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 66 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.

various Magazines, but they are not of sufficient interest to be reprinted. See

Punch. January 10, 1880.

Judy. June 30, 1880.

St. James's Gazette. April 22, 1881. Moonshine. January, 1882.

-:0:

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.

She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad :

Her eyes were fair, and very fair;
-Her beauty made me glad.

"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.

"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."

I met a driver such as this,

And I knew that he was king,

For his steeds trod over classic ground,
And they made its echoes ring.

He bore a thousand books along,
The best their authors had,
And his praise was fair, and very fair,
But his censure made me mad.

"Why come you here, why come you here, And how many may you be?"

"We each come here to be made a peer,"

I said, "and seven are we."

"And where are the seven-I see but one?"

I answered, "seven are we ;

But Rogers is digging up some old pun,
And Southey has gone to see.