of the hexameters of Evangeline :

DOLLARINE; A TALE OF CALIFORNIA.
A FRAGMENT IN HEXAMETERS.

BY PROFESSOR W. H. LONGANDSHORTfellow,
Of Cambridge, Connecticut.

IN St. Francisco located was NATHAN JEHOIAKIM BOWIE ; Down by the wharf on the harbour he traded in liquors and dry goods,

Darned hard knot at a deal, at Meetin' a powerful elder. There at his store, in the shade, they met, onbraced and enlightened

Traders and trappers and captings, and lawyers and editors

also.

Freely they liquored and chewed, indulgin' in expectoration, Rockin' with heels over heads, and whittlin', laborious, the

counter.

Like dough-nut at a frolic, or yellow-pine stump in a clearin',

Sharp as a backwoodsman's axe, and cute as a bachelor beaver,

Glimmer'd, through clouds of Virginny, the cypherin' mug of NATHANIEL.

Sweeter nor candy of maple, a'most too genteel to be raal, Straight as a hickory sapling and clean as a Nar'ganset pacer

Tall she moved through the bar, a-sarvin' of juleps and cock-tails,

Sweetenin' the cobblers with smiles, and firin' Havannahs with glances,

NATHAN J. BOWIE's fair darter, splendiferous Miss DoLLARINA!

Tall she moved thro' the bar, collectin' the joes and the cents in:

Not that she needed to did it, but 'cause nigger helps there's no trustin',

And she was too tender-hearted to get the black varmint cow-hided.

-There in pastoral peace, since first the location was ceded, Dwelt the old man and his child, beneath their own vine and their fig-tree,

Doin' a good stroke of business, for cash or beaver-skins only.

On NAT's. roof of split shingle, illustrious GOVERNOR TARBOX

Hoisted the Stars and the Stripes, representative there of the Mighty,

The Free, and the Fearless of 'airth, the Go-a-head 'Merican people;

Boarded there the great TARBOX, and took his horn like a

mere man,

Paying four dollars per diem for grub, grog, shake-down, and

washin'.

Then came down, like iled lightning, on St. Francisco a

rumour

Fame her brazen trump turned best mint metal to puff itHow that the root of all evil was found growin' wild up the country,

How gold stuck to folk's fingers that washed in the St. Sacra

mento!

NAT. chawed two plugs extra to hear it; the editor swore he Wished to be darned, if it wasn't a caution how folks could be gammoned.

"My!" sighed sweet DOLLARINA, and paused as she squoze a half lemon ;

But the magnanimous TARBOX, he reckoned 'tmight be kinder likely,

Seein' the States whipt the airth for men, and why not for metals?

Came from the diggins a straanger, with two carpet-bags full of goold dust;

NATHAN diskivered the fact, as he traded a pinch for a ginsling;

And as that straanger loafed, thro' the bar, from parlor to bedroom,

Streams of the glorious sand oozed out through a hole in his trousers.

-Gathered the rumour and grew, and soon rose a sudden demand for

Calabash, can, keg, and kettle; and NATHAN'S prime lot of tin fixin's,

Crockery, also, went off at figgers that beat to eternal Smash all prices he'd thought, in dreams e'en, of e'er realisin',

Soon the traders upped hook, and the editor talked edifyin' All about lucre and dross; and the lawyer convened it was awful;

Till one mornin' trampoused the lawyer and editor with him. Off were the trappers for beaver, they said, but "it warn't noways likely,"

NATHAN remarked, "they would strike beaver-trail in them there locations."

Then the captings went too, they said, to bring back their sailors ;

And as it stands to natur', their customers followed the captings.

Next the Meetin's they thinned-that's a fact-till, down to the elders,

Dropped, like leaves in the fall, congregations of e'en the awakened.

Ontil the deacon was forced to look arter the flock of backsliders,

Minister mizzlin' himself, before long, to look arter the deacon.

Why should NATHAN hold on, with his bar of its customers empty,

Strawers unsucked in the cobblers, and mint unplucked in the garding,

Swopped his prime tin doin's, or sold to the uttermost pipkin? So he went-but before him the helps, black and Irish, had vanished.

Lone in the shanty she lingered, the fair and forlorn DOL

--Soft was the heart of Great TARBOX, and most horrid hansum the maiden,

Loftily spoke he of goold, and the tarnal low hitch of the humans,

Leavin' such gals all alone, to go the whole hog at the washin's.

Sweetly she'd set there beside him, the while with his governor's hands he

Washed his own dicky or fried his simple repast of pork fixins ;

Sweetly she sot there beside him, and TARROX a slivin' was happy!

Still now and then that bright eye from its tail wou'd glance up to the mountains,

And a faint sigh be the echo of TARBOXES glowin' soft sawder;

Oft in her pail of ablution he'd catch her a rin.in' the water; And once she ventured to murmur, "I wonder what nateral goold's like."

-Down came the moment at last-set TARBOX a-mendin' his shoe-sole,

Breathin' his love in a Sonnet, and chawin' a plug of tobaccer-

Entered the maiden so stately-and bowin' her beauty before him,

Smilingly, sobbingly uttered, "Adoo-I am off for the diggins!"

Burst the full heart of Great TARBOX-

(Here the MSS., becomes illegible, apparently from tears). Punch, January 20, 1849.

THE LOST TAILS OF MILETUS.

HIGH on the Thracian hills, half hid in the billows of clover, Thyme, and the asphodel blooms, and lulled by Pactolian streamlet,

She of Miletus lay, and beside her an aged satyr Scratched his ear with his hoof, and playfully mumbled his chestnuts.

Vainly the Mænid and the Bassarid gambolled about her, The free-eyed Bacchante sang, and Pan—the renowned, the accomplished

Executed his difficult solo. In vain were their gambols and dances !

High o'er the Thracian hills rose the voice of the shepherdess, wailing

"Ai! for the fleecy flocks,-the meek-nosed, the passionless faces;

Ai! for the tallow-scented, the straight-tailed, the highstepping;

Ai! for the timid glance, which is that which the rustic, sagacious,

Applies to him who loves but may not declare his passion!" Her then Zeus answered slow: "O daughter of song and sorrow,

Hapless tender of sheep,-arise from thy long lamentation! Since thou canst not trust fate, nor behave as becomes a Greek maiden,

Look and behold thy sheep."-And lo! they returned to her tailless !

BRET HARTE.

In 1856 a pamphlet was published (at the price of two shillings), by W. J. Golbourn, of Princes Street, Leicester Square, entitled : "MARKS AND REMARKS for the Catalogue of the Exhibition of the Royal Academy, MDCCCLVI. (after the manner of --) by A. E., to which is added a DIRGE (in imitation of another)." This very scarce pamphlet consists of thirty-two pages, mostly occupied by descriptions of the pictures in the Royal Academy for that year, and the author's comments upon them, in the metre of Hiawatha, commencing thus :

"SHOULD you ask me whence the Stories?
Whence the legends and traditions'
That have furnished forth our Artists
With the most attractive subjects
For the present exhibition?

"I should answer, I should tell you,"
They have drawn them from the Poets,
From the Book-of-books have drawn them,
From the best Historic sources,
From the Mountains, Lakes, and Rivers,
From the Hills, the Lanes, the Meadows,
From the Highland and the Lowland,
And the mighty surging Ocean;

And the Portraits, large and little,
And the Portraits of all sizes,
"With their frequent repetitions,"
Pillars, table cloths and curtains,
From the Court, the Camp, the Senate,
And plain Gentlemen and Ladies.

A long political parody appeared in Punch, February 23, 1867, entitled "The Great Medicine-Man; a new Canto of Hiawatha." This

was apropos of Mr. Disraeli's Reform proposals, then submitted to the House of Commons in Thirteen Resolutions.

On page 95, Part VI., a long extract was given from a parody of Hiawatha, entitled The Song of Big Ben, which appeared in Truth, February 15, 1877. It was descriptive of the opening of Parliament, and the subsequent proceedings in the Houses have since been related in the same metre, and under the same title, in many other numbers of Truth. On page 80 reference was made to a parody which appeared in Tom Hood's Comic Annual for 1877; unfortunately, it is much too long to give in full. The following short extract will, however, give an idea of its style :

REVENGE. A RHYTHMIC RECOLLECTION.

If you ask me where I found it, found this very dreadful legend, with its strange coincidences and its tragic repetitions, I should answer, I should tell you, in the columns of the "Pleecenoos," in the pages of the " Standard," in the Organ of the Knife Board, in all sheets of published scandal, published in the month of August, published in the midst of Fleet Street, where the tide of life rolls onward, whilst the modest newsman murmurs low amid the noise of traffic, "Buy the Hecker,' fifth edition! Buy the 'Standard,' latest war news! Buy the Organ of the Knife Board !"

'Twas the pleasant April weather, and a coach was bound for Cambridge, and four youths alike in feature sat together in the rumble; each alike was bound for Cambridge, each alike in air was noble, each alike in hair was curly, each in speech was Hebraistic, and they all were bound for Cambridge.

Never had they met before this, though their fathers in four townships wide apart had heard the rumours of each other's great successes in the art of habit-making, famed for thirteen-shilling trousers; and each parent, little recking of the others' great successes, said, "My son shall rise to swelldom; he shall have his fling at college, and shall dwell among the nobles who, by my fair art made nobler, wear my thirteen-shilling trousers."

Should you ask me why the Peerage
Rule responsible to no one,
What their deeds of wondrous valour,
What their wisdom unsurpassed,
What their nobleness of nature,
What their learning, power, or goodness,
That they thus should reign supreme there,
I should answer you, "I know not.'
This I know, that tho' their country
Scarcely knows the names of any,
On the racecourse every welcher,
Every gambling scoundrel, blackleg,
Knows them there by tens and dozens,
I should answer 'tis a relic
Of the ignorant Middle Ages,
When the king held all the country,
Shared it with his greater barons,
And the toilers were in bondage.
One by one the links of thraldom
Have been rent and burst asunder;
Few the fetters that are left us
Of the hateful Feudal system;
But this one stands trembling, tottering,
Till the breath of further Freedom,
Strengthened by the voice of Gladstone,
Bright, and Chamberlain, and Picton,
Broadhurst, Illingworth, and Lawson,
Shall abolish it for ever,

Funny Folks, August 16, 1884.