But Joseph had a mate.

A sailor stout and lusty,

A man of low estate,
But singularly trusty.

Says he, "Cheer hup, young Joe!
I'll tell you what I'm arter,

To that Fust Lord I'll go
And ax him for his darter.

"To that Fust Lord I'll go

And say you love her dearly." And Joe said (weeping low),

"I wish you would, sincerely!"

That sailor to that Lord

Went, soon as he had landed, And of his own accord

An interview demanded.

Says he, with seaman's roll,

My captain (wot's a Tartar),

Guv Joe twelve years' black hole,

For lovering your darter.

"He loves Miss Lady Jane

(I own she is his betters),
But if you'll jine them twain,
They'll free him from his fetters.

"And if so be as how

You'll let her come a-boardship,

I'll take her with me now

"Get out!" remarked his Lordship.

That honest tar repaired

To Joe upon the billow,

And told him how he'd fared:

Joe only whispered, "Willow!"

And for that dreadful crime
(Young sailors learn to shun it)
He's working out his time:

In ten years he'll have done it.

Fun. October 12, 1867.

The Bab Ballads have been often imitated (it is scarcely possible to parody them successfully), but the imitations are for the most part very inferior to the originals, besides which they are generally very long, so that only a few examples can be quoted. The three following appeared in a prize competition in The World, the subject selected by the editor being :

KING THEEBAW OF BURMAH.

FIRST PRIZE.

(Model: "Sir Guy the Crusader.")
THEEBAW was a potentate mighty,
"The Magnificent One,
Grandchild of the Sun,"

To put foreign armies to flight he
Shook his magical spear--it was done.

John Bull was his special objection,
A contemptible cad,
An upstart who had

Not a single celestial connection,
And whose form altogether was bad.

Yet this snob, with the coolest assurance,
Sent a party named Shaw

To the court of Theebaw

To remonstrate-O cheek past endurance !When he strangled his brothers-in-law. Says Theebaw, "Shall this prig of a Briton Be allowed to object

Such a want of respect !—

When I've got a man-torturing fit on?

It's hard lines if my fun be thus checked!"

Put his feet in hot water, supped gruel,
Packed up the next morning and fled.

Said Bull to Theebaw, "I'm disgusted;
If my delegates are

Thus exposed to catarrh,

With a colonel you shall not be trusted."
Whereto Theebaw answered with "Yah-r!"

So St. Barbe was left there to be worried,
Till he'd reason to dread,
Being relieved of his head
In a manner less pleasant than hurried;
Then he, too, packed baggage and fled.

So Theebaw was alone in his glory.
He drowned everybody

In the deep Irrawaddy,

And then, as an end to the story,

He finished himself with rum-toddy.

SECOND PRIZE.

The Tale of King Theebaw.

ODD FISH.

THEEBAW was the King of the golden toe,
And the monarch of Mandalay,
And he laughingly said, as he got out of bed,
In a casual sort of way:

"I'm tired of my dozens of uncles and cousins;
My connections are far too extensive ;
My hundreds of mothers and legions of brothers,
Though dear, yet are very expensive.

I'll polish off all the sons of my pa,

And then, with due justice, I can't

But smother my nieces, and cut into pieces
My grandmother's aged aunt.

"No, really you mustn't, august Theebaw," Said the spirited British Envoy.

"Pray think of it twice, for it wouldn't be nice, You exceedingly naughty boy!"

'Tis plainly my duty to warn you that weThough we'd rather not say, 'You shan't! Shouldn't like it at all, if you cut up quite small Your grandmother's aged aunt.

Then up rose the King of the golden toe,
And he tore off his Chancellor's wig.
"You idiot," said he, "have you no repartee
To answer this son of a pig?

Now listen, you ugly preposterous man,
You wretchedly lily-white cus

I'll make you regret that you got in a pet,
And made such a deuce of a fuss!

I'll cut every one of my brothers in half;
Their mothers I'll tenderly boil;
And I'll frizzle each niece in buffalo-grease,
Aud fry all my uncles in oil.

O yes, you may threaten; I don't care a d

For you and your silly You shan't!'
And I'll certainly smother my aged grandmother,
As well as her elderly aunt.

For am I not King of the golden toe,
And the monarch of Mandalay?

And I laugh in my sleeve, for I'm led to believe
That England is far away.

The April number of Macmillan's Magazine contained the Poet Laureate's contribution to Jubilee literature. As usual, portions of the Ode were quoted in the Lordon papers almost before the magazine was published, and The Daily News went so far as to reprint the whole of the Ode, an infringement of Messrs. Macmillan's rights, for which an apology had to be made. As to the poetical merits of the Ode public opinion has been tolerably well. expressed by the parodies on it which have appeared. A few verses of the original are here given, to lead up to the parodies.

CARMEN SECULARE.

AN ODE

IN HONOUR OF

The Jubilee of Queen Victoria.

I.

FIFTY times the rose has flower'd and faded,
Fifty times the golden harvest fallen,

Since our Queen assumed the globe, the sceptre.

II.

She beloved for a kindliness

Rare in Fable or History, Queen, and Empress of India,

Crown'd so long with a diadem
Never worn by a worthier,
Now with prosperous auguries
Comes at last to the bounteous
Crowning year of her Jubilee.

VI.

You, that wanton in affluence,
Spare not now to be bountiful,
Call your poor to regale with you,
Make their neighbourhood healthfuller,
Give your gold to the Hospital,
Let the weary be comforted,
Let the needy be banqueted,

Let the maim'd in his heart rejoice
At this year of her Jubilee.

VIII.

You, the Patriot Architect,
Shape a stately memorial,
Make it regally gorgeous,
Some Imperial Institute,

Rich in symbol, in ornament,

Which may speak to the centuries,

All the centuries after us,

Of this year of her Jubilee.

IX.

Fifty years of ever-broadening Commerce! Fifty years of ever-brightening Science ! Fifty years of ever-widening Empire!

X.

You, the Mighty, the Fortunate,

You, the Lord-territorial,

You, the Lord-manufacturer,
You, the hardy, laborious,

Patient children of Albion,
You, Canadian, Indian,
Australasian, African,

All your hearts be in harmony,
All your voices in unison,
Singing "Hail to the glorious
Golden year of her Jubilee!'

XI.

Are there thunders moaning in the distance? Are there spectres moving in the darkness? Trust the Lord of Light to guide her people. Till the thunders pass, the spectres vanish, And the Light is Victor, and the darkness Dawns into the Jubilee of the Ages.

The Globe remarked :

"It is to be feared that the Laureate's Jubilee Ode will sadly disappoint all his admirers. It has a certain rhetorical neatness, no doubt; but it cannot be regarded as adequate to the occasion. The poet has chosen, for the most part, very prosaic rhythms, and the Ode, trite and even common in ideas, is not even endowed with occasional felicities of expression, On the contrary, it is sometimes positively unlucky in its phraseology, as when the world is most unnecessarily assured that Her Majesty has about her

'Nothing of the lawless, of the Despot,
Nothing of the vulgar, or vain-glorious.'

"By no means happy are the references to those who 'wanton in affluence' (why wanton?') to the Lord manufacturers,' and to the Imperial Institute,' which latter surely savours a little of bathos? The six concluding lines have more inspiration, perhaps, than most; but they do not harmonise very well in their allusion to thunders moaning in the distance,' with the Laureate's allusion elsewhere to the 'prosperous auguries' of the Jubilee. On the whole, Lord Rosslyn, Mr. Morris, and Lord Tennyson having all spoken, it must be confessed that the Jubilee still lacks a vates sacer."

HOW THEY WERE WRITTEN TO ORDER.

(Leaf from a Laureate's Diary.)

9 A. M.-Bother the Jubilee ! What in the name of fortune, can one do with such a rubbishing subject? But here's Macmillan waiting, and I haven't done a single line yet. Must get something put on to paper, if only to quiet him. But how on earth to begin! Get in "fifty" somehow. Want fifty somethings that come but once a year. Christmas? Good. That suggests Clown. I have it. Fifty times the Clown has grinned and tumbled. No. That won't do. It's too shoppy, stagey. Has a soupçon of the Promise of May about it. Wants something Ha! The Row, suggesting the Season, of course, Fifty times the Row has filled and emptied. No. Don't like it. Reads as if I was talking of a cistern. Too heavy. Try something lighter. Pastry? Feathers? Flowers? Ha! that's it. Flowers, of course. Here, I've got it!

wider

Fifty times the Rose has flowered and faded. Anyhow, that'll do to go off with. Let's see. I want fifty something elses to follow it up with. What shall it be? Cartloads? Handfuls? Armfuls? Autumns? Harvests? Good again. Not that there's any precise connection between them; but one must stick down something. How'll this do? Fifty times the golden harvest fallen.

Yes, that reads all right. Is there any other way of putting fifty?" Yes, "twice twenty-five." But that won't come in. Then there's "four times twelve and a half." No; that

6 P.M.-Confound the Jubilee Ode! Have now been at it all day, and am floundering worse than ever. Have got in something about illuminations, sanitary improvements, subscribing to a Hospital and Penny dinners, and given a kind of back-hander to George the Third, but who, on earth, I refer to as the "Patriot Architect," and what I mean by asking him to Shape a stately memorial, Make it regularlyno, "regally"-gorgeous, Some Imperial Institute, I don't know. But if I arrange it in parallel lines it will look like poetry, and that'll be near enough.

Feel I'm making a horrible hash of it. turn on my bicyle. May clear my head. Will.

Might go for a Might try it.

Have dined, and now, at 9 P. M., have again settled down to it over a pipe and a glass of grog. Am in a more hopeless muddle than ever. Trying to bring in everybody in a kind of wind-up appeal. But look at this,

You, the snubbed, the unfortunate

You, the Lord-Undertaker,
You, the Lord-Omnibus-Conductor,

That doesn't seem to run very well, but it's the kind of idea
I want to work in. Don't seem able to manage it.

You, the Lady-Amateur Actor?

No, that won't do! Shall never get it done to-night.

IO P.M.-After awful hammering, managed to knock off two more lines. Head spinning, but must stick to it. Feel I've never turned out such stuff in my life before. Hopeless!

10. 30 P. M.-Two more lines screwed out. But what lines! Won't scan, and as to rhyme,-ha! ha!-catch me rhyming to-night!

II P.M.-Have come to a dead stand-still. Equal to it. Have had recourse to the wet towel. Refreshes me. Ha! I see light. Happy thought! As I can't do it in verse, why not write it all in prose, and then cut it up into poetry afterwards? Sure to get cut up when it appears. Why not do it myself first? I will. Anyhow, here goes.

MIDNIGHT.-Done it! Labelled it Carmen Sæculare. Looks all right, but quite the toughest piece of work I've ever had to turn out. Posted it to Macmillan. IIope he'll

like it.

Punch. April 9, 1887.

ANOTHER JUBILEE ODE.

I

FIFTY times the lines have slipped and halted;
Fifty times some golden lines have fallen
Since this man-the poet-became the Laureate.
II.

He, renowned for a wordiness,
Rare in fable or history,
Poet-and Rhymster of England,
Crowned at last by strawberry leaf,
Never worn by a wordier.
Now with numbers unmusical,
Comes at last to the psalm-front,
Singing the year of Jubilee.

VI.

You whose bank balance is right side
Spare not of cheques the distributing.
Ask your labourers to dine with you,
Make cleanlier their cottages,
Double infirmary subscriptions,
Let the ragged all be clothed,
Let the hungry have bellies full,

Let those one-legged have a wooden one
At this year of the Jubilee.

Fifty years of ever-growing taxes; Fifty years of ever world-mending Fifty years of ever muddling Ireland.

You-the taxpayer unfortunate,
You-the Lord Knows-who, and lady,
You-the Lord, shoddy-mixer,
You-the almighty working man,
Patient grumblers of England.
You-all sorts of men- and others,
Irish, Yankee, dynamiters-
All your hearts be in harmony,
All your pockets open lib'rally
To the numerous funds in progress,
Gilding the year of Jubilee.

XI.

Were there poets living in past ages?

Are there poets writing still amongst us?
Pray the Lord of Rhyme to guide weak pens
Till the bards do pass. Song giants come back,
And old sweet Poetry as the victor
Dawns into a Jubilee of the ages.

Scraps. April 16, 1887.

OWED TO LORD TENNYSON. (Carmen Sequel-airy.)

I.

FIFTY times our nose has twirled and tilted,
Fifty times our silvern laughter fallen,

Since, my Lord, we read your Ode-your metre.

II.

You, renowned for a stateliness
Rare in Prose, or in Poetry,

Keen with impress of Genius,

Crowned so long with a laurel-wreath