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GUINEVERE. No light : so late! and dark and chill the night! O, let us in, that we may find the light ! Too late, too late : ye cannot enter now.

TEXXYSON.

Hoping therewith her sorrow to ahate ;
Aye, hoping to console her for its fate,
With mingled doubts and fears I dedicate
These verses.

And indeed it seems to me
A mest ideal kind of dog to be
Which she has lost ; noi highly bred, indeed
But who, with sense, cares aught for birth or breed ?
I, as a poet, such vain things despise,
And hold them low as titles in my eyes ;
Enough to know the dog at heart was true
To her that long as mistress fond it knew ;
So true, in sooth, that others oft it spurned,
And with a savage snarl upon them turned
When they, with dainty bribe or gentle pat,
Would try to pass it, watchful on its mat.

" It loved her only, and with bounty kind
She in its favour e'er was much inclined
Since first she sadly called it to her side
When its dear master, and her husband, died ;
And, gladly finding it come at her call,
Put trust in it thenceforward, all in all.

Too Soon.
SCENE–The Pit door of the Lyceum.
TIME-Ten minutes before 7.30 on a winter's evening. -

O let us out, the heat stilles is sore,
O pray open kindly behind us the door,

Too soon, too soon, ye cannot get out yet.
“Too long," groaned we, for that we do repent :
Let us pass out, have mercy and relent,

No, no, too soon, ye cannot get out yet.
Fate made us soft : this shoving is no joke,
Our necks are nigh disjointed, our backs are nearly broke ;

Too soon, too soon, ye cannot get out yet.
With punches yon cowards on us poor wretches drop,
Your cruel mates frown because the way we stop,

You should not have called us names quite yet.
Ah ! Parodies, we've heard you are so sweet :
O let us out to hear " Amens”

repeat
His soft“ Dryhilldics." No, too soon, not yet.
The Tonbridgian. March, 1879.

C. C. H.

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“Yet would I bid that mistress to take cheer,
Nor mourn too much that dog which was so dear.
Nor o'er its empty collar still to weep,
Nor its void kennel still unfilled to keep.
For though ’mongst dogs about her she detects
No one like 'Laddie' was, in all respects,
Yet, as the ocean yields, without a doubt,
Fish equal to the best ones taken out,
So, too, ’mongst dogs that have not had their day
May be as good as that one passed away ;
Quite as devoted, quite as strong and true,
And possibly less rough and awkward, too.

“Let, then, the mistress of this much-mourned pet,
If she another collie still would get,
Learr that amongst the dogs that crowd around
Another ‘Laddie' may with ease be found.
Which if not quite so roughly fond, indeed,

May points as good combine with better breed.”
Truth, February 14, 1884.

(In allusion to the Queen's Servant, the late John Brown).

LITTLE Miss MUFFET. A Tennysonian Version of the Popular Nursery Rhyme.

IN STURDY ANGLO-SAXON.

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VIVIEN'S SONG.

A LITTLE.
A LITTLE rift within the lute

And discord mars the pleasing strain ;
A little tightness in the boot

Excuses epithets profane.
A little tip, a little bet,

A little silver from the till ;
He does his little sentence yet,

And little likes the prison mill.
Dry as a little bit of chalk,

In a small pub they share a quart ;
A little stagger in their walk

Shows they topped up with something short.
A little more, perhaps, than he meant

-Men sometimes speak a bit too fast-
One little word-she
Her little fish is hooked

R.H.B. The Sporting Times, June 27,

Little Miss Muffet
Sat on a tuffet,
Eating of curds and whey ;
There came a great spider
And sat down beside her,

And frightened Miss Muffet away!

RESET AS AN ARTHURIAN IDYL. U PON a tuffet of most soft and verdant moss, Beneath the spreading branches of an ancient oak, Miss Muffet sat, and upward gazed, To where a linnet perched and sung, And rocked him gently, to and fro. Soft blew the breeze And mildly swayed the bough; Loud sung the bird, And sweetly dreamed the maid ; Dreamed brightly of the days to comeThe golden days, with her fair future blentWhen one---some wondrous stately knightOf our great Arthur's “ Table Round ;' One, brave as Launcelot, and Spotless as the pure Sir Galahad, Should come, and coming, choose her For his love, and in her name, And for the sake of her fair eyes, Should do most knightly deeds. And as she dreamed and softly sighed, She pensively began to stir, With a tiny golden spoon, Within an antique dish upon her lap, Some snow-white milky curds ; Soft were they, full of cream and rich, And floated in translucent whey' ;

Sives consent;

at last.

1885

And as she stirred, she smiled,
Then gently tasted them.
And smiling, ate, nor sighed no more.
Lo! as she wte-nor harbored thought of ill-
Near and nearer yet, there to her crept
A monster great and terrible,
With huge, misshapen body-leaden eyes —
Full many a long and hairy leg,
And soft and stealthy footstep.
Nearer still he came- Miss Muffet yet,
All unwitting his dread neighbourhood,
Did eat her curds and dream,
Blithe, on the bough, the linnet sung---
All terrestrial natures, sleeping, wrapt
In a most sweet tranquility.
Closer still the spider drew, and
Paused beside her-lifted up his head
And gazed into her face.
Miss Muffet then, her consciousness alive
To his dread eyes upon her fixed,
Turned and beheld him.
Loud screamed she, frightened and amazed,
And straightway sprung upon her feet :
And, letting fall her dish and spoon,

She-shrieking, turned and fled.
Free Press Flashes, 1881.

And a woman or two to pet you, and you never gave way to

despair, You might sell it at so much a line--but that's quite another

affair. Why in the midst of your whines it's impossible not to see How anxious you are to show that you're only attaching me, And that you're not a word to say against respectable people Who own no connection between my chapel and their church

steeple. You always contrive to hint, and almost seem to feel That your creed would have been much better if your Church

had been more genteel. Why, man, we're all in one boat, as every one can see, Bishops and priests and deacons, and poor little ranters like me. There's hell in the Church of England, and hell in the

Church of Rome : And in all other Christian Churches, abroad as well as at home. The part of my creed you dislike may be too stern for you. Many brave men believe it-aye, and enjoy life too. The know-nothing books may aların you ; but many a better

man

DESPAIR.

Knows he knows nothing, and says so, and lives the best life

he can. If there is a future state, face its hopes and terrors gravely ; The best path to it must be to bear life's burdens bravely. And even if there is none, why should not you live like a man, Enjoying whatever you have as much and as long as you can. In the world in which we are living there's plenty to do and

to know, And there's always something to hope for, till its time for us

to go. Despair is the vilest of words, unfit to be said or thought, Whether there is a God and a future state or not. If you really are such a wretch that you're quite unfit to live, And ask my advice I'll give you the best that I have to give. Drown yourself by all means ; I was wrong and you were right; I'll not pull you out any more ; but be sure you drown

yourself quite. The St. James's Gazette. November, 1881.

you be,

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HANDS ALL ROUND.

TENNYSONIAN TORYISM DEVELOPED,

NEVER SAY DIE.

A Dramatic Monologue. The Minister of the Sect, which was abandoned by the man who did not drown himself, replies to the dramatic monol gue on Despair which was published by that person in the Nineteenth Century" for November, 1881. So you're minded to curse me, are you, for not having let And for taking the trouble to pull you out when your wife

was drowned in the sea ? I'm inclined to think you are right-there was not much

sense in it; But there was no time to think, the thing was done in a

minute. You had not gone very far in : you had fainted where you

were found ; You're the sort of fellow that likes to drown with his toe on

the ground. However, you turn upon me and my creed with all sorts of

abuse ; As if any preaching of mine could possibly be of use To a man who refused to see what sort of a world he had got To live in and make the best of, whether he liked it or not. I am not sure what you mean : you seem to mean to say That believing in hell you were happy ; but that one unfor

tunate day You found out you knew nothing about it, whereby the

troubles of life Became at once too heavy to bear for yourself and your wife. That sounds silly; so perhaps you may mean that all is

wrong all roundMy creed and the know-nothing books—and that truth is not

to be found, That's sillier still; for if so the know-nothing books are right, And you're a mere spiritless cur, who can neither run nor fightToo great a coward to live, and too great a coward to die, Fit for nothing at al but just to sit down and cry. Not that you're really unhappy. I don't think you ever were. Give you a poet's corner, and a pipe and an easy chair,

First pledge our Queen this solemn night,

Then drink to Tories every guest ;
Next toast our leaders men of " light,"

In whose effulgence we are blest !
May carping Churchills ever live,

And Cecils “Hout and jeer" for aye ;
That man's the best Conservative

Who best obstructs vile Gladstone's sway. Hands all round! God the Lib'rals' hope confound !

To the sham cause of “Greatness" drink, my friends, And the great name of Jingo round and round.

Drink health to lords of high degree,

Who strive to thwart the land's desire ;
May our opponent's fail, while we

Grow strong in borough and in shire,
We fought wherever we could fight,

We scrupled not to confiscate;
We would be “great” by wrong or right :

May England thus be ever "great.
Hands all round! God all Radicals confound !

To the sham cause of “Greatness" drink, any friends, And the great name of Jingo round and round.

JOHN PHELAN. The Weekly Dispatch, April 2, 1882.

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Will watch thee with a jealous look, and curb
Thy freedom as befits one who is Queen-
So moving through the Mother's home, between
The two, thy life alternately will be
Swayed by each one, swaying to this or that
Like some erratic planet in mid air
Between two Moons, and, trying to please both,

The life you'll lead will well be worth the pay. The Weekly Echo, July 25, 1885.

The Master to the Mistress, Loquitur.
You-you- if you have failed to comprehend
A Briton's dinner is his all in all,
On you a husband's anger will descend,

If that cold mutton pall

Upon his palate keen. This meal the cheeriest-sacred hour of bliss! This one rare meal, the joy of every man ; Poor Hubby, what would Life be, stripped of this?

And what avail the lunch abstention plan,

If Dinney brings the spleen?
Yor-you—who have the ordering of the meat,
If you can only compass horrid grub.
When husbands starve-the hansom trim and fleet

Shall whirl them to the Club-
But then, you'll call it mean !

F. B. DOVETON. Eastbourne, 1885.

POEM ADDRESSED TO THE PRINCESS BEATRICE,

NOT BY THE POET LAUREATE.
Two Sums of cash will fill a German purse,
Which else with all its pockets and elastic band
Were utter emptiness--one, the round Sum down
Of £30,000, which brightens up the mother's eyes,
And warms the child's awakening greed—and one
The annual sum of just six thousand pounds
Which keeps her husband, and which helps the child
To move in other spheres. The mother smiles
At that gay funeral of the people's cash,
Her maiden daughter's marriage ; and her thoughts
Are half of pleasure, half of pain--the coin
Is being spent-ev'n leaving her! But Thou,
True daughter, whose all faithful filial eyes
Have seen the costliness of earthly thrones
Wilt neither quit thy new half-crowns, nor let
Thy nice annuity have risen in vain,
But moving through the Mother's home, between
Thy dividen Is and pension, lead an easy life,
Sway'd by cach Lump of cash, and swaying to each

Lump
Like some fat Pluralist in clover dwelling
Between two Sums, and drawing down from both

The light and genial warmth of double pay.
Modern Society, August 1, 1885.

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TO H.R.H. PRINCESS BEATRICE.

Two Suns of Love make day of human life, Which else with all its pains and griefs and deaths Were utter darkness-one, the Sun of dawn That brightens thro' the Mother's tender eyes, And warms the child's awakening world-and one The later-rising Sun of spousal Love Which from her household orbit draws the child To move in other spheres. The Mother weeps At that white funeral of the single life, Her maiden daughter's marriage ; and her tears Are half of pleasure half of pain-the child Is happy-e'en in leaving her! but Thou, True daught whose all-faithful, filial eyes Have seen the loneliness of earthly thrones, Wilt neither quit the widow'd Crown, nor let This later light of Love have risen in vain, But moving thro' the Mother s home, between The two that love thee, lead a summer life, Sway'd by each Love, and swaying to each Love Like some conjectured planet in mid heaven Between two Suns, and drawing down from both The light and genial warmth of double day.

TENNYSON.

LATEST BY THE POET OF LOW-RATE, Two Moons for thee, of honey and of strife ; The one with all its love, and joy, and bliss, And ample income ; one the honeymoon Which shines for thee in Trixey's tender eyes, And warms thee to our English home :--and one The moonshine of a watchful Ma-in-law, Who in her household orbit keeps her child To pine for other spheres. The Mother smiles At that white feather in thy jaunty cap ; Her maiden daughter's marriage does not rob Her of her close associate ; her daughter Is happy, never leaving her ; but thou, New Son-in-law, her watchful woman's eyes Which know the ways of young men sprung from

thrones

There was a Parody competition on these lines

The Weekly Dispatch, August 9, 1885, and the following Parodies were printed. The first, which gained the prize of Two Guineas was written by Mr. J. Phelan, of 4, Albion Terrace, Wisbech.

Two tones of love make woe of married life,
Which, at its best, hath frets and jars enough
For passive comfort-one, the voice of dole
That frequent murmurs from the wife's cold lips,
And warns the spouse to meek assent-and one
The keener-rising strain of mother s plaint
Which from obedience turns her daughter's mind
To undisguised revolt. The mother weeps
At that black burial of the single life,
Her hapless daughter's marriage; and her tears
Are half of sorrow, half of guile—the man
Tormented, rids himself of her !, but thou,
Poor bondsman, whose wealthseeking, glamoured

eyes
Have caught the loveliness of palace-homes,
Canst neither quit thy mother-in-law nor shun
The scorn her princely kin to thee accord,
But, moving in the mother's shade, between
Two fears that haunt thee, lead a tortured life,
Bored by restraint, and maddened by contempt,
Like luckless dweller 'neath I:alian Alps,
'Tween ice and sun, and drawing down from both
The chills and scorchings of a double clime.

To Prince Henry OF BATTENBERG, Two things, no doubt, make day of married life, Which else, with all its cares and births and deaths, Were utter mis'ry! One a loving wife, Who brightens all the home, whose tender eyes Beam o'er the household world -and one, The secondary one, of needful cash, Which from far Germany has drawn thee, child, .To move in English spheres. What Prince would

keep In the mean penury of single life When he could make a marriage such as yours, With half its pleasure, half its gain, the while Your slyness draws an annual six thou ? True German, whose all-seeking eager eyes Have seen the pickings round an English throne, You'll cotton to our widow'd Crown, I'll bet ! Nor play the “light o' love” and spoil your game; But, walking round your mother-in-law, between The two that keep you, lead a stunning life. Play well your cards—good playing, too, 'twill prove ; But don't-rememb’ring both are more than sevenBetween two stcols come tumbling down from both, And lose the genial game by doubtful play.

LEONARD HARDING.

To the New RADICAL MEMBERS. Two sorts of grants make rich the royal train, Who else, with all their pomp and stars and glare, Were utter paupers-one, the grant for age That princes get when twenty-one they reachOr set up their establishments—and one (The later asked for grant) when spousal love Quite oft the Household charges takes the childTo let the parent save. The Commons shout At these extensions of the public tax, And vote them with a rapture—and the Peers, Amidst their pleasure, feel a pain that they Hold not the purse-strings national. But ye, True Radicals !- with earnest, rugged mindsKnowing the shams and uselessness of thrones, Will neither vote the first-nained grant, nor let The later bold demand be made again, But, rising in the Commons' House, between The sides that fear thee, make a stern protest; Bribed hy no place, nor fearful of the frown That scares those noble patriots who're in heaven When smiles a Queen, or whensoe'er they feel The snug and genial warmth of feathered nests.

GEORGE MALLINSON.

To My SUNDAY Suit. Two tricks of trade make bearable my life, Which else, with all its hunger and its thirst, Were utter mis'ry-one, to buy on tick By throwing dust into the tradesmen's eyes. And so secure my Sunday clothes—and one The later-risiog hope of pawning them, Which from my household orbit draws the suit To go up uncle's spout. The tradesman weeps Thinking of that white lie I gulled him with, His maiden, sad adventure, and his tears Are none of pleasure, all of pain. The clothes, All rappy as they left his shop-yes, thou Good broadcloth, my all useful Sunday suit, Whose presence cheers my earthly loneliness, Wilt neither quit my gloomy home nor let Those gleaming three brass balls have risen in vain, But, moving through the popping-shop, between The two that own thee, glad my fretful life, Swayed by each peed, and swaying to each need, Like some new-fangled toy acquired in shares Between two boys, and drawing down from both Their warm and ge:ial zeal in double play.

EDWARD JOHNS.

To LORD TENNYSON. Two bridal loves make laugh of “ You you's" song, Which else, with all its gush and hollow praise, Were utter blankness-one, the German Prince Who settles 'neath his mother's Castle roof, And claims her child's unbounded wealth; and oneThe not surprising one-his lady-love. Who from her wedding bower drawls the linesAnd shows unto her friends. Her mother weeps At this vile twaddle froin her great Laureate On Princess Trixie's marriage; and her sighs Are half of pity, half contempt—the child Is muddled e'en at reading it! For thou O Alfred, whose erst faithful lyric pen Hath limn'd the loveliness of “The Princess," Could'st ne'er forget whence came thy crown, nor let This little love-match pass without a strain ; But, grovelling at the mother's throne, between The two new lovers, act the toady's part, Playing the fool, and playing unto fools, Like some contortioned jester of the Court Between two' spoons," and drawing down from both A cold insipid smile on this glad day.

Jesse H, WHEELER.

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