THE BURIAL OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.
THE drums were heard, and the funeral notes,
As his corpse to the City was carried;
The soldiers discharged their farewell shots,
Near the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him grandly in noon's full light,
The clay to earth's bosom returning;
With the cheerful sunbeams shining bright,
And within the lantern burning.

Three costly coffins encased his breast,

(In sheet and in shroud they had wound him); And he lay like a conqueror taking his rest With his marshal compeers round him.

Many and long were the prayers we said,

And we murmured last words of sorrow;

As we steadfastly gazed on the grave of the dead,
And we sighed, "Who will lead us to-morrow?"

We thought as they filled in his narrow bed,
Of his struggles across the billows;

And we dreamt that all ages would honour the dead,
As a Captain above his fellows.

Lightly men speak of him now that he's gone,

And grudge e'en the recompense paid him : But little he'll reck if they'll let him sleep on, In the tomb where a grateful land laid him.

At length our grievous task was done,

And the masses were slowly retiring,
And the clangour ceased of the minute gun,
That for hours had been steadily firing,

Solemnly, sadly, we left him alone,

With his roll of deeds famous in story;

We carved him a trophy, we praised him in stone,
And to-day-we've forgotten his glory!

OBSERVER.

THE BURIAL OF THE BACHELOR.

Nor a laugh was heard, not a frivolous note,
As the groom to the wedding we carried;
Not a jester discharged his farewell shot
As the bachelor went to be married.

We married him quickly that morning bright,
The leaves of our Prayer-books turning,
In the chancel's dimly religious light;
And tears in our eyelids burning.

No useless nosegay adorned his chest,

Not in chains, but in laws we bound him; And he looked like a bridegroom trying his best To look used to the scene around him.

Few and small were the fees it cost,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we silently gazed on the face of the lost,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought as we hurried them home to be fed,
And tried our low spirits to rally,

That the weather looked very like squalls overhead
For the passage from Dover to Calais.
Lightly they'll talk of the bachelor gone,

And o'er his frail fondness upbraid him;
But little he'll reck if they let him alone,

With his wife that the parson has made him!

But half of our heavy lunch was done

When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
And we judged from the knocks which had now begun,
That their cabby was rapidly tiring.

Slowly and sadly we led them down,
From the scene of his lame oratory;

We told the four-wheeler to drive them to town,
And we left them alone in their glory!

YELRAP.

The man in possession ate, drank of her best,

In well-aired holland sheets he wound him;
And he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his pipe alight-confound him!
Few and short were the prayers he said,
And he spoke not a word of sorrow;

And he steadfastly smoked till Jane wished him dead,
As she bitterly thought of the morrow.

He chaffed the girl thus: "When you makes my bed,
And smoothes down my lonely pillow,
Don't you go for a stranger, nor wish me dead,
If you don't want to wear the willow."
Lightly he talked when the "spirits" were gone,
For pipe-ashes why should she upbraid him?
But little he'd spy if she'd let him smoke on,
In the bed where Britannia had laid him.
But half of the tyrant's task was done,

When the clock told the hour for retiring;
The minion quailed at the sound of the gun,
Which to signal her triumph was firing.
Of that spinster householder martyr's crown,
O, never shall perish the story:

Her friends paid her taxes, she had the renown--
Thus we leave her alone in her glory!

J. MCGRIGOR ALLAN. All the above are from Truth, July 31, 1884.

SUCH a strum was heard-not a single right note,
When to make you play every one worried;
Yet I would not discharge one satirical shot
As to the piano you hurried.

You hurried so quickly, 'twas scarcely right,

I knew not the piece you'd been learning;

But I saw by the flickering candle-light

Your cheeks were with nervousness burning.

No useless music encumbered the rest;

No pieces had any one found you;

But you played it by heart, no doubt doing your best,
Though the people would talk around you.
Dreary and long was the thing you played,
And we listened in suffering sorrow;
And I thought to myself that, if any one stayed,
You'd have finished, no doubt, by the morrow.
Lightly they'll talk of the piece when it's done,
And wonder whoe'er could have made it ;
But nothing she'll reck if they let her strum on
At the piece till she's thoroughly played it.
When you'd made but some fifty mistakes, or morc,
And no more such torture requiring,

I managed to get to the open door,
And succeeded in quickly retiring.

I've but one thing more in conclusion to say,
Though you no doubt will think it a story;
'Tis this, that no matter wherever you play,
You will get neither money nor glory!

THE BURIAL OF THE PAUPer. Nor a knell was heard, not a requiem note, As his corpse to the churchyard we hurried; Not a mourner had donned his sable coat, By the grave where our pauper we buried.

MOZART.

We buried him quickly at shut of night,
The sods with our keen shovels turning ;
By the closing day's last glimmering light,
And the lantern palely burning.

No oaken coffin enclosed his breast,

In a sheet for a shroud we wound him :
And he lay as a pauper should, taking his rest,
With his four deal planks nailed around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we shed not a tear of sorrow;
But we carelessly looked on the face of the dead,
And we heedlessly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed,
And smooth'd down its green turf billow;
That haply a stranger would lay a wan head
To-night on his tenantless pillow.

Lightly they'll talk of the poor soul that's gone
At the "House," and maybe they'll upbraid him,
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where his parish has laid him.

But half of our thankless job was done,

When the cold sky grew sullen and low'ring;
And the raindrops came pattering one by one,
And soon all the heavens were pouring.

Swiftly and smoothly we sodded him down,
In his last bed of shame, gaunt and hoary;
We raised not a cross, and we scored not a stone,
But we left him to earth with his story.

SEFTON.

"These gentlemen (the Tory party) can really get no sleep at night, owing to their burning anxiety to enfranchise their fellow men."-Vide Sir Wilfrid Lawson's Speech.

NOT a snore was heard, not a slumberous note,
For my Lords are too awfully worried;
Not a Peer but bewails the Bill's sad lot,
Tho' he feels that it musn't be hurried.

They think of it sadly, at dead of night,
The thing in their mind's eye turning,
By the somewhat foggy, misty light

In their noble bosoms burning.

No useless logic confused their heads,
'Tis but little they ever heed it ;

But they tossed and they turned on their sleepless beds,
And one and all they d-d it.

"Few and short were the prayers they said"-
The fact I record with sorrow;

They thought of the day when the Bill would be read,
And they wished there were no to-morrow.

They thought of the words Mr. Gladstone had said-
Each word was a thorn in their pillow-
Of laurels that still would encircle his head,
While they would be wearing the willow.

Nightly they burn for their brothers to be
Enfranchised, as they would have made 'em ;
And little they'll reck, till the "rustic" be free,
Of how a cold world may upbraid 'em.

But half of the weary night was gone,

And my Lords were still busy enquiring,

"The deuce, now! the deuce! what IS to be done?"

And they found that the effort was tiring.

A MEMBER OF A DEFEATED CRICKET ELEVEN loq.
NOT a ball was missed, not a catch uncaught,
As the course 'tween the wickets we scurried;
Not a fielder but was a famous shot,

At the stumps, whither, backward, we hurried,
We slogged the ball wildly with all our might,
The sods with our willow-bats turning :
But the leather was caught, and held so tight,
And our cheeks with shame were burning.

No useless figures my scoring blest,

Not in cut or in drive I found them;
But they lay like the egg of the duck in a nest,
With a line drawn all around them.

Few, too few, were the runs we could claim,
And we spoke many words of sorrow,

And we steadfastly gazed on the state of the game,
As we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought as we watched how our wickets fell,

And reckoned the meagre scoring,

That the foe and the stranger would thrash us all well,
And we, far behind them, deploring.

Lightly they'll think of the runs we've put on,
And o'er a cold luncheon upbraid us;

But little we'd reck if bad weather came on,
And the rain further playing forbade us.

But half of our heavy task was done,

When the clock struck the hour for refraining;
And we saw by the distant and setting sun,
That the light was steadily waning.
Slowly and sadly did we disappear,

From the field of our shame-laden story;
We gave not a groan, we raised not a cheer,
But we left them alone to their glory.

FRIAR TUCK.

The above are from Truth, August 7, 1884.

THE MARRIAGE OF SIR JOHN SMITH.
NOT a sigh was heard, nor a funeral tone,
As the man to his bridal we hurried;
Not a woman discharged her farewell groan,
On the spot where the fellow was married.

We married him just about eight at night,
Our faces paler turning,

By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the gas-lamp's steady burning.

No useless watch-chain covered his vest,
Nor over-dressed we found him ;

But he looked like a gentleman wearing his best,
With a few of his friends around him.

Few and short were the things we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow,

But we silently gazed on the man that was wed,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we silently stood about,
With spite and anger dying,

How the merest stranger had cut us out,
With only half our trying.

Lightly we'll talk of the fellow that's gone,
And oft for the past upbraid him;
But little he'll reck if we let him live on,
In the house where his wife conveyed him.
But our heavy task at length was done,
When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
And we heard the spiteful squib and pun
The girls were sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we turned to go,

We had struggled, and we were human;
We shed not a tear, and we spoke not our woe,
But we left him alone with his woman.

Poems and Parodies, by Phoebe Carey.
Boston, United States, 1854.

Till our giddy brains run round!
Trot, trot, trot!

And that on Christian ground!
Run, gallop, and trot,

Trot, gallop, and run,

Till we weary and weary over again
That our dreadful task were done.
O! others of our race

More favoured than we two!

You little think in your day of grace,
That this fate may come to you!
Soft, soft, soft!

You sleep without a throe!

Hard, hard, hard !

We struggle through drifted snow!

(Eight verses omitted).

J. M. CRAWFORD, Greenock, March, 1844.

Many years ago The New York Herald had a long parody of the "Song of the Shirt," entitled The Lament of Ashland. It commenced :

"WITH brows all clammy and cold,
With face all haggard and wan,

The "Hero of Bladensburgh " sat in his chair,
And uttered a fearful groan;

Wake, wake, wake!

Ye Whigs from your drowsy bed;

And wake, wake, wake!

Ere my hopes are all perished and fled."

There were seven more verses, but as the parody was of purely local interest, they are not here quoted.

THE SONG OF THE POST.

WITH "Bluchers" cobbled and worn,
With post-bag heavy alway,

A postman tramped on his twentieth round,
On good St. Valentine's day.

Rat-tat rat! tat!

At every knocker almost,

Each time, in a voice that was somewhat flat,
He sang the "Song of the Post!"

Tramp tramp! tramp!

When the sweep is up the flue; And tramp! tramp! tramp!

Till the supper beer is due.

It's oh! to be a slave,

Along with the barbarous Turk,

Where Scudamore can verse outpour
For Britons, besides his work!

Trudge! trudge! trudge!

Till I'm trodden down at heel; Trudge trudge! trudge!

Till I'm faint for want of a meal.

Bell, and knocker, and box,

Box, and knocker, and bell; Till over the letters I all but nod, And drop them in a spell.

Oh, girls with lovers fond!

Oh, men who want to get wives!

It's not a mere custom you're keeping up;
You're wearing out postmen's lives!

If you must send Valentines,

Don't post them by tens and twelves;

Or, if you do, I would pray of you
To deliver them yourselves!

But why do I pray of you,

Whose hearts so hard must be,

Since your scented rhymes you'll not post betimes,

In spite of Lord M-'s decree ?

In spite of Lord M-'s decree,

In your tardy ways you keep;

Oh, crime that boots should be so dear,

And Valentines so cheap!

"It really seems the ambition of each fashionable woman to render her dress more like a skin than that of her neighbour, besides exhibiting as large a portion of the real flesh as can be done without the apology for raiment absolutely dropping off!"-The World, January 31, 1877.

WITH arms a-wearied of fanning herself,
With eyelids heavy and red,

A wallflower sat on a stiff-backed chair,
Wishing herself in bed.

Turn, twirl, and turn,

With hop, with glide, and prance;

And still, as she sleepily gazed on that throng,

She muttered the "Song of the Dance."

Dance, dance, dance,

Till I hear the milkman's cry;

Dance, dance, dance,

Till the sun is seen on high.

It's O to be a nigger,

Nor mind to clothless feel,

If civilised folk will try how little
They need their bodies conceal!

Dance, dance, dance,

Till the heat is horrid to bear;

Dance, dance, dance,

Till I long for a cushioned chair.

Waltz, gallop, and waltz;

A lancer, a stray quadrille,

Till the whirl and the music make me doze,

And dreaming I watch them still.

O men with wives and sisters,

Have ye no eyes to see

That the scanty dress of the ballet-girl

By your kin ne'er worn should be?

Twirl, turn, and twirl;

Morality, where art thou?

The dance and the dress of the stage-and worse

Are those of the ball-room now!

But why do I talk of morality
Since Fashion its morals makes?
What Fashion does is never wrong,
So Purity never quakes.

For Purity only takes

Her sip of the cup that Fashion fills;

And we know that cup is made of gold, And that gold will cover a thousand ills. Dance, dancc, dance;

They never tired appear:

And all in hopes that a wished-for vow,
May fall on their foolish ear,
Alas, how the morn will show,

The work of the midnight air;

And the paint will trace on many a face,
And show false locks of hair!

Dance, dance, dance;

How sweetly they keep time,
As they dance, dance, dance,
In a measure quite sublime!
They waltz, waltz, waltz,

Keep time to the glorious band;
But, ah! there is many a blushing look,
And pressure of many a hand!

Thus wearied out with fanning herself,
With eyelids heavy and red,

This wallflower sat on a stiff-backed chair,
Wishing herself in bed.

While all were swinging with turn and twirl,
With hop, and glide, and prance,

She muttered this song to herself, and said,
"Alas, where is morality fled,

Since true is my "Song of the Dance ?"

CECIL MAXWELL LYTE

London Society, November, 1877.

THE SONG OF THE SOLDIER'S SHIRT.

(In 1879 it was announced that the wages of the women working at the Army Clothing Department, Pimlico, had been reduced from 20 to 25 per cent.)

WITH fingers weary and worn,

With eyelids heavy and red,

A woman sat 'neath a Government roof,
Plying her needle and thread.

As she stitch'd, stitch'd, stitch'd,

'Twas plain she was most expert;

And she sang to herself in a voice low-pitch'd,
The "Song of the Soldier's Shirt."

Work! work! work!

There's no rest in youth or age!

And alas! I have now to work

For a cruelly lessen'd wage!

I sit at my task all day,

And never my duty shirk,

But slop-shop prices would better pay
Than this cheap Government work.

Work! work! work!

My labour never flags,

And yet with my pittance I scarce can buy

A crust of bread-and rags.

I work for the greatest Power,

That ever the world has known,

Yet my pay's so small that I cannot call
My body and soul my own.

Write! write! write!

Though my head is ready to split; Write! write! write!

Though I fall asleep as I sit.

Write! write! write!

When the summer sun is high! Write! write! write!

When the stars light up the sky. Write! write ! write!

For my pen must never tire ; First I've a railway smash to do,

And then the report of a fire.

I must put in a word of praise for those
Who rendered efficient aid;

And, if time enough, I must give a puff,
To the chief of the Fire Brigade.

Write! write! write!

I'd need be a writing machine;
For unlike the workers on Once a Week,
I've no Leisure Hour between,

But it's write! write! write!

Though my inkstand is nearly dry, Like a government office, I must contract With MORRELL for a fresh supply. Now I must haste to the gallows tree, To see them strangle a sinner; And write a report the saints may read, As they take their breakfast or dinner. Then concoct a puff for some wonderful pill, Or marvellous sarsaparilla ;

And hurry away to hear PUNSHON preach, Or SPURGEON on the gorilla.

(Three verses omitted.)

With a weary, swimming brain,
With a throbbing, aching head,

Sat a newspaper hack in his garret lone,
Driving a goose-quill for bread.

Write! write! write!

They're asking for "copy" again; While his goose-quill over the foolscap flew, He thought of the troubles each author knew, And sang this "Song of the Pen."

ANONYMOUS