As I listlessly turn o'er the page
Of some fanciful fickle untruth,
Bent double by premature age,

You hardly would guess at my youth.
IV.

Yes, alas! I feel seedy and old,

Though the notion is highly absurd, For I've plenty of silver and gold,

And there's nothing I cannot afford : I've only to touch my hand-bell

For although not respected, I'm feared, Though I live as a sot, I'm a swell

And am thinking of growing a beard.

V.

Ye wiles that have made me your sport,
Who have wasted my health and my ore,
Who've made me swill sherry and port
Till I could not contain any more;
Oh how I do wish I could mend

Or begin life again and you'd see
If I wouldn't do something to tend
To my taking my B. A. degree.
VI.

Just once in a way, I don't mind,

But, thus happening night after night!

And the thoughts which the fumes leave behind, Are anything but pleasant or bright;

I drink or I gamble till three,

And, if I do reach the right square, Very often can't find my latch key,

Or perhaps take my bath for a chair.

As I dally awhile o'er my toast and the Times,
I picture these tourists, for time ever pressed,
Like spirits condemned, for most heinous of crimes,
To forfeit for ever the semblance of rest;
From foul-smelling places to towns fouler still,
I see them dragged hither and thither away;
Doomed mountains to climb, and spa waters to swill,
To touts and to guides and to vergers a prey.

I see them, deprived of the comforts they need, Diurnally grow more distraught and distress'd, And doom'd at hotels in succession to feed

On food that they loathe, and can never digest. Whilst worse than all else, there is death in the air, And rumours the stoutest of hearts to appal, As each Galignani increases the scare, And dread of the Cholera broods over all !

And then when at night I retire to my bed-
To my own cosy bed in my big airy room-

I think of those friends who from London have fled
To find on the coast of these islands their doom.

For I see them condemned-for the heed that they pay To Fashion's decrees-in a cupboard to sleep, Where the lodging-house flea works its merciless way, And causes its victims long vigil to keep.

Poor wretches! I think of the sum that they pay,
To be cheated by harpies who ruin their peace;
To be bitten by night and be bullied by day,

And poisoned by cooking all reeking with grease; Whilst e'en the ozone that they yearn to obtain, And which to inhale they 'midst miseries tarry, Can only be breathed by the side of the main

Arm-in-arm, so to speak, with gay 'Arriet and 'Arry

In a month or two's time I shall welcome them back-
Save those too unwell from abroad to return-
And some Roman Fever to England will track,
Whilst others with ague will shiver and burn;
And all will be writing complaints to the Times,
To re-tell the story which every one knows,
As couriers' guile and hotel-keepers' crimes
They sadly repeat, and most sternly expose.
Truth, August 13, 1885.

THE LIMITED MONARCH.

"Her Majesty's ship Monarch, having then continued on her course at a speed of barely eight knots an hour, finally, when she was distant from Malta fully 250 miles, came to a dead stop, and broke down."

I'M the Monarch of all I survey,

And Brassey the fact won't dispute,
For here I've been sticking all day

Like some waterlogged sea-going brute !
O Cheeseparing, where are the charms

That Northbrook has seen in thy face!
Look at me-in the midst of alarms!-

And yet mine's but a typical case.

But the upshot of all is quite clear;
If matters go on as they do,

Well, the Navy will soon disappear,

And "My Lords," well-they'll disappear too! So now that I'm docked, and they find

That I never was fit for the main,

Let us hope that a thing of the kind
Won't occur-till it happens again!

Punch. April 25, 1885

A SONG FOR MR. JOSEPH CHAMBERLAIN.

O SOCIETY, where are the charms

That once I could see in thy face? To escape from these Duchesses' arms, I would live in a desolate place! But alas since I've turned on my chief, My peace has been wrecked in this way, And nothing can bring me relief

Whilst I still with the Unionists stay!

Ah, me! I once said of the Primrose,
'Twas at best but a poor faded flow'r !
But now Primrose Dames are my tyrants,
And threaten my peace to devour.

And instead of the orchid so famous
My buttonhole once used to bear,
'Tis a primrose (of silver enamel)
That now I'm expected to wear!

Truth. Christmas Number, 1886.

THE LAMENT OF THE SPORTIVE M.P.

I AM weary of all I survey,

I am sick to the heart of debate ; It is something too awful, I say,

To be thus kept in London so late. O Parliament! where are the charms That candidates in thee can trace? For, worn out by the "Whips' " false alarms, I am sick of the horrible place!

I am out of Society's reach ;

At the Club I am well-nigh alone; And not e'en the smile of Hicks-Beach For my dulness extreme can atone. Yet the Irishmen, brutally stern,

Have not the least pity on me,

But they all make long speeches in turn In garments most shocking to see.

Had I known it was certainly meant

The House through September should meet, My money I'd never have spent

In order to carry a seat!

It is shameful, this tax on my brain,
And this daily compulsion to work;

And yet fussy voters complain

If by chance a division I shirk !

Each post brings to me a report

That but makes my position more hard.

As I read of the excellent sport

From which I am wholly debarr'd.
Whilst the "guns " I had asked to my moor,
At Pittwithiebothie, N. B.;

Big bags are content to secure
By blazing away without me!

Yes, I think of these fortunate men,

As I aimlessly wander about,

Or rush to my place now and then,

When Biggar attempts a "count out."

And sometimes I doze till I dream

Of the things which my thoughts always fill, Till I wake with disgust most extreme,

To find Dr. Tanner up still!

And then there are Radicals too,

Who want all the votes to discuss, Instead of "Supply" rushing through At one sitting, without any fuss. Whilst some seek the people's applause By stating that we of the House Had better be there making laws

Than shooting at blackcock and grouse.

Such rubbish I never have heard,

For what, pray, becomes of my ease?

It seems to me too, too absurd
That I'm not to do what I please.

BURBABAN'S DEFEAT.

A Warwickshire Lay.

COUNT Peste, he was a nobleman,
Of credit and renown,

A jockey-club man, too, was he,
Öf old Newmarket town.

Count Peste said to his love, “My dear,
Though with me you have been
These many tedious years, yet you
No racing yet have seen.

To-morrow is a racing day,
And we will then repair
Unto the town of Warwickshire
And see the racing there.

I am a nobleman so bold,
As all the world doth know,
So I will ride old 'Burbaban,'

You'll see how we will go."

Quoth Lady Peste, "That is well said,
For jockey's fees are dear,

So you can ride, and be your own,

*

That is both nice and clear."

He lost the race, he lost it quite,
And back he got to town;

All wished he never had been up,
For it was up and down.

Now let us sing, "Long live the Queen!
And Count Peste, long live he!

And when he next a race does ride,

May I be there to see!"

There are twenty-two verses in all in this not very interesting parody, which is to be found in Lays of the Turf, by Rose Grey. London: G. H. Nichols, 1863.

-:0:

A RIDDLE.

I AM just two and two, I am warm, I am cold,

And the parent of numbers that cannot be told;

I am lawful, unlawful-a duty, a fault,

I am often sold dear, good for nothing when bought;
An extraordinary boon, and a matter of course,
And yielded with pleasure when taken by force.

The answer, not given by Cowper, is "A Kiss." The riddle was first published in The Gentleman's Magazine in 1806. In a later number the following answer was given, the initials “J. T" being appended to it :— A riddle by Cowper

Made me swear like a trooper,
But my anger, alas! was in vain
For remembering the bliss

Of beauty's soft kiss,

I now long for such riddles again.

;

"Sisters and brothers, little Maid,

How many may you be?"

"How many, Seven in all," she said,
And wondering looked at me.

"And where are they? I pray you tell,"
She answered, "Seven are we;
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,

"Two of us in the churchyard-lie,
My sister and my brother;
And, in the church-yard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother."

"You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,

Yet ye are seven !-I pray you tell,
Sweet Maid, how this may be."

Then did the little Maid reply,
"Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the church-yard lie;
Beneath the church-yard tree."

"You run about, my little Maid,
Your limbs they are alive;

If two are in the church-yard laid,
Then ye are only five."

"Their graves are green, they may be seen," The little Maid replied,

"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, And they are side by side.

"My stockings there I often knit,

My kerchief there I hem :

And there upon the ground I sit,

I sit and sing to them.

"And often after sun-set, Sir,

When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer
And eat my supper there.

"The first that died was sister Jane ; In bed she moaning lay,

Till God released her of her pain;
And then she went away.

"So in the church-yard she was laid; And, when the grass was dry,

Together round her grave we played,

My brother John and I.

"And when the ground was white with snow,

And I could run and slide,

My brother John was forced to go,

And he lies by her side."

"How many are you, then," said I, "If they two are in heaven?"

The little Maiden did reply,

"O Master! we are seven."