What flattering music meets his ear,

What loving voices greet!

He sitteth now in presence here,

With a nation at his feet.

And (joy for him!) he's not alone;
Yon lady, look-she shares his throne.

The bishops, a right reverend race,
Bring first, then take away,

Rare things of gold that through the place
Dispense a brighter day

They robe him next with a robe of grace,
The supertunica.

And many a ring, and staff, and sword,
He takes from many a mumbling lord,
Enwrapt in richest silk and fur;
On head and hand the oil is poured,
And now they touch his foot with a spur,
And crown that Ancyente Marynere!
Soon about the Queen they'll stir,
Crowning William, crowning her.

To kiss the cheek, with aspects meek
Now on their knees the bishops fall;
Oh! every peer must kiss the cheek,
But great Lord Brougham the last of all.
Oh! yes, Lord Harry he came the last,
But the roof it rang as on he passed;

The people laugh, and the peers they stare

For they never had thought to have seen him there.

I guess 'twas curious there to see

A baron so oddly clad as he,

Ludicrous exceedingly.

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SONNETS ON THE CORONATION.

By a Lyrist from the Lakes.

(William Wordsworth.)

[Our Lyrist of the Lakes must be figured as an "old man eloquent" in all that can interest and elevate our nature, He should be somewhat tall, and somewhat drooping, with a head that scarcely seems to know that there is a halo round it, an expression of quiet dignity and simplicity of character, an unaffected familiarity of demeanour, and a suit of brown, properly fitted for one whose studies are sometimes of the same complexion. The white doe, the "solitary doe" of Rylstone, might be playing in the back-ground, and it would not be amiss to have a glimpse of the other solitary and immortal quadruped, that Peter Bell encountered in the forest.]

NATIONAL HAPPINESS.

OH! ardent gazers! happy, happy herd
Of creatures, who your parlours, back or front,
Have left in litters; and in scorn of Hunt
And all who once your darker feelings stirred,
Have risen this morning with the earliest bird-
Breakfast less haply, or with some such thing
As a dry biscuit satisfied; your King
May justly prize the crown this day conferred
Upon him, and for you his power employ,
Was ever love like this! That maiden pale
Was there at seven this morn; of cap and veil
Despoiled, yon matron laughs. Behold that boy
Loyally standing on a spiked rail.

Oh! what can damp a nation's natural joy.

EFFECTS OF RAIN AT A CORONATION.

What, what but RAIN! When brightest shines the sun,

Now as the pageant gorgeous back returns,

Down, down it comes! Each honied aspect learns

The sour vexation; all delight is done.

The King is now forgotten. Many run

For shelter, where strange phrases (strange to me)
Of "perkins,'
99 66 meux, " and "barclay," seem to be
Signs of glad welcome and of social fun.

Meanwhile each cloud some cherished comfort mars;
Those, envied, on the roofs, slide down again
Now envying those below, Rheumatic men,
With ague in perspective, curse their stars.
Wives, with their dresses dabbled, mourn the sum
Thus washed away, and wish they had not come.

THE SUBJECT CONTINUED.

The very soldiers fly: with dripping plumes
Depending, the whole staff, at furious pace,
Retreats, most tender of its limbs and lace.
On tiptoe creep the carriage-seeking grooms
Of many who, among the Abbey-tombs

Had prayed for a "long reign!' but not for showers
Like this that seems disposed to last for hours!
Oh! happy they who, shut within their rooms,
Were disappointed of their seats to-day!
'Tis wisely ordered that-

I have forgot what I was going to say.

:0:

THE LITTLE ABSENTEE.

(Miss L. E. Landon.)

[The only illustration to this contribution should be three elegantly-ornamented letters "L.E.L." Through the clouds in the background might be dimly discerned a face, whose expression seems to hover between Romance and Reality-that indicates a spirit bound by every natural tie to the altar of song, yet stealing a sidelong look at the shrine of prose, as if inclined to offer up half its worship there.]

I SEE the bright procession wind
"Like a golden snake " along;
And I gaze around the Abbey, lined
With a proud and jewelled throng.

I see fair Lady Harrington;
And rich St. Albans, clad
In gems that drive, though ill put on,
The peeresses half mad.

The little princes too are there,

Those pure and pretty peers;
But oh the scene, to others fair,
To me is dimmed with tears.

One speck upon this earthly sun,
That soon, alas! must fade,
One little spot, and only one,

Throws on my heart a shade.
Of all the myriads met to-day,
Oh! tell me which is she
The gentle child I saw at play
By Kensington's green tree.

་་

My eye it rests on every spot,

Ladye and cavalier;

But that fair child, I see her not
Of all the thousands here.
She is not here-the reason why*
Is neither there nor here;
At home she heaves the infant sigh,
And dries the childish tear.

The humblest maid will murmur when
Refused its cup of bliss;

How must a princess suffer then,
To lose a sight like this!

Thus, mid the rich magnificence,
A vision sad and wild

Presents unto my inmost sense
An image of that child.

:0:

A REFLECTION.

(Rev. George Crabbe.)

[The author of this "Reflection," who would have given a Tale of the Hall," but that it happened to be closed this Coronation, should be represented by a river side, moralizing on the state of some Crabs that have just been captured, and quite insensible to the increasing tide which is washing over him. He should be figured as a poet prone to consider things "too curiously"-as one who, if he had a centipede to describe, would dissect you every separate leg, and instruct you in its anatomy; who would enlist your sympathies for a beggar by painting the shape and colour of every patch upon his vest, and whose picture of a battle would be merely the Army-List turned into rhyme. A workhouse should be in the centre of the picture, with a prison on one side, and an hospital on the other.]

TURN from the court your eyes, and then explore
Those gloomier courts where dwell the pining poor.
Just think what hungry families might dine
On that laced jacket, framed of superfine.
How large a nation may a little net

Confine what traps are in those trappings set!
Will the King give, what he has gained, a crown,
To Jones, Clark, Thompson, Jackson, Smith, or Brown?
All penceless pockets theirs-the man with cakes
For them stands still, or eats the tarts he makes.
Yet see yon lady; fifty pearls at least
Circle her arms, and might an army feast.
That zone for which a princess might have pined,
Her waist confining, seems to waste consigned.
On those red coats, ten buttons meet the view;
Ten plated buttons; ten divide by two,
It leaves you five, and five we know would do.
These five, if sold, would buy yon lad a hat,
Provide a dinner, and a tea to that.

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A MELODY. (MOORISH.)

(Thomas Moore.)

"The Moor, I know his trumpet ! "-OTHELLO. [A very small space will suffice for the present illustration. The poet must be figured at his desk inditing an epistle, commencing with "My dear Lord." Volumes of

Much comment was made upon the fact that the Duchess o Kent and her daughter, the Princess Victoria (heiress to the throne), were not present at the coronation of William IV.

poetry that exhibit signs of having been read over and over again are thrown in profusion about him, mingled with which are some biographies that seem to have been cast aside with many of the leaves uncut. Invitations to dinner are piled before him, with some resolutions proposing him as President of the Silver Fork Club.]

THERE'S a beauty as bright as the sunshine of youth,
Or the halo that beams round the temples of truth;
An odour like that from the spring-lily thrown
When a breathing from Araby blends with its own.
But the lustre is not on that Peeress's hair,
Though gems and a circlet of gold glisten there;
And the odour is not by that Exquisite cast,
Though his robe left a scent on the air as he pass'd.

This odour, 'tis not from the Abbey at all,

But breathes round the banquet in Westminster Hall; This light, that outsparkles the courtliest class,

Is the dazzling of dishes, the glitter of glass.

Let, let but that lustre encircle me still!

'Tis the true light of love, we may say what we will.
Oh! give me a breath of that odour sublime,
It is worth all the flowers perfuming my rhyme.

No banquet, dear Lansdowne ? no banquet to-day!
You cannot mean that !-I'll appeal then to Grey.
My lord, you have blotted the beauty, while new,
Of the rainbow that rises round Althorp and you.
Your music should mix with the drawing of corks,
Your glory should gleam in the flashing of forks.
Economy charms me-but first I must dine;
You may tamper with all constitutions-but mine.
Let Lord What's-his- title exult in his curls,
Let Lady The-other still dote on her pearls ;
What is all this to me, who my loss must deplore
'Till the Dinnerless Administration be o'er !
No dinner!-not evea a sandwich-

[The poet was here overcome by his feelings. He was carried off in a carriage decorated with a coronet, and was shortly afterwards set down at a very satisfactory side-table.]

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A GLANCE FROM A HOOD.

(Thomas Hood.)

[Represent a grave and rather anti-pun-like looking person, turning over the leaves of a pronouncing dictionary, and endeavouring to extract a pun from some obstinate and intractable word, that everybody else had discovered and abandoned years ago. Now and then he finds something that repays him, not because it is good but because it is new. If unsuccessful, he puts the first word he comes to in italics, and leaves the reader to fasten any joke upon it he pleases.]

HE comes, he comes! the news afar
Is spread by gun and steeple;
He seems (what many princes are)
The Father of his People.

That echoing cheer-it rises higher
And seems to reach the stars;
No Life-Guard escort he requires
Who meets with such Huzzas!

A poet-King; nay, do not scoff!

The Monarch hath his Mews;
Like those whose pensions he cuts off,
He's followed by the Blues.

Yet some our King and Queen must hate,
For see, besides a star,

Their houses they illuminate
With "W. A. R."

He's near the Abbey; on the air

The guns their echoes threw ;

And now the bishops make him swear
To mind their canons too.

That organ seems on ours to play

As if our love to nourish;

Be ruined by reform who may,

Those trumpeters must flourish.

A crown is brought, they make him King;

A King! why they mistake;

Two crowns, each child must know the thing, But half a sovereign make.

Well, he is ours; along the way

He hears his people's vow; And as he goes, he seems to say, "Your Bill is passing now!"

-:0:

THE LAUREATE'S LAY.

(Robert Southey, Poet Laureate.)

[The Laureate's Lay will of course exist only in a blank page. His lyre hath no chord left. He hath taken out a patent in the Court of Apollo, for treating birthdays and coronations with contempt. He basks in the sunshine of idleness-the poetical privilege of doing nothing, except calling at the treasury once a-year. As he could not be conveniently omitted among the contributors to this collection, some emblematic device may be introduced-a chamelion, or a rainbow or you may paint him, if you will, glancing back upon the light of his earlier years, and paraphrasing the story of "Little Wilhelmine" and the "famous victory:

"They say it was a splendid sight,

Such sums were lavished then,
Although the nation at the time

Was full of famished men ;

But things like that, you know, must be
At every famous pageantry.

"Much praise our gentle Monarch won,
And so did Grey and Brougham;"

"But what good came of it at last,"

Quoth simple Mr. Hume.

"Why, that I cannot tell," said he,

"But 'twas a famous pageantry."

MR. BARNUM'S EXPERIENCE OF TRAVELLING IN ENGLAND.

THE way was short, the wind was cold,

The voyage on Mr. B. had told;

His yielding knees, his tottering gait,
Showed what had lately been his fate;

His sunken eyes, his face so pale,
Bespoke the scarcely-finished gale.
His bag, in which he took such joy,
Was carried by a dockside boy;

And undistributed remained

The store of handbills it contained.
He had not far to go to gain
The platform where the London train
Stood waiting, and with wistful eye
He saw his welcome bourne so nigh;
And soon sank down, with yearning face,
Into the nearest vacant place.

It was a dark and fusty den,

In which were huddled several men,
Who gave, as Barnum came, a groan,
Which died away into a moan,

As, with their chins close to their knees,
They watched their new companion squeeze
Into his seat, and try in vain

Room for his legs, or arms to gain.
When he had struggled moments twain,
His wrath, which he could not restrain,
Impelled him suddenly to rise;
But no, he found, to his surprise,
'Twas useless, he was now, alas!
Part of a packed and groaning mass.
And as he, too, felt weak and ill,
He gave one groan and sat him still;
Till, moved by his increasing ire,
He cried, "Allow me to enquire

If we poor victims truly are

Now seated in a first-class car?"

"We are!" they moaned, then Barnum said,

"I'm sure I'd much prefer instead

Inside a cattle-truck to ride!

"You're right!" his fellow martyrs cried.

"Then why," exclaimed P. Barnum "then,

If you are true, brave Englishmen,

Do you submit without a battle

To thus be served far worse than cattle?"
Then, strengthened by his indignation,

He uttered this denunciation:

"BREATHES there a man that England's bred,
Who never to himself hath said,

This is a scandal to my land?
Whose wrath has not within him burned,
As home his footsteps he hath turned
From travelling on a foreign strand,
When he's been put to ache and freeze
In such disgraceful trucks as these?
If such there be, one soon can tell
That 'tis the shares he holds impel
Him to condone the line's disgrace;
Or 'cause connection he can trace
With some large holder of its scrip,
Or one on its directorship.
That any other man of sense
Should find conceivable pretence
So great an outrage to defend
Does probability transcend."
Truth, Christmas Number, 1883.

The Christmas Number of Truth, 1877, contained a parody on Lochinvar, concerning the appointment of Mr. Digby Piggott, as controller of the stationery office, by Lord Beaconsfield. This was characterised, at the time, as a gross piece of jobbery, but the subject has lost all interest now, and the parody was not a particularly good one.

Born June 12, 1819.

Died January 23, 1875.

CHARLES KINGSLEY.

Charles Kingsley, rector of Eversley, was born June 12, 1819, at Holne Vicarage, Dartmoor, Devonshire, and died January 23, 1875. His poems, though comparatively few in number, are marked by much power, pathos, and originality. The two which have most frequently suffered parody are The Three Fishers, and the Ode to the North-East Wind.

THE THREE FISHERS.

THREE fishers went sailing away to the West,
Away to the west as the sun went down ;
Each thought of the woman who loved him best,
And the children stood watching them out of the town.

For men must work, and women must weep,
And there's little to earn and many to keep,
Though the harbour bar be moaning.

Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower,
And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down
They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower,
And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown.

But men must work, and women must weep,
Though storms be sudden, and waters deep,
And the harbour bar be moaning.

Three corpses lay out on the shining sands
In the morning gleam as the tide went down,
And the women are weeping and wringing their hands
For those who will never come home to the town.

For men must work, and women must weep,
And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep;
And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.

CHARLES KINGSLEY.

AN OLD FRIEND IN A NEW DRESS.
THREE merchants went riding out into the west,
On the top of the bus, as the sun went down ;
Each talked of his wife, and how richly she drest,
And the growing circumference of her new gown;
For wives must dress, and husbands must pay,
And there's plenty to get, and little to say,
While the Milliner's Bill is running.

Three wives sat up in JANE CLARKE'S for hours.
And they told her to put every article down,
They ordered the silks, and they ordered the flowers
And the bill it kept rolling up, gown upon gown;
For wives must dress, and husbands will pay,
Though perhaps they will be in a terrible way
When they're dunned for the Bill that is running.

Three Bankrupts were figuring in the Gazette
On a Tuesday night when the sun went down,
And the women were weeping and quite in a pet,
For the dresses they never will show to the town;
For wives will dress, though husbands can't pay,
And Bankruptcy's surely the pleasantest way
To get rid of the bill and the dunning.

This parody, with three appropriate illustrations, appeared in Punch, November 27, 1858.

THE FOUR FISHERS,

(Who caught nothing)

FOUR Merchants who thought themselves wisest and best
Of all the folks in Liverpool town,

To the EMPEROR LOOEY a letter addressed,
Intended to do him uncommonly brown:

"We'll sound his plans so dark and so deep, From Liverpool brokers no secret he'll keep," Said they, in their Lancashire toning.

Four Boobies went sniggering round all day
Among the folks in Liverpool town,
And thinking that none were so clever as they,
And how they should come to a great renown:

"We'll strike LORD PALMERSTON all of a heap, And show we can catch a French weasel asleep," Said they, their impertinence owning.

Four asses they hung down their lollopping ears,
When the post came in to Liverpool town,
And brought them a letter whereof it appears
Those donkeys could'nt translate a noun.

For LOOEY knows well how his secrets to keep,
And the Liverpool brokers unluckily reap
A harvest of jeering and groaning.

Punch, December 17, 1859.

(During the ridiculous panic about a supposed imminent French invasion in 1859, four Liverpool gentlemen wrote a letter to Napoleon III. asking him to publicly declare what his intentions were towards England.)

THE LASHER AT IFFLEY.

EIGHT Coveys went out in their college boat,
And they feathered their oars as the water they cut,
Each thought of the races, and what they would do,
And Harvey stood watching them out of the gut.

For men must row and coxswains must steer,
And carefully too, as the races draw near,
While the lasher at Iffley is moaning.

These eight coveys went into training one day,
And they trimmed their boat, though at first it felt queer
Their pipes and their baccy were soon put away,
And they stuck to their steaks, and their chops, and their
beer;

For men must train and coxswains must steer,

And if they don't train they'll get bumped I fear,
While the lasher at Iffley is moaning.

The races came on, and the guns went off,
The crew now are spurting-the boat does jump,
Their friends too are shouting, and waving their hats
For those who will never submit to a bump.

For men must spurt, and never say die,

And when their strength fails, on their pluck must rely,

While the lasher at Iffley is moaning.

The races are past, and the bumps are made,
The crew have been cheered, and the supper is won,
The pipes and the baccy are quickly renewed,
"The Eight is deserted-the puntings begun.

For men must rest, and races must cease,
But Isis' fair stream can ne'er be at peace
While the lasher at Iffley keeps moaning.
H. F. B.

College Rhymes, 1861. W. Mansell, Oxford.

HOW THREE FISHERS WENT SALERING,
THREE mothers sat talking who lived at the west,
The west end-as that eldest son went down,
Each thought him the husband that she liked the best,
For the girl who had watched him all over the town,
For men must pay or women weep

And their dress is expensive, and many to keep,
And their mothers are always wo-o-ning.

Three gentlemen lounged at the club-house door,
And they thought of those girls as the funds went down ;
They thought of their bankers and thought them a bore,
And of bills that came rolling in "ragged and brown."
But men must pay or women will weep-
Though debts be pressing-still mothers are deep,
And keep up a constant wo-o-ning.

Three gentlemen lay in three separate cells-
The last season's "necessities" pulled them down-
And the women are weeping and ringing their bells,
For those who will never more show upon town,
For men must pay or women will weep,
And the sooner you do it the sooner you'll sleep
And good-bye to the ma, and her wo-o-nings,
Punch, August 24, 1861.

THE THREE FRESHMEN.

THREE freshmen went loafing out into the High,
Out into the High, as the sun went down ;
Each thought on his waistcoat and gorgeous tie;

And the nursemaids stood watching them all the way down.
For men won't work, and their mothers must weep,
For nothing they earn, and their ticks run deep,
Though the College Dons be moaning.

Three townsmen met them near Magdalen Tower;
And the freshmen came up, and the sun went down ;
And a battle ensued for the space of an hour,
And a bull-dog came running up, breathless and blown.
For when Townsmen meet gownsmen there's always a

riot,

And bull-dogs come sudden, some mischief to spy out, While the College Dons are moaning.

The Proctors came up in their shining bands,

And they asked them their names, and they sent them down.

And their mothers are weeping and wringing their hands,
For those who will never come back to the town.

For men go to grief, and their mothers must pay,
And the sooner its over the better for they;
So good-bye to the Dons and their moaning.
DUNS SCOTUS.

College Rhymes, 1865. T. and G. Shrimpton, Oxford.

THE THREE FELLAHS.

THREE fellahs went out to a house in the west,
To a ball in the west as the sun went down ;
Each thought how the women would like his new vest,
And the street-boys stood chaffing them walking thro' town.
For men must flirt, and women will weep

If they can't get a husband whose pocket is deep,
Though they don't tell Pa what's owing.

Three girls sat dressed to the best of their power,
And they trimmed their hair as the sun went down ;
They thought of the ball, and they looked at the hour,
And the carriage came rolling up-coachman in brown-
For men must flirt, and women will weep
If they can't get a husband whose pocket is deep,
Though they don't tell Pa what's owing,

Three swells are tied firmly in wedlock's bands,
In the morning gleam as the 'bus went down ;
And the women are laughing and shaking the hands
Of those who without them will ne'er leave the town.
But men should mind, and women are deep,
And the richer the husband the harder to weep,
And good-bye to the swells and their groaning.

Judy, September 4, 1867.

THREE HUSBANDS.

THREE husbands went forth from their homes in the West-
From their homes in the West to the City went down,
Each thought on the woman whom he loved best,
And said shall I bring her to-night a gown?"

For men must work and women must dress,
Though it sometimes comes hard on the husband, I guess,
And gives rise to much grief and moaning

Three wives sat up in a lady's bower,

And each trimmed the dress that was brought from town, Fixing here a ribbon, and there a flower;

And said one "Twill look well trimmed with Bismarck brown,"

For men must work that women may dress,
And if it comes hard on the husbands I guess
It is not the least use their moaning.