expose the harsh manner in which the tenants were treated on the rack-rented estates of Lord Lansdowne in Ireland. Mobs of rioters attacked Mr. O'Brien, who was nearly killed, and the Canadian police proved utterly inefficient to cope with the disorder. -:0: LOVE AT TWO SCORE. Ho! pretty page, with dimpled chin, That never has known the barber's shear, All your aim is woman to win. This is the way that boys begin. Wait till you've come to forty year! Curly gold locks cover foolish brains, Billing and cooing is all your cheer, Sighing and singing of midnight strains Under Bonnybell's window panes. Wait till you've come to forty year! Forty times over let Michaelmas pass, All good fellows whose beards are grey : Ever a month was past away? The reddest lips that ever have kissed, Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine. This poem first appeared in Thackeray's burlesque of Sir Walter Scott's Ivanhoe, entitled "Rebecca and Rowena." LOVE AT SIXTEEN. In answer to W. M. Thackeray, Esq. By a Pretty Page. Forty years-ah! why wait for enjoyment so long, And marry a girl, in your fortieth year? To sweeten the cup of the bitter we're drinking, To soften our fears when hope is fast sinking, Cheltenham. January, 1850. :0: THE SNOB'S VERSION OF THE CANE-BOTTOM'D CHAIR. (It is said that the Prince of Wales, being late for Church on the day of his arrival at Cannes, slipped in among the footmen and ladies' maids. One of the latter marked the chair he occupied, and after evening service, her mistress, the wife of a Liverpool cotton-broker, was much disappointed at not being able to buy it from the sexton.) WAS ever a woman so wretched as I, To long for a treasure that wealth cannot buy! 'Tis nothing to look at, you crusty old man! And no one would give you the price of a fan; But since the fair evening when Albert sat there, I yearn and I burn for that cane-bottom'd chair. To think I have seen him as yet but in dreams, And that he should sit between Mary and Jeames! What rapture with Albert a prayer-book to share, Had I been as close to that cane-bottom'd chair! O sexton, how can you compel me to pine I'd work you a cushion; I'd dust you myself- And oft in the twilight my fancy would see 0: THE KING OF YVETOT, THERE was a King of Yvetot, Of whom renown hath little said Who let all thoughts of glory go, And dawdled half his days in bed, And every night as night came round. By Jenny, with a nightcap crowned Slept very sound: Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he! W. M. THACKERAY. THE GREAT News-maker. IT was the "crack" news-maker, Who would without a pang Ha, ha, ha, ha! Ho, ho, ho, ho! Where find the match of this hero?Ho, ho! He every week discovers He's drown'd in Lethean streams; He knows the Ministerial mind, Whispers that Gladstone has, we'll find, Resigned. Ha, ha, ha, ha! Ho, ho, ho, ho! For lovers of sensations Who like news dashed with "spice," He'll hint at revelations, Hatch scandals in a trice. And when he sees the gaping crowd, Ha, ha, ha, ha! Ho, ho, ho, ho! Funny Folks. June 5, 1886. an When Father Thackeray's translations, or imitations, of some of Beranger's songs are well known, it is interesting to compare them with the versions written by Father Prout (the Rev. Francis Mahony), who has not only followed the originals more closely, but seems also to have preserved more of their light-hearted gaiety, than did Thackeray. Thackeray projected "The Cornhill Magazine Prout sent Inaugurative Ode to the author of Vanity Fair." Thackeray was too fastidious to allow it to appear exactly in the form in which it was written, but having considerably altered it, and added two stanzas, it was printed in the first number of the Cornhill, January, 1860. The two versions will be found in the appendix to The Maclise Portrait Gallery by William Bates, B.A. (London Chatto and Windus, 1883.) The version given in The Works of Father Prout, published by Messrs. Routledge, London, is simply a reprint of the Ode as it appeared after it had been altered, and cut about, by Thackeray. :0: In his "Memoirs of C. Jeames de la Pluche, Esq.," and "The Ballads of Policeman X" Thackeray allowed his fondness for eccentric orthography to become somewhat tedious, but they contain many gems of humour, such as the song of the love sick Jeames : WHEN moonlike ore the hazure seas I mark thee in the Marble All, Where England's lovliest shine I say the fairest of them hall Is Lady Hangeline. My soul, in desolate eclipse, With recollection teems And then I hask, with weeping lips, Dost thou remember Jeames? Burlesque verses, such as these, may be imitated, but they cannot be parodied, and, indeed it must be admitted that few of the imitations are really humorous. THE ARCANA OF CABINET-MAKING. (An Epistle from James de la Pluche, Jun., Esq.) "Lady Frederick Cavendish's house, Carlton Houseterrace, and Devonshire House, the town residence of the Marquis of Hartington, were the centres of interest on the Opposition side. Mr. Gladstone, who is at present the guest of Lady Frederick, at half-past ten received a visit Lord from Mr. Godley, a former private secretary. Granville walked across from his residence about eleven o'clock, and had a long interview with Mr. Gladstone, Sir Henry James, ex-Attorney-General, also called on Mr. Gladstone, and remained with him for about half an hour. He was followed by Lord Hartington, who walked to Carlton House-terrace from the Reform Club. He and Mr. Gladstone remained in conversation for over an hour. At the close of the interview his lordship crossed the street to Lord Granville's residence, and in a few minutes they came out together in earnest conversation. Lord Hartington left the leader of the House of Lords at the corner by the Athenæum, and strolled back in the direction of the Duke of York's Steps, where he was shortly joined by Lord Rosebery, who had called on Mr. Gladstone in the meantime. Later in the afternoon Mr. and Mrs. Gladstone went for a drive in the Park, after which the former was again visited by Lord Granville and Lord Derby."-Times. January 28, 1886. You scribblin' fellers makes a show To let you press-chaps know wot's wot? The wuld is pantin' for to know The goins on of WEG. an' Co.His bedtime an' the time he riz, His hegsits an' his hentrances, His hax each minnit of the day, Who cawld on 'im, who stade awhey, Wen Herbert wisited the Guv, An' wen he wawkt, an' wen he druv, An', most of hall, wot lucky feller He last took hunder his humbreller, Did Granwill pop across the streat? Were Rowsberry ablidjed to wate? The Pall Mall Gazette. January 30, 1886. :0: THE BALLAD OF A RURAL PLECEMAN. TORY gents of Lincoln county, And my hobject is remonstransh In this hex'lent town of Spaldin' And this Rev'rent Beak afore him And her prevus hantecedants (Which the law they couldn't reach) So his Rev'rent Washup hearin' When that wicked gal was quodded And they said as this ere Rev'rent,- Yes, they said this pious gen'lm O'mmost 'ardly fit to live; When they know as 'e's as kind like As his little boys wot sings, Allus gettin' good old ladies To be givin' of 'im things. Now no word was too revileful 'Cos o' this gals "tender years (As they called 'em), and 'cos mostly Of her Corkodilish tears. Then this ere 'Ome Secertary (Which of this I now complain) Spoke quite stern-like to this Rev'rent, And released that gal again. And what's wus,-another Conviction Though not 'arf what I'd 'a given, This I call a most etroceous, And a hins'lent thing to speak; To hinsult a Rev'rent Beak? I on'y wish that Rev'rent had 'im And I call on all them ladies From Grins and Groans, 1882. :0: OLD FASHIONED FUN. WHEN that old joke was new, It was not hard to joke, And puns we now pooh-pooh, Great laughter would provoke Edward Bulwer Lytton. BORN, May 25, 1805. DIED, January 18, 1873. Lord Lytton's poetry does not appear to have offered much temptation to the parodists, probably because none of it became truly popular. Many years ago the late Professor Aytoun wrote some satirical verses on Lytton, entitled A Midnight Meditation, but this, and 'Tennyson's attack upon him in Punch, are the only important burlesques on his poetry. Several of his plays have, however, been the subject of burlesques, and many prose parodies of his novels have been written. A MIDNIGHT MEDITATION. FILL me once more the foaming pewter up! I sigh not for the nymph of Aganippe's rill. But these remarks are neither here nor there. Where was I? Oh, I see-old Southey's dead! They'll want some bard to fill the vacant chair, Than this, which, curled in many a fragrant coil, They throng around me now, those things of air That from my fancy took their being's stamp : There Pelham sits and twirls his glossy hair, There Clifford leads his pals upon the tramp; There pale Zanoni, bending o'er his lamp, Roams through the starry wilderness of thought, Where all is everything, and everything is nought. Yes, I am he who sang how Aram won The gentle ear of pensive Madeline! And kisses bless the spot where gore has been ! Who breathed the melting sentiment of crime, And for the assassin waked a sympathy sublime! Yes, I am he, who on the novel shed Obscure philosophy's enchanting light! Until the public, 'wildered as they read, Believed they saw that which was not in sight Of course, 'twas not for me to set them right; For in my nether heart convinced I am, Moore, Campbell, Wordsworth, their best days are grassed, Rogers, a pleasant memory of the past, Warmed his young hands at Smithfield's martyr fires, A fico for your small poetic ravers, Your Hunts, your Tennysons, your Milnes, and these! Shall they compete with him who wrote "Maltravers"? Prologue to "Alice, or the Mysteries "? No! even now my glance prophetic sees (Several verses omitted.) WILLIAM E. AYTOUN. But this prophecy was not to be fulfilled, for on the death of Wordsworth, in 1850, Tennyson obtained the office and pension of Poet Laureate. Some years before that event Tennyson had also received a grant from the Government, which aroused the jealousy of his brother poets. :0: In 1846 Mr. Henry Colburn, of London, published an anonymous satirical poem, entitled The New Timon, which soon became known as the work of Lytton. It contained the following passage:— "I seek no purfled prettiness of phrase, A soul in earnest scorns the tricks for praise. If to my verse denied the Poet's fame, This merit, rare to verse that wins, I claim; No tawdry grace shall womanize my pen! Ev'n in a love-song, man should write for men ! Of borrowed notes, the mock-bird's modish tune, If to old laws my Spartan tastes adhere, Where sense with sound, and ease with weight combine, " Or where the pulse of man beats loud and strong THE NEW TIMON, AND THE POETS. I thought we knew him. Who kill'd the girls and thrill'd the boys And shook a mane en papillotes. And once you tried the Muses, too; But men of long-enduring hopes, And careless what this hour may bring, Can pardon little would-be Popes And Brummels, when they try to sting. An Artist, Sir, should rest in Art, Is more than all poetic fame. |