Can rounded arm, or well-developed bust
Pertain alike to women of our clime?
Can Kalydor disguise the cheek of lust,
Or Rouge conceal the ravages of time?
Perhaps beneath those flaunting robes are locked
Hearts once recoiling at the name of " Flirt "-
Hands that a nursery cradle might have rocked,
Or sewed the buttons on a husband's shirt!

And who so bold as venture to presage

The fate of seeming best or seeming worst? For woman's the same mystery to the age, She was to Senor Adam at the first.

Full many a fair, to hopeless love a prey,

Still in life's drama plays a smiling part;

Full many a lover sighs his soul away,

And wastes his passion on a "Marble Heart."

Yet who, despite the frailties of the fair,

A Bachelor existence long can brook; Dwell in dull lodgings up a dozen pair,

Nor cast upon the "Sex" one longing look? On some fond breast the aching head must lean, Some heart must beat in union with ours; In this alone their proper sphere "is seen,

16

Even in our weakness live their vaunted powers,

For thee, who mindful of the yet unwed,

Dost in these lines extol the married state,
If chance, by British disposition led,
Some curioso shall inquire thy fate,

Haply some old associate may say :

"Oft have we seen him through the deepest snows, Rushing with hurried strides and features gay

To reach the play-house, ere the curtain rose. "There, at the end of yonder circling row

That skirts the stage, above the foot-light's glare,
His careless length at evening would he throw,
And gaze upon the girl that dances there.

"Hard by yon bar, now swearing, as in spite,
Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove;
Now talking awful wild, like one half tight,'
Of some new 'mash,' his latest love!

"One night we missed him 'mong the accustomed bloods'
Within the corner near his favourite she;
Another came; not yet among the 'gods,'

Nor near the bar, nor in the pit was he,

The next, with favours white, and strange designs. Swift up the church-way path we saw him whirled ; Just take your eye and throw it o'er the lines That show he's lost for ever to the world."

THE EPIGRAPH.

Here lives, retired, with no more to excite,
A youth to all the corps de ballet known;
Fair woman smiled upon him every night,
Till Matrimony marked him for her own.

Strange though his fancies, yet his heart was warm ;
Fraught with aversion for a form uncouth,

Was down on Humbug in its wildest form:
His motto "Every man his own Kossuth!”

No farther seek his merits to disclose,

Or paint the follies of his single life, For they, alike, quiescently repose

Within the bosom of his faithful wife.

The Umpire. (Manchester), May 5, 1888.

The following imitation of the "Elegy" appeared in The Volunteer Record and Shooting News (London, 33, King William Street, E.C.), August 11, 1888. It was written by a well known shooting man of the London Rifle Brigade as a funeral dirge upon the last of the N.R.A. meetings on Wimbledon Common. The first meeting was held there in July, 1860.

WIMBLEDON-AN ELEGY.

July 21st, 1888.
THE Sound of gunfire marked the closing day
Of that last meeting on the breezy lea;
Now marksmen homeward plod their weary way,
And leave the Common they no more shall see :
For fades the latest glimmering hope from sight
That he who by ill-fate the land doth hold,
Hard by where bullets sped their rapid flight
Might yet a portion of that land have sold.

Round yon trim cottage and the windmill's tower
The moping owl shall hoot his sad refrain,
And with the hat disport at twilight's hour;
Nought to disturb their solitary reign.

Where stood the umbrella tent, whose welcome shade
They often sought-to smoke, to flirt, to sleep;
Where Henton's band such charming music played;
Now, noisome creatures o'er the turf shall creep.

The cheery call of bugles in the morn,

Or thunder rain-drops trickling on their head; Or worse, the shriek of bag-pipes, zephyr horne, No more shall wake them from their palliasse bed. And they no more upon those beds shall turn, Making perchance, in dreams, tall scoring there. No comrades greet them in hot haste to learn What they have made, their joy or sadness share.

Oft did the targets to their science yield

The welcome "eyes" when they past records broke.
How jocund then they sped across the field!
Scarce bent the grass beneath their feet's light stroke.
And yet, more oft, mocked was ambition's toil,
Modest outers, and " mags," scarce less obscure,
Rewarding hope with a disdainful smile!
Provoking language the reverse of pure.

They freedom asked for, from vexatious strife.
Their well-aimed bullets never learned to stray,
And never yet endangered limb or life,
While to the butts they sped their noiseless way.

Full many a budding shot, with vision keen,
Strove hard to woo the fickle goddess there;
But now, alas! they live to blush unseen

And waste their sweetness on the desert air!

Mr. Hiram Henton, Bandmaster of the London Rifle Brigade. The L.R.B. Band was selected for several years, for Camp duty, by the National Rifle Association.

Perhaps, on that neglected range have laid
Embryo prizemen, who, if they could fire,
Might with their fame have distant empires swayed!
And, being chaired, have invoked the living lyre!

And thou, proud Duke, 'twill be indeed thy fault
If mem'ry o'er thy tomb no trophies raise !
If, after long-drawn years, thy fretted vault
Bears no inscription graved in words of praise.

No storied urn, or marble sculptured bust,

Shall e'er record thy name-but fleeting breath— For thou hast brought the N.R.A. to dust,

And laid thereon the dull cold hand of death.

'Twas thou forbade it-yes, thou, and thou alone Their growing talents crushed; the deed's confined To thee, who, although dwelling near a throne

Hast shut the gates that bound thee to thy kind.

The gnawing pangs of conscience try to hide,

Go, quench the blush caused by thy action's shame, Heap on thyself discredit for thy pride;

Thou'st sunk for gain, thy erstwhile honour'd name.

That name, thy years, thy choice to power misuse,
Thy selfish deed, this elegy supply,
Which round thy fame unholy blessings strews,
For thou hast left the N.R. A. to die.

THE EPITAPH.

THERE now lies dead upon this spot of earth
An institution once to fame well-known,
A Queen was present at its humble birth!
Success unrivalled marked it for its own.
Large was its mission, and its work sincere,
The Volunteers its meets did well attend;
They give its mem'ry (all they have)—a tear,
And pray for (that which "George" was not) a friend.
No further need the merits to disclose

Of that Common, so long by marksmen trod,
Those marksmen now in trembling hope repose
Their future in the Council, and their God.

E. B. ANSTEE.

Another parody on Gray's "Elegy appeared in a scarce old Scotch volume, entitled "The Court of Session Garland" which has recently been re-issued by Messrs. Hamilton, Adams & Co., London.

The parody was written by Colin Maclaurin, Esquire, advocate, and was first privately printed at Edinburgh in 1814. It relates the cares and anxieties incident to the legal profession:

THE bell now tolls, soon after dawn of day,
The lawyer herd wind slowly up the street,
The macer court-ward plods his weary way,
Anxious, in haste, each learned judge to meet.
And soon the bustling scene delights the sight,
In yonder gorgeous and stupendous hall,
While eager macers call, with all their might,
The busy lawyers from each judge's roll.
E're long, from yonder velvet-mantled chair,
The angry judge does to the bar complain,
Of counsel who, by way and means unfair,
Molest his potent and judicial reign.

Beneath yon fretted roof that rafters shade,

Whare lie huge deeds in many mouldering heads,

Each, in its narrow cell, far too long laid,
Many a dusty process often sleeps.

The dreadful call of macer, like a horn,

The agent, tottering from some humble shed, The lawyer's claron, like the cock's, at morn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the agent's lamp shall burn, Or busy clerk oft' ply his evening care, No counsel run to hail their quick return, Or long their client's envied fees to share.

Oft' did the harvest to their wishes yield,

And knotty points their stubborn souls oft' broke. How keenly did they, then, their clients shield! How bow'd the laws beneath their sturdy stroke.

Let not derision mock their useful toils,
Forensic broils, and origin obscure,
Nor judges hear, with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple causes of the poor.

The boast of sov'reignty, the rod of power,
And all the sway that judges ever have,
Await alike the inevitable hour

When all must yield to some designing knave.

Nor you, ye vain, impute to such the fault,
If mem'ry o'er his deeds no trophies raise,
Where, thro' the long drawn hall and fretted vault,
The well-fee'd lawyer swells his note of praise.

For thee, who mindful of each agent's deeds,
Dost in these lines their artful ways relate
If chance, or lonely contemplation leads
Some kindred spirit to enquire thy fate;
Haply some hoary headed sage may say,-
Oft' have we seen him, at the peep of dawn,
Brushing, with hasty steps, the dews away,
To meet the judges, at the court in town.
One morn I miss'd him in th' accustomed hall,
Upon the boards, and near his favourite seat;
Another came, and answered to the roll:

Nor at the bar nor in the court he sate.

The next, with dirges due, in sad array,

Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne :

Approach and read, for thou canst read the lay Grav'd on his stone, beneath yon aged thorn.

ΕΡΙΤΑΡΗ.

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth,
A youth to Business and to Law well known;
Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth,
And Litigation marked him as her own.
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
Heaven did a recompense as largely send :
He gave to Mis'ry (all he had), a tear;
He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wished),
a friend.

No further seek his merits to disclose,
Nor draw his frailties from their dread abode ;
(There they, like many a lawyer's, now repose)
The bosom of his Father and his God.

Till trembling at length, cried poor Roger, "I pray Aside your great coat, my old cock, you would lay, And deign to partake of our cheer."

The swain now is silent-the stranger complies,-
His coat now he slowly unclos'd!

Good Gods! what a sight met poor Roger's gray eyes,
What words can express his dismay and surprise,
When a constable's staff was expos'd!

All present then utter'd a terrified shout,
All hasten with hurry away;

For as no one knew whom he came to seek out,
Some tried to creep in, some tried to rush out,
Till the constable cried "Roger Gray !"

"Behold me, thou false one !-behold me !" he cried ; "Remember fair Peggy the gay,

Whom you left with a child to possess a new bride; But his Worship, to punish thy falsehood and pride, Has sent me to fetch thee away."

So saying, he laid his strong arm on the clown, Calling vainly for help from the throng;

He bore him away to the gaol of the town, Nor ever again was he seen at the "Crown," Or the catchpole who dragg'd him along.

Not long staid the bride-for, as old women say,
The meat in her shop was all spoil'd,

All her beef and her mutton were carried away,
And sold to buy caudle for Peggy the gay,
And biggins and pap for the child.

Four times in each year, when in judgment profound
The Quorum all doze on the Bench,

Is Roger brought up, and is forc'd to be bound, With a friend, in the sum of at least forty pound, To provide for the child and the wench.

A scarce little pamphlet, published by J. Crocker, London, 1838, entitled "The Modern Gilpin, or the Adventures of John Oldstock, in an Excursion by Steam from London to Rochester Bridge, containing a passing glance at the principal places on the Thames and Medway" was, as its name implies, a parody of Cowper's "John Gilpin":

JOHN Oldstock was a store-keeper,

In far-famed Seven-Dials;

An ebon nymph grac'd his shop-door-
He dealt in rags and phials.

Yah, disdinctly I remember, it was in dot pleak December,

Und each seberate dying ember vos gone oud long pefore;

Dot nide I felt quoide heardy, for Louise vent to a bardy, Und of cause I drunk more lager as I nefer did pefore; But schdill I know dot somedings sthruck my oudside voodshed door

Only dot, und noding more.

From oud mine bed I makes von jumb, und see vot vos dis drubble,

Mine Got vot makes mine legs so veak? I feel so not pefore;

I sckarce could valk, I could not talk, mine mind was in a muddle;

But I dought it vas Johnny Snyder dryin' to open schud mine door,

Und mit cabbage-sdumps to hit me, as he often doned before

Dis I said, und noding more,

Py und py I vos got praver; den I takes mine gun and sabre,

Und schloly valks, midout mine pants, up to mine voɔdshed door;

Und dare for von half hour I sdood mitout no power,
So veak I vos I could not lift mine hands up any more;
But at vonce I got more polder, und I opened vide de
door-
Plack as darkness, noding more.

Deep into dot plackness peeping, all around mine voodshed creeping,

Dreaming dreams no Dutchman efer dare to dream pefore.

Der silence vos unbroken, und der sdillness gave no token;

But I hear somepody spoken, "You vill vare dem pants no more."

"Vot is dot?" I cried, and someding answered back the vord, "No more."

Merely dis, und noding more.

Back indo my bedroom turning, all my sole mitin me burning,

Den vonce more I heert a tapping, someding louder as pefore.

Now I cries out, "Dunder vetter! vot the devil ish the madder?"

Surely dis ain't Johnny Snyder hitting cabbage mit mine door?

No! I dink dis cannot be, for I bet, by geminee !
'Twas the vind, und noding more.

Oben here I flung mine vindow, ven dere all at vonce came into

A ding just like a big plack cat I never saw pefore; Von fearful vink he gafe me, not von moment sdoped nor sdayed he;

His pack he humped, und den he jumped upon mine bedroom door. Dare he sat, und noding more.

The air dew was so funny, for it schmells no more like honey,

Und den I squease mine nose hard until it vas quide

sore;

Den vonce I cried mid all my mide, "I vant to vare mine pants to-night,

Und of you dink dot I vos dighd, chust chumped down off dot floor;"

Again I heard it gently say: "You'll vare dem pants no more."

Dis it said, und noding more.

"Profid," said I, "ding of efil; profid sdill, if dorg or devil,

For vot you comes into mine house? I vant you here no

more;

Leafe no ding here as a doken of dot lie vich you hafe spoken';

You go home, I vas not joking, for I told you once pefore, Chust dake dot smell frum out mine house, und jump down off mine door!"

But it vinked, and said no more.

A penny pamphlet, in a blood red cover, has been recently published in Poppin's Court, Fleet Street, entitled "The Whitechapel Murders, A vision of the Murderer as seen from Dreamland, by Marcus."

It is written in imitation of Poe's Raven, to call attention to the wretched inefficiency of our present system of police, and the supineness of the Home Office in everything relating to the unfashionable quarters of London.

But as both Sir Charles Warren and Mr. Matthews are already sufficiently unpopular, it is needless to quote this parody, dealing, as it does, with topics of a most unpleasant description.

:0

The following parody refers to the Fisheries dispute between Canada and the United States, which, but for Mr. Chamberlain's unfortunate want of tact and temper during his mission, might have been amicably settled :

CANADA, MY CANADA.

THE haddock's feet are on thy shore, Canada, my Canada;

The halibut is at the door,

Canada, my Canada;

For smelt and gudgeon, chub and eel, For codfish, hake and mackareel, Arise and meet the Yankee steal. Canada, my Canada.

Thou wilt not cower in the brine,
Canada, my Canada;

Thou wilt not drop thy fishing line,
Canada, my Canada;

Defend thy sculpin, save thy skate, Strike for thy shad with soul elate, Don't swear, and spit upon thy bait. Canada, my Canada.

Deal gently with a herring race
Canada, my Canada;

Put up your swordfish in its place,
Canada, my Canada;

If for reprisal you would sue,

Just turn your other cheek-please do,
And take a Yankee smack or two,
Canada, my Canada.

The Brooklyn Eagle, U.S.

-:0:

THE BEAUTIFUL SNOW.

A correspondent in Chicago writes in reference to this poem (see page 268) "there seems little doubt but that it was written by Mr. James M. Watson. Mr. Bryant in his Library of Poetry and Song, and Mr. Coates in his Fire-side Cyclopedia both name him as the author. The last verse, however, which you qucte is not a part of the original poem, but added later, and by another hand. Mr. W. F. Fox, of this city, wrote an additional verse to supply the idea of final hope of forgiveness and happiness. It is as follows:

How strange it should be that the beautiful snow
Should robe with its brightness this world in its woe!
Yet the soft crystals so tenderly falling,
Speak to my heart as if angels were calling,
Lovingly, earnestly, bidding me come,
Offering this soul of mine rest and a home;
Away in the mansion of glory above,

I'll plead for admission through pardoning love,
There, robed in that mantle God's grace can bestow,
I'll rival the whiteness of beautiful snow.

The authorship of this poem has been very much discussed over here in the United States. The following verses, which went the rounds a few years ago, were keenly enjoyed by the reading world":

The Gallant Three Hundred.

THREE hundred brave warriors with pistols and rifles,
Who will not be daunted by dangers or trifles
Have taken an oath and are ready to go,
On a hunt for the author of "Beautiful Snow."

Too long has he lived on this suffering earth,
Too long has he haunted the family hearth,
Too long been permitted his trumpet to blow,
That cold-blooded author of "Beautiful Snow."

If they find him-and surely we hope that they will-
They will finish him up, for they'll hunt him to kill;
The gallant Three Hundred will follow the chase,
Till they come within sight of his back or his face.

Then fearlessly charging the terrible foe,
They will pepper the author of "Beautiful Snow,"
So let the brave heroes in battle array,
Dash off to "the front" well equipped for the fray.

Accomplish their purpose they can and they must,
For their cause is the people's, their warfare is just,
And when their good work is effectively done,
When the battle is fought and the victory won,

They'll return with their banner star spangled and bright,

And high on their flagstaff plainly in sight
Will dangle what all must feel happy to know,
Is the scalp o the author of "Beautiful Snow."

DER GOOD-LOOKIN SHNOW.

OH! dot shnow, dot goot-lookin shnow,
Vhich makes von der shky out on tings below,
Und yoost on der haus vhere der shingles vas grow,
You come mit some coldness, vherefer you go;
Valtzin und blayin und zinging along.

Goot-lookin shnow, you dond cood done wrong.