Precept and law they broke, Curate and rector spoke, Dealing the Church a stroke Shaken and sundered

Then they divided, and

Lost the six hundred !

Clergy to right of chair,
Clergy to left of chair,
Clergy in front of chair,

Shouted and thundered!
Stamping, with groan and yell,
Past any power to quell,
They who have roared so well

Went blessed, and out of breath. Back to their flocks to tell

All that was done by them

Nice fourteen hundred !

When will the scandal fade
Of the wild row they made?
All the world wondered
Why such a noise was made
All by the Church Brigade-
Blind fourteen hundred !

Punch, 1868.

AT THE MAGDALEN GROUND.

Ecce canit formas alius jactusque pilarum.

I.

DRIVE to the Magdalen Ground;

Soon myself there I found,

Balls flew, and ground boys

After them blundered!

Theirs not at ease to lie,
Theirs but to field and shy
Balls up and mind their eye;
If they were out of breath,

Who could have wondered?

II.

Balls to the right of me!
Balls to the left of me!
Balls, too, in front of me !

Nearly a hundred !

There stood each cricket swell,
Some of them batted well,
Smacking the balls about;
Seldom their wickets fell;
I stood and wondered!

III.

Thirsty with elbows bare,
Bowlers were bowling there;
Cricket-balls through the air
Whizzed past their heads the while.
Muchly I wondered

Why no one's head was broke,
For at each mighty stroke
Close past the legs or head
Of some unconscious bloke,

Fast the balls thundered;

Which, had they hit him, would
Limbs have near sundered!

IV,

Balls to the right of me!
Balls to the left of me!
Balls, too, behind me!

Bounded and thundered!
Then came a sudden thwack,
Right on my poor old back,
Earthward I tumbled smack,
Knocked out was all my breath
With this untimely crack;
Whether my bones were smashed,
I lay and wondered.
Ne'er will the memory fade
Of the large bruise it made,
Not if six hundred
Years on this earth I stayed.
Why cricket's ever played,
Often I've wondered!

From Lays of Modern Oxford, 1874.

The following Puff Poetical was taken from the Daily News of January, 1878:

CHARGE OF THE FAIR BRIGADE.

With the Junior Partner's Apoiogies to Mr. Tennyson.

HALF a league, half a league,

Half a league onward,

All on the underground line

Rode the six hundred.

Right! cried the guard of the train;
Right! for the Sale, he said,
Into the Terminus then
Glide the six hundred.

Forward the bright brigade!
Was there a heart dismayed,
Not tho' it seemed too true
Someone had fainted.
Their's not to call a fly,
Aldgate, the station nigh;
Their's but to try and buy,
Into the premises

Came the six hundred.

Counters to right of them,
Counters to left of them,
Counters in front of them,
Dighted and lumbered;
Greeted with chair and grace
Boldly they entered apace,
Into the matter fain,
Into the Sale" amain

Went the six hundred.

Flash'd all their note-books fair,
Flash'd all the pencils there,

Noting with all due care,
Purchases rich and rare,

All the world wondered;

Plunged in the "Hibernum Sale,"
Pleased with each neat detail;
Silken and Linen

Metre and yard-stick fail
Almost to measure.

Then they hark back, but not

Not unencumbered.

THE CHARGE OF THE "BUSTLE."

FORWARD the Big Bustle!
Down the long street rustle,
Sweeping the street Arab

Into the gutter;

Swells to the right of it,
Swells to the left of it,
Cane, stick, and eyeglass,
All in a flutter!

Loud cries the errand-boy,
"Big Bustle there, ahoy?"
And the respectable

Citizens stare-
Reckless of every one,
On goes the "haughty one,"
Sweeping past houses,

Terrace and square.

But look, the low'ring sky
Portends a storm is nigh;
While men on all sides

Gallantly throng;
Swells to the right of it,
Swells to the left of it,
Blue Bustle charges,

Sweeping along.

Ah, 'tis a rainy day!

Streams flood the muddy way,
And the fair ornament

Cheeky cads hustle;
Homeward it now retreats,

Flies from the crowded streets,
Safe at last! ah, but not-

Not the same Bustle!

Judy, April 17, 1872,

"OUR BOYS."

On the occasion of the Six Hundredth performance of this comedy at the Vaudeville Theatre, the following verses were composed by Mr. Robert Reece:

KEEP the league'! keep the league,

Keep our league onward !

We twain have "run" a piece

Nights now Six Hundred

Dresses wore spite of us,

Scenes waned each night of us, Stitches made light of us,

Severed and sundered;

"Summers on 'houses' tell,
"Business," tho', never fell,
Everything turned out well,
So, we are playing still,
Playing each night with will,
All that is left of us
After Six Hundred !
When shall this fortune fade?
No increased charge we've made
(Herein we blundered!)
Thanks to all, true as steel!
Thanks to the Public, we'll
Double Six Hundred.

These stanzas were circulated among the audience, but were not spoken from the stage.

The extraordinary run of Our Boys, which closed in April, 1879, will long excite the curiosity and wonder of the theatrical world. Mr. Byron's comedy was produced January 16, 1875, and was played continuously for four years, three months, and three days. This would allow about 1,321 nights, but extra day representations raised the total number of performances to 1,362. Beside this return the " long runs of previous days were

THE CHARGE OF THE RAD." BRIGADE.

By the League, by the League. by the League onward, Into the Common's House went the three hundred. Forward the "Rad." Bridade! "Pass this Bill quick," he said.

Into the Common's House went the three hundred. Forward the "Rad." Brigade! Who is a whit afraid? What tho' the Tories say we all have blundered? Theirs but to moan and cry-let Jemmy Lowther sigh, and ask Sir Stafford "Why?

Into the Common's House went the three hundred.

Leaguers to right of them, Whiggites to left of them,
Tories in front of them, shouted and thundered,
Stormed at with hoot and yell, while weak-kneed Lib'rals
fell,

Into the lobby drear, into the House pell-mell, rush'd the three hundred.

Flashed all their tongues quite bare, each one his speech to air,

Crushing the Leaguers there, dishing the Tories while Salisbury wondered.

Plunged in the hot debate, those who the rules had brokeParnell and Dillon-reeled from brave Gladstone's

stroke shattered and sundered;

Then they went out, but not-not the three hundred.

Leaguers to right of them, Whigs on the left of them, Tories behind them, stamped, roared, and thundered, Stormed at with hoot and yell, while many a weak one fell, They that had voted well came from the lobby back, back to the House pell-mell

All that was left of the happy three hundred.

When will they e'er be paid? Oh, the grand vote they gave! Salisbury wondered!

Honour the vote they gave! Long live the "Rad." Brigade! Gladstone's three hundred.

A LAY OF THE NEW LAW COURTS.

Being the experience of Officials, Counsel, Clients, Wit. nesses, and all who do their business in the Great Legal Maze. With apologies to the Poet Laureate.

Up the stairs, down the stairs,
Farther and farther yet!
Here we come out of breath,
Flustered and sundered,

Barriers to right of us,

Barriers to left of us,
Barriers in front of us!

Bad words we thundered.
Most doors are barred and locked,
All sense of safety shocked;
Why is our business blocked

By those who blundered?
Back to the charge we're led;
Corridors dark we tread;
Had we gone heels o'er head

Who could have wondered?
No friend to say "Beware!"
No warning "Pray take care! ''
Each step another snare!

If one, there's five hundred.
Ours not to make reply,
Ours not to reason why;
Still we may raise the cry,
Some one has blundered!

Funny Folks, 1883.

THE LATEST CHARGE.

[At a meeting in Ireland recently, when Mr. Biggar got up to speak, six hundred ladies rose and quitted the room, to show their disgust with his conduct as shown in the suit brought against him for breach of promise to marry.]

ON their legs, on their legs,

On their legs onward,
All with face pale as death
Rose the Six Hundred,

How dare he show his head?
"Rush from the wretch!" they said.
Straight to the street beneath
Strode the Six Hundred.
Forward the fair brigade,
No woman there dismayed.
Not though each fair one knew
Biggar had blundered.
His not to reason why,
His not to make reply,
Best take his hat and fly,
When with rage out of breath
Rushed the Six Hundred
Married to right of him,
Single to left of him,
Widows in front of him,

Volleyed and thundered.
No storm of shot and shell
E'er silenced man so well.
Joe! ne'er his tale shall tell
When near an Irish belle-
Noble Six Hundred !

Funny Folks, January, 1884.

The Nineteenth Century, March 1878, contained a poem, by Tennyson, entitled—

THE REVEnge.

A Ballad of the Fleet.

I.

AT Flores, in the Azores, Sir Richard Grenville lay,
And a pinnace, like a flutter'd bird, came flying from far

away;

Spanish ships of war at sea! we have sighted fifty-three !" Then sware Lord Thomas Howard; "'Fore God I am no coward;

But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of gear, And the half my men are sick. I must fly, but follow quick. We are six ships of the line; can we fight with fifty-three?',

#

The rugged metre, and the exaggerated national sentiment of this ballad were thus amusingly parodied :

RETRIBUTION-A XIXTH CENTURY BALLAD OF THE

SLOE.

By the Author of "Vengeance, a Ballad of the Fleet."

AT his chambers in the Albany Sir Richard Tankard lay. And a missive, like brown buttered toast, was brought him on a tray;

"Come, drink my Spanish wine-fifty dozen, all is thine, And bring your friends with you, we'll drink till all is blue."

Then sware Lord Thomas Drunker; "By jingo, I'm no funker;

But I cannot go, I fear, for my liver's out of gear,

And my head feels like to burst, and I only slake my thirst With Apollinaris water, for I dare not touch port wine." Then spake Sir Richard Tankard, "I know you are no funker,

And fly wine for a moment to return to it again,

But my liver and my brain are free from ache and pain.
I should count myself the funker if I left them, my Lord
Drunker,

Unsatisfied, and craving for the purple wines of Spain,"
He called his friends together to go with him and dine.
He told them of the telegram that told him of the wine.

"We will go for we are dry;
Good Sir Richard, we are thine,
And the vintage we will try.

If good there will be little left ere morrow's sun be set!"
And Sir Richard said again, "We be all good Englishmen;
Let us empty all the bottles down our sturdy British
throttles,

For I never turned my back upon glass or bottle yet." Sir Richard spoke and he laugh'd, and we roared a hurrah, and so,

Like true-born sturdy Englishmen, we all of us would go. And found the wine all laid along the floor in many a row, And half was laid on the right-hand side, and half on the left was seen,

And the table, like the white sea foam, ran down the room between.

The dim eyes of the waiters winked with an inward laugh;

They seemed to mock the notion that we the wine would quaff

But as the night was waning they watched the rows grow small,

And whispered to each other "I bet they'll drink it all!" For the wine was flowing swiftly down, as a cataract might be

When it leaps from a mountain to the sea!

And the moon went down and the stars came out o'er the smoky London town;

And never a moment ceased the flow of the purple liquor down!

Glass after glass, the whole night long, the mighty magnums went,

And bottle after bottle was away from the table sent.

"Dead men," as in a battle field lay strewn upon the floor,

But still there was no cry of" Hold!" but constant shouts for 61 more ! ?'

For he said, "Drink on, drink on!"
Though he scarce could lift his hand.

And it chanced when more than half of the summer night was gone

That he rose up on his feet and tried to stand,
But he sunk into his chair and lay back grinning there,
And close up to his side we stept,
Then the rule in such a case-we cork'd him on the face,
And he fell upon the floor, and he slept.

So passed we all, and when we woke each knew of a heavy head,

For not a soul of all of us had found the way to bed!
And a tempest of indignation swept o'er our surging brains,
That we could be floored by vintage, ay, ev'n of a hundred
Spains!

"It never was PORT!" we cried, and so we tasted it once again-'twas SLOE!

Vile SLOE with all our might, we had drunk for half the night!

And brave Sir Richard Tankard said, "Boys, although we drank hard,

On March 15th, 1882, at one of the London Ballad Concerts, Mr. Santley sang, for the first time, a patriotic song written by Alfred Tennyson, the music composed by Mr. C. V. Stanford. This song was announced with much ceremony as a new work, whereas it was simply an abbreviated, and somewhat modified, arrangement of a poem in five verses, entitled "Hands all Round," which had appeared in the Examiner in 1852, over the signature Merlin. The song did not arouse any enthusiasm, and is now only memorable for the offence its chorus gave to the temperance party. The first verse is quoted to illustrate the parodies:

"First pledge our Queen, my friends, and then
A health to England, every guest;

He best will serve the race of men
Who loves his native country best!