posed a "musical parody" entitled Ruddy George, which was produced at Toole's Theatre. Much talent for mimicry was displayed by the principal performers, and especially by Mr. E. D. Ward, as Robin Redbreast (after George Grossmith) and Mr. Skelton, as Sir Gaspard, in a droll imitation of Rutlind Barrington's portentious manner. The burlesque was, however, most successful in so far as it caricatured the idiosyncracies and eccentricities of Sir Arthur Sullivan's music. In imitation of the scene in Act II. of the original, where the portraits of Sir Ruthven's forefathers descend from their frames, kitcat panel likenesses of Mr. Gilbert, Sir Arthur Sullivan, and Mr. D'Oyly Carte suddenly become endowed with life, and utter some mild, and rather pointless jests.

:0:

Ko-Ko ON "THE COW AND THREE ACRES."
(The Mikado.)

THE Rads all the yokels to gain, tra la !

Gave promise of land and a cow.

They argued, "They're all half-insane, tra la ! "Majority we shall obtain, tra la !

By the help of the sons of the plough."

And that's what they meant, as you'll quite understand,
When they promised a cow and three acres of land,
And told-'em-a-lie-or-two, told-'em-a-lie-or-two-
Promised a cow and some land.

They've voted for them, and so now, tra la !
My advice to the "clods " is "Away!
And tell 'em you're sick of the plough," tra la !
That you've come for your acres and cow, tra la !
And they'll turn round to you and they'll say,
"My friends, we would give you the acres and cow,
But, alas! we've not got them-at least, not just now.
But we've told-you-a-lie-or-two, told-you-a-lie-or-two-
Live by the sweat of your brow!"

A jocular guide to the Edinburgh Exhibition of 1886 was compiled by Mr. George Stronach, and published by Robert Mitchell, of Edinburgh. It was entitled "Our Own-eries; or, The Show in the Meadows; a dog-gerel cat-alogue," and was profusely and humourously illustrated. It contained several amusing parodies on The Mikado, and one on Tennyson's Brook, but as they related only to the Exhibition they were of purely local interest, and are now out of date.

In The Bab Ballads, which originally appeared in Fun (London), may be found the germs of several of Mr. Gilbert's plays and operas, sketches of plots afterwards amplified, and snatches of song which were, later on, to be linked to Arthur Sullivan's music, and so made famous.

The following, which appeared in Fun twenty years ago, contains part of the plot of H. M. S. Pinafore : —

JOE GOLIGHTLY;

OR, THE FIRST LORD'S Daughter,
A TAR but poorly prized

Long, shambling, and unsightly,
Thrashed, bullied, and despised,
Was wretched Joe Golightly.

He bore a workhouse brand,
No pa or ma had claimed him,
The Beadle found him, and

The Board of Guardians named him.

His skipper (Captain Joyce)
He gave him many a rating,
And almost lost his voice
From thus expostulating :

"Lay out, you lubber, do!

What's come to that young man, Jue? Belay!-'vast heaving! you!

Do kindly stop that banjo!"

"I wish, I do—oh, lor!

You'd shipped aboard a trader : Are you a sailor, or

A negro serenader?"

But still the stricken cad,

Aloft or on his pillow, Howled forth in accents sad His aggravating "Willow!"

Stern love of duty had

Been Joyce's chiefest beautySays he, "I love that lad,

But duty, damme! duty! "Twelve years blackhole, I say, Where daylight never flashes;

And always twice a day

Five hundred thousand lashes!"

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.

(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!"

So he tried of that prying external
His kingdom to rid,
Which he finally did,

Having scared him to death; but a colonel
Named Browne to replace him was bid.

Now Theebaw, it is right here to mention,
Had very strong views

On the subject of shoes;

At an afternoon call their retention
Was a slip that he could not excuse.

The colonel thought this very cruel,
Took cold in his head,
And before going to bed

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.

Was plagued with a throat so excessively dry, 'Twas useless to try

To wet t'other eye,'

Because he was perfectly, perfectly dry.

'Twas shocking in one of exalted degree, With his 'Pour a drop more, Encore and encore,'

'Twas painfully sad for the monarch of B., As thirsty was he

As a fish from the sea,

As thirsty, as thirsty, as thirsty could be.

His ministers tried to relieve him at first
With coffee and tea
And soda-and-b.,

But couldn't relieve his insatiable thirst;
They all did their worst

For the King, who was curst
From youth with a singular, singular thirst.

Of each kind of tipple they brought a supply

(With whisky and brandy,

And other drinks handy),

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, Africar,

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 vales sacer." ANOTHER Ode.

FIFTY times the Laureate sharpened his pencil :
Fifty times he turned over the Rhyming Dictionary:
Then he decided to give up rhymes altogether.
HE, the Patriot Laureate,
He, the Lord-manufacturer,
Shaped a stately memorial,
Made it regally gorgeous

After Walt Whitman's pattern,

Rich in blackness, in dullness,

Which might speak to the centuries

Through the Magazine Macmillan,
Of this year of our Jubilee.

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

I want

Fifty times the Rose has flowered and faded. Anyhow, that'll do to go off with. Let's see. 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