And when he had talked a column,
Was informed by Gathorne Hardy,
That the questions he'd propounded
Would be answered in the blue-books;
That the information asked for
Would be printed in the blue-books;
That, in short, his speech was useless-
Verba et praeterea nihil.

Whereupon the Speaker vanished,
And the House broke up its sitting.

Truth, February 15, 1877.

THE SONG OF PAHTAHQUAHONG.

"The Rev, HENRY PAHTAHQUAHONG CHASE, hereditary Chief of the Ojibway tribe, President of the Grand Council of Indians, and missionary of the Colonial and Continental Church Society at Muncey Town, Ontario, Canada, has just arrived in England, on a short visit."-The Standard.

STRAIGHT across the Big-Sea-Water,
From the Portals of the Sunset,
From the prairies of the Red Men,
Where Suggema, the mosquito,
Makes the aggravated hunter

Scratch himself with awful language;

From the land of Hiawatha,

Land of wigwams, and of wampum,
Land of tomahawks and scalping,
(See the works of J. F. COOPER),
Comes the mighty PAHTAHQUAHONG,
Comes the Chief of the Obijways.

Wot ye well, we'll give him welcome,
After manner of the Pale Face,
Show him all the old world's wonders,
Griffins in the public highways,
Gormandising corporations,
And the Market of Mud-Salad.
Show him, too, the dingy Palace,
And the House of Talkee-Talkee;
Where the Jossakeeds-the prophets-
And the Chieftains raise their voices.
Like Iagoo the great boaster,
With immeasurable gabble,
Talking much and doing little,
Till one wishes they could vanish
To the kingdom of Ponemah-
To the Land of the Hereafter !

We will show him all the glories
Of this land of shams and swindles,
Land of much adulteration,
Dusting tea and sanding sugar,
And of goods not up to sample ;
Till disgusted PAHTAHQUAHONG,
Till the Chief of the Obijways,
President of Indian Council,
Missionary swell, and so forth,

Cries, "Oh, let me leave this England,
Land of Bumbledom and Beadles,

Of a thousand Boards and Vestries;
Le me cross the Big-Sea-Water,

With Keewaydin-with the Home Wind,
And go back to the Ojibways!"

Funch, March 12, 1881.

A jeu d'esprit somewhat in the nature of The Rejected Adaresses has recently been published by Mr. George Dryden, of Lothian Street, Edin

66

burgh. It is entitled Rejected Tercentenary Songs, with the comments of the Committee appended." Edited by Rolus Ray.

It will be remembered that the Edinburgh University has just been celebrating its Tercentenary, and the contents of this amusing little sixpenny pamphlet consist of the Poems supposed to have been sent in, by matriculated students of the University, in competition for a prize of Ten Guineas, offered by the Tercentenary Committee for the best song in honour of the occasion.

It contains numerous Latin and Macaronic verses, a long parody of Walt Whitman, one of Gilbert, and two of Longfellow, which I venture to quote. The first is incomplete :

"I stood in the quad at midnight,
As the bells were tolling the hour;
And the moon shone o'er the city,

Behind the Tron Kirk tower."

PIAMATER.

By Alfred Longcove.

Should you ask of what I'm writing,
With the scented smoke of segars

Curling around my weary head,

With the odours of the class-rooms,
And its wild reverberations

Of the many interruptions
Of its bands of many students,
Rankling in my ears and nostrils?
Why my head I scratch so often?
Why I ask my muse to aid me
With her bright poetic fire?
Why I burn the gas at midnight?
Why I have so many books-
Poetry books on prosy subjects,
Books of songs by Burns and Moore,
Ponderous books for words referring,
Webster's Unabridged and Walker's
Poet's Rhyming Dictionary-
Strewed around me on the table?
I should answer, I should tell you,
"Tis because I am composing
A natal song to Alma Mater."
'Tis thy year, O Alma Mater,
Of thy great Tercentenary.
Time, thy years three hundred measures
With his glass; the mighty Hour-glass
Marks thy seconds, passing quickly,
With grains of sand for e'er falling

Through its glassy neck so slender,
Let us sing to her, O students,
A pæan song of natal greetings,
Let us spread our banquet-tables
In the halls of Edina's town.
Let us drain to her good welfare
Many bottles filled with good wine
From the vineyard of the Loire,
From the Spanish town of Xeres,
From the town of great Oporto,
From the country of the Deutchers,
From the flow'ry land of Champagne ;
Let us drain the pewter tankards,
Filled with Bass's bittery beer
And with Dublin's triple X stout;
Let us drain our glassy goblets,
Filled with the wine of Gooseberry,
Filled with clarets made in London,
And with other imitations;
Let us brew the Festive Toddy
From the whisky, great Tanglefeet,
On that morn-her natal morning!
Sons and daughters of old Scotland,
Land of Oatcakes and of Whisky,
Don your costumes made for Sunday;
O ye students of Edina,

Put your "go-to-meetings" on you;
O ye Dons, that festal morning,

Don ye your gowns and mortar boards
Let the Billirubin warble
One of his impromptu ditties,
Physiologic songs of praise-
Sing the praise of Alma Mater;
Let the great, her mighty surgeon,
Throw his dazzling, lustrous sheen
Of his intellect most massive,
In a speech of his own making,
Stock full of jokes and anecdotes--
Speak the praise of Alma Mater;
Let them all, her swell Professors,
Puff her up above the skies.
From the Gardens to the Meadows,
From the Loch-great Dudaingston-
To the station of Haymarket,
From the Place of the Lunatics
To the town of Portobello-
Where the many donkey-riders
Ride along its dirty sands;
Where the fellows go on Sunday
For a walk, and drink the Ozone
Wafted round promiscuously;

;

Where they go to meet their damsels,
And walk with them along the strand-
From Merchiston to Warriston,
Let merry songs of praises ring
On that day, her happy birthday.
Now join with me, ye students all,
Wish her now, your Alma Mater,
Greatest wealth and prosperity.
Hail to thee, O Alma Mater,
School above schools upon this earth!
Hail to thee, thou great Alchemist!
Hail to thee, O Verdant Pasture!

Hail to thee, O Parenchyma !

Hail to thee, thou Grecian Pet!
Hail to thee, the great Kail Runter!
Hail to thee, O Billirubin !
Hail to thee, O Wells of Water!
Hail to thee, the Kitchen Surgeon!
Hail to thee, thou Man of Physic!
Hail to thee, thou Just Lawgiver!

Hail to thee, the great Drug Speaker !
Hail to thee, her Story-teller!
Hail to thee, the great Dissector!
Hail to thee, O Damsonjamer!
Hail to thee, her Organ Grinder!
Hail to thee, thou Fossilfeller!
Hail to thee, O Afterglower!
Hail to thee, the Celtic Chairer !
Hail to thee, O Wandering Jew!
Hail to thee, the Magna Charta !
Hail to thee, O great Kirkpaddy!
Hail to thee, Cephalic Mewer!
Hail to thee, no Small Pertater!
Hail to thee, the great Schoolboarder!
Hail to thee, her Comet-gazer!
Hail to thee, the Soda-fountain!
Hail to thee, thou Cubic Crystal!
Hail to thee, O Science Gossip!
Hail to thee, the Engine-Driver!
Hail to thee, thou great Darwiner!
Hail to thee, the Eye-restorer !
Hail to thee, O great Lunatic!
Hail to thee, her long Gatekeeper!
Hail to ye, her famous Children!
Hail to ye, O Students' Council!
Hail to ye, her many Students!
Hail to me, her Song Composer !
Hail to ye, all her Children, Friends,
And Near Relations, on that day!
All hail to our Alma Mater

On her natal morn be given !!! *

6

The author of The Dagonet Ballads has pro duced so many pathetic poems, descriptive of the terrible miseries of our London poor, that one is rather apt to overlook the humorous poetry proceeding from the same pen. But, like all true masters of pathos, this poet of the people has the power to summon up smiles through our tears. It was well said of Tom Hood "that the blending of the grave with the gay which pervaded his writings, makes it no easy task to class his poems under the heads of serious' and 'comic.'" This remark applies with equal force to the poems of George R. Sims, and were it possible to anticipate the verdict of posterity we might expect to find the names of Hood and Sims classed together; indeed, so far as practical results are concerned, the philanthropical efforts of the younger poet are likely far to exceed anything that was achieved by the author of The Bridge of Sighs and The Song of the Shirt.

But this is not the place to consider Mr. Siris' position as a serious writer, although, indeed, even the following poem has a moral :

A PLUMBER.

(An Episode of a rapid Thaw.) THE dirty snow was thawing fast,

As through the London streets there passed A youth, who, mid snow, slush, and ice, Exclaimed, "I don't care what's the priceA Plumber !"

We shall not publish the vocabulary with this song.-ED.

This parody is to be found in a small volume entitled The Lifeboat and other Poems, by George R. Sims (John P. Fuller, Wine Office Court, London, 1883).

By the author's kind permission I am also enabled to quote the very funny, although slightly incoherent, remarks of

THE POETS ON THE MARRIAGE
WITH A DECEASED WIFE'S SISTER BILL.

It comes as a boon and a blessing to men
When your missus as was disappears from your ken.
ANONYMOUS.

When from the wife you get a parting benison,
Her sister will console you-

ALFRED TENNYSON.

When weary, worn, and nigh distraught with grief,
You mourn Maria in your handkerchief,
Rush, rush to Aunty, and obtain relief.

AN F.S.A. OF OVER 100 YEARS.

Beneath the spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands-

With Mrs. Smith it's all UP,
She's gone to other lands.

But he goes on Sunday to the church,

And hears her sister's voice;

He leaves his scruples in the lurch,
And she makes his heart rejoice.

The morning sees his suit commenced,

The evening sees it done

Next day the Parson ties the knot,
And Pa and Aunt are one.

My happy comrades' bright eyes beam'd,
And o'er the steaming potage gleam'd;
Alas! not mine to find relief

In whitebait's flavour bright and brief.
Dyspepsia!

"Try not the duck," my conscience said; 'Twill lie upon your chest like lead; Delusion all, that bird so fair;

The sage and onions are a snare.
Dyspepsia!

"Oh, taste!" our hostess cried, and press'd A portion of a chicken's breast;

I view'd the fowl with longing eye,
Then answer'd sadly, with a sigh,
Dyspepsia!

I mark'd with fix'd and stony glare
A brace of pheasants and a hare ;
A tear stood in my bilious eye,
When helping friends to pigeon-pie.
Dyspepsia !

"Beware the celery, if you please;
Beware the awful Stilton cheese."
This was the doctor's last good-night;
I answered feebly, turning white,

'Dyspepsia!"

LONGFELLOW.

London, 1868.)

THE FATE OF THE WINTER RIDer.

(By a young lady aged fourteen).
The shades of night' were falling fast,
As through a lonely village passed
A youth, who rode 'mid snow and ice
A two-wheeled thing of strange device-
A Bicycle.

His brow was sad, his eye below
Flashed like his bicycle's steel glow,
While like a silver clarion rung
A bell, which on the handle hung-
Of the Bicycle.

In cosy sheds he saw the light
Of bicycles well cleaned and bright;
Along the road deep ruts had grown,
And from his lips escaped a moan-
My Bicycle!"

"Try not that road," the old man said, "'Tis full of holes, you'll break your head ; The farm pond, too, is deep and wide ;" But loud the bicyclist replied,

"Rot! Bicycle !"

"Beware the oak-tree's withered arm,
Beware the holes, they'll do you harm!"
This was the peasant's last good-night;
A voice replied, "Don't fear, all right-
Vive Bicycles !"

At break of day, as in a brook
A passenger did chance to look,
He started back, what saw he there?
His voice cried through the startled air,
"A Bicycle!"

A bicyclist, upon the ground,
Half buried in the dirt, was found
Still hugging, in his arms of ice,

That two-wheeled thing of strange device,
The Bicycle.

There in the twilight cold and grey,
Helpless, but struggling, he lay,

While, now no longer bright and fair,

His bicycle lay broken there

Poor Bicycle!

On his high forehead curled copious hair,
He'd a Roman nose, and complexion fair,
A bright blue eye, with an auburn lash,
And he ever kep' a shoutin' thro' his moustache,
Upidee, Upida !

About half-past nine, as he kep' gettin' upper
He saw a lot of families a sitting down to supper;
He eyed those slippery rocks, he eyed 'em very keen
And he fled as he cried, and he cried as he was fleein'-
Upidee, Upida."

"Oh take care," cried an old man, “stop ;
It's blowing gales up there on top;
You'll be blown right off the other side,"
But the humorous stranger still replied,
Upidee, Upida."

"Beware the branch of the sycamore tree,
And rolling stones, if any you see ;"
Just then the farmer went to bed,
And a singular voice replied overhead,
'Upidee, Upida."
"Oh, stay!" the maiden said, "and rest,
Your weary head upon this breast."
On his Roman nose a tear-drop come,
As he ever kep' a shoutin' as he upward clum,
"Upidee, Upida !"

About a quarter to six in the next forenoon
A man accidentally going up too soon
Heard repeated above him, as much as twice,
Those very same words, in a very weak voice,
Upidee, Upida."

66

The very same man about a quarter to seven
(He was slow a-gettin' up, the road being uneven),
Found buried up there, among the snow and ice,
That youth with the banner with the strange device,
"Upidee, Upida."

He was dead, defunct, beyond any doubt,
The lamp of his life was quite gone out,
On the dreary hill-side the youth was a layin',
There was no more use for him to be sayin',
"Upidee, Upida !"

I went to bed at eleven,

At the sign of the Azure Boar,
And I knew that my room was seven,
For I'd seen upon the door.

With a flickering, flaring candle,
That glimmered like sickly Hope,
I found out my way to the handle,
And I flung the portal ope,

When a gentleman-not to my thinking—
Was placed in the door upright;
It was evident he had been drinking,
For he hiccuped out in the night;

And he spoke in a language mighty,

That rang through the chill and gloom; And he asked me, Highty-tighty,'

What the deuce do you do in my room?"

And never of warning mildly

A word had the stranger said,

Ere he took up a bootjack wildly,
And hurled it at my head

;

And down with a noise and clatter

It fell o'er the winding stair,

And some one cried, What's the matter?"
And I said, "I am not aware!"

And whenever I feel dyspeptic,
And whenever my soul's unwell,
And whenever I've got lumbago,

And whenever my eyelids swell,

I see the man with the bootjack,
He swears as he used to swear,
And I hear the implement falling
And clattering down the stair;
And I say to myself at twilight,

A vindictive person's a brute;
I'd rather have been on the skylight
Than down at the staircase foot !

Stands like a pudding at Christmas, a white surface, dotted with black things.

Loud from the neighbouring river, the deep voiced clamorous bargée

Roars, and in accents opprobrious holloas to have the lock opened.

These are the green woods of Cliefden. But where are the people who in them

Laughed like a man when he lists to the breath-catching accents of Buckstone?

Where are the wondrous white waistcoats, the flimsy baréges and muslins,

Worn by the swells and the ladies who came here on pleasant excursions?

Gone are those light-hearted people, flirtations, perhaps love-even marriage,

All have had woeful effect since Mrs. Merillian's picnic; And of that great merry-making, some bottles in tinfoil enveloped,

And a glove dropped by Jane Page, are the vestiges only remaining!

Ye who take pleasure in picnics, and dote on excursions aquatic,

Flying the smoke of the city, vexations and troubles of business,

List to a joyous tradition of one which was once held at Cliefden

List to a tale of cold chicken, champagne, bitter beer, lobster salad!

EDMUND H. YATES.

TOWN AND GOWN.

BRIGHTLY blazed up the fires through the long dark days of November,

Glimmered the genial lamp in the wainscoted rooms of the College,

Brightest of all in the roors of De Whyskers, "the talented drinker."

Thence came the festive song, and the clink of the bottles and glasses,

Thence came the chorus loud, abhorred of the Dean and the Fellows.

There sat De Whyskers the jolly, the drinker of curious liquors,

There sat De Jones, and De Jenkyns, stroke oar of the Boniface Torpid;

There too. De Brown, and De Smith, well known to the eyes of the Proctors,

Heedless of numberless ticks, and the schools, and a "plough" in futuro,

Sat by the ruddy-faced fire, and quaffed the bright vintage of Xeres.

Merrily out to the night through the fogs and the mist of November

Floated the breath of the weed through the fields of the dark Empyrean,

Rose the melodious sounds of the "dogs" which are known as "the jolly,' "Slapping

and "banging along through that noisy and meaningless ditty.

But silence! the welkin now rings (whatever the meaning of that is),

A rumour of battle is heard, and the wine and the weeds are deserted.