As I came towards the theatre, whom think ye I should see. But Messrs. HARE and KENDAL, looking sorrowful at me? They were thinking of The Falcon I wrote but yesterday, And they didn't ask me for a play, HENRY, they didn't ask me for a play.

I know your ghost draws well, Henry, but don't be in a fright,

My forte isn't stage-effect; when I write plays, I write.
You'll have five pages at a time, -as much as you can say ;
But a Poet is writing your play, Henry, a Poet is writing
your play.

Some critics tell me that my place is not behind the scenes;
That if I must descend I might stop short at magazines.
But as Queen Mary from the doors the money turned away,
You must long for another big play, Henry, you must long
for another big play,

For fads and fancies grow, HENRY, to wither like the grass,The latest, culture;-and for that, my name doth current pass,

So that's why though I can't construct, and you feel all astray,

You've asked me to write you a play, HENRY, you've asked me to write you a play.

So take and bill me early, bill me early HENRY, dear;
I'm going to make the biggest hit of all the coming year;
Of all the coming year, Henry :-and if it shouldn't pay :-
Still I shall have written your play, HENRY, I shall have
written your play!

From Punch, December 4th, 1860.

These verses had reference to the announcement that the Poet Laureate was writing a tragedy to be produced at the Lyceum Theatre. This was The Cup, which was indeed a greater success than most of Mr. Tennyson's previous dramatic productions, but it owed its popularity to the acting, and to the magnificent mise-en-scene, far more than to its merits as a play, beautiful as it was as a poem. duced on the 19th February, 1881.

It was pro

In The Referee for December 2, 1882, the following parodies were published. It will be noticed that the first part imitates Cowper's John Gilpin, the second part Tennyson's May Queen, and the third part Campbell's Hohenlinden.

"I beg very humbly to submit a poem to the Royal "Family, the Bench, the Bar, and the British Public on the "opening of the new Law Courts."

A MEDLEY FOR MONDAY.

JOHN BULLJOHN was a citizen
Of credit and renown,

Of Volunteers a captain he

Of famous London town.

John Bulljohn's mother said, "My dear,
Though living here we've been
This goodness knows how long, yet we
Have never seen the Queen.

"To-morrow to the new Law Courts
Our sovereign does repair?"

Says John, "Good gracious! so she doesDear mother, we'll be there."

And ere he went to bed, J. B.
His aged ma did kiss;
And, feeling like a boy again,
Did softly warble this:

You must must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear

To-morrow 'll be the happiest time of all this famous year; Of all this famous year, mother, the grandest, jolliest day, For look on our Queen we may, mother, look on our Queen we may.

There is many a loyal heart, they say, but none so true as mine,

There's Sandy and there's Dougal, across the Border line; But none so true as Johnny, not e'en by Alum Bay,

So look on my Queen I may, mother, look on my Queen I

may.

All the Strand, dear mother, will be gay with flag and green; And they're selling seats in windows for gold to see the Queen;

O long shall Johnny remember the Law Courts' opening day,

When look on the Queen he may, mother, look on the Queen he may.

In London when the Queen was low,

Too sad at heart about to go,

Or in our streets her face to show
Did loyalty fade rapidly.

But London saw another sight
When she, our Liege, recovered quite,
Came, on a morning clear and bright,

Through arches, flags and greenery.

To where the new Law Courts were made,
Attended by a cavalcade.

O, how the English crowd hoorayed !
And all was joy and revelry.

Then shook the sky with thunder riven,
For never heartier cheers were given,
As through the streets the Queen was driven,
Attended by her soldiery.

Tennyson's longest and most important work is the collection of Arthurian Idyls, known as the Idyls of the King. These were originally published in detached parts, in somewhat irregular order, but in recent editions the Author has striven to arrange them in a consecutive, and more connected form.

The first to appear in order of date was the Morte d'Arthur, which was published in the 1842 volume, in the later arrangement of the poems this has been absorbed into the last Idyl, entitled "The Passing of Arthur."

In the original it commenced thus:

"So all day long the noise of battle roll'd
Among the mountains by the winter sea;
Until King Arthur's table, man by man,
Had fall'n in Lyonness about their Lord,
King Arthur; then because his wound was deep,
The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him,

take Excalibur,

And fling him far into the middle mere:
Watch what thou seest, and lightly bring me word."

This mission was distasteful to Sir Bedivere, who exclaims :

"And if indeed I cast the brand away,
Surely a precious thing, one worthy note,
Should thus be lost for ever from the earth,

Which might have pleased the eyes of many men.
What good should follow this, if this were done?
What harm, undone? Deep harm to disobey,
Seeing obedience is the bond of rule.
Were it well to obey then, if a king demand
An act unprofitable against himself?

The King is sick, and knows not what he does.
What record, or what relic of my lord
Should be to aftertime, but empty breath
And rumours of a doubt? but were this kept,
Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings,
Some one might show it at a joust of arms,
Saying, King Arthur's sword, Excalibur.'

Thus much of the original must indeed be in one's thoughts ere the Voyage de Guillaume can be appreciated; it recounts the holiday trip of the Prime Minister to the north in September, 1883. It will be remembered that Mr. Gladstone was the guest of Sir Donald Currie, on board the Pembroke Castle, and that Alfred Tennyson was also one of the party.

VOYAGE DE GUILLAUME.-A FRAGMENT.

To the Editor of the St. James's Gazette.

SIR, I have received the following lines from North Britain. Evidently it was not without reason that the Prime Minister was accompanied on his cruise by the Poet Laureate.-I am, Sir, your obedient servant,

H. H.

-So all the year the noise of talk had roared Before the Speaker's chair at Westminster, Until King Guillaume's council, man by man Were tired to death, as also was their Chief, King Guillaume. Then, observing he was bored, The bold Sir Donald C. invited him

(Sir Donald C., the last of all his knights) And bore him off to Barrow by the sea

Barrow-in-Furness, with a ruined church
That stood beside the melancholy waves.

Then spoke King Guillaume to Sir Donald C. : "Next session will most probably upset

Not for long

The goodliest Ministry of virtuous men
Whereof this world holds record.
Shall we contrive our schemes of policy,
Meeting within the offices and halls
Of Downing Street, as in the days that were.
I perish by these voters which I make-
Although Sir Andrew says that I may live
To rule once more; but let what will be, be.
He tells me that it is not good for me

To cut down oaks at Haw'rden, as before.
Thou, therefore, take my axe Exbrummagem,
Which was my pride-for thou rememberest how
The lustiest tree would fall beneath my strokes-
But now delay not; take Exbrummagem,
And fling him overboard when out at sea.'

Then bold Sir Donald took Exbrummagem, And went, and lighted his cigar, and thought; "And if, indeed, I cast the axe away,

Surely a precious thing, one worthy note,
Should thus be lost for ever from the earth,

Which might have pleased the eyes of many men.

The King is cross, and knows not what he says.
What record, or what relic of my lord,

Should be to aftertime, but empty breath

Condensed in Hansard's books? But were this kept,
Preserved in some Mechanics' Institute,

It might be brought out by some lecturer,
Saying, 'King Guillaume's axe, Exbrummagem,
With which he cut down trees at Hawarden!'
So might he illustrate a stupid speech
To all the people, winning reverence,"

So spake he, thinking of constituents,
And kept Exbrummagem for future use,

Then came Sir Donald, gave the King his arm, And brought him to the margin of the sea. And at his call there hove a roomy barge, Manned with a gallant crew from stem to stern; And so they entered, and put off, and reached The stately Pembroke Castle, and were ware That all the decks were dense with manly forms In naval caps and jackets, and with these Three dames in yachting suits; and from them rose A cheer of greeting, and they stretched their hands Took him on board, and laughed, and petted him.

And so they sailed; and while the sea was calm
They talked, and sang, and feasted much, and had,
In Yankee parlance, "quite a high old time."
But when the wind blew, and the waves arose,
It sometimes happened that the grand old face
Was white and colourless, and cries of "Steward!"'
Proceeded from the lips of eloquence.

And like a prostrate oak-tree lay the King
Wrapped in a shepherd's plaid and mackintosh :
Not like that Guillaume who, with collars high,
From brow to boot a meteor of debate,

Shot through the lists at Westminster, and charged
The serried ranks of bold Conservatives.

The St. James's Gazette. September 19th, 1883.

In the 1842 volume also appeared "Godiva," Locksley Hall," "Break, Break, Break,” and

"The Eagle," of each of which there are some excellent parodies. The old legend of Lady Godiva has recently been sadly vulgarised by the processions at Coventry, and the following poem describes the scene in which a somewhat prominent actress stooped to sustain the part of the Lady Godiva.

THE MODERN LADY GODIVA.

I journeyed by the train to Coventry;

I pleased a groom with porter near the bridge,
And asked which way the pageant came; and then
I saw it pass-'twas passing strange-and this
Is what they've turned the City's legend to.

NOT even were it to remove a tax
Could a Godiva ride abroad to-day

As she rode forth a thousand summers back :
Lord Campbell's Act, and Collette both forbid!
Still did the people clamour for a show;
So was it settled there should be forthwith
A pageant such as Coventry did love.

Whence came it that, whilst yet the sunny moon
Of roses showed her crescent horn; the day
Fix'd for the pageant dawn'd on Coventry;
And Sanger-he of circus fame-arose
Betimes; for much was on his mind. Perchance
An elephant had shed its trunk; perchance
Some giant camel had "the hump" too much;
Or piebald horse had moulted all its spots.
Most feared he, though, lest she who had agreed
To act Godiva, having slept on it,

Should from her bargain flinch; so sought he her
With, "Well, and ride you through the town to-day?"

And she-for eggs and toast had made her bold"Ay, that will I!" Then he: "Tis well!" and went And whistled as he walked.

She, left alone,

When the effect of eggs and toast had gone,
Did half repent her promise; then again
Thought of her fee, and so grew bold once more.
And as she sat, rejoicing that 'twas warm,
There came the sound of trumpet and of drum,

And driving past she saw the circus car,

And on it was a placard calling all

Good people to come forth and gaze at her.

Then knew she that undressing time had come,
So sped her to the inner room, and there
Unhook'd the clinging bodice of her frock,
Hair-pinned on locks to show'r down to her knee,
Donned the rose "fleshings" that she was to wear;
Then throwing on a shawl she waited there
Till such time as they brought her palfrey, trapt
In purple, blazoned with armorial gold.

So came at last the sound of pattering hoofs,
And up the stairs a voice, "The 'oss is come!"
And tripping to the door, she found a steed,
Milk-white and bony, meek, and pink of eye,
And with a chair, and Mr. Sanger's help
Clomb on his back, and then one bang'd a door
And shouted, "Right!" and so the charger past.

Thus rode she forth, clothed on with scantiness,
And in the pageant duly took her place,
Along with camels, and with elephants,
And men-in-armour, weakest at the knee,

And Foresters with horns that wouldn't blow,
And clumsy bows, and Odd-fellows as well,
In fool regalia! and the Volunteers,
And Fire Brigade, and several brazen bands.
But chiefly 'twas on her all eyes were fix'd,
And women wondered what she could have got
For making of herself a show; and men
Opined that cotton wool she'd freely used;
And one low churl, compact of thankless earth,
Drawing a pin and rushing at her horse
Prick'd-but it was no good, the steed jogged on
As heretofore and thanks to frequent bangs
And shouts of "Right" did reach the end at last
Of the day's progress, much to its delight.
And she was glad, and hastening to her room
She slipp'd her garments on, and issuing claim'd
Her fee, and took the earliest train to town,
And in the ballet, in the foremost row,
Danced with her fellows, winning great renown,
As one who rode through Coventry in "tights,"
And built herself an evanescent name.

After a smash (and Tennyson). BREAK, break, break!

Plate, decanter, and glass!

It's enough to worry a cherub,
And loosen the tongue of an ass.

It's all very well to declare

TENNYSON.

That your "helbow" caught in the door,
And your "fut" must have 'itched in a nail,
And you're very sorry, you're sure.

And I'm very hard up just now,
Three troublesome duns to stop,

But I wish I'd only got half the coin
I've paid to that china shop

Break, break, break!

You must order another new set.
It's good for trade; but I'd like to know
What is the commission you get?

From Odd Echoes from Oxford. 1872.

Here is another in a similar vein :

BREAK, break, break,

My cups and my saucers, O scout!

And I'm glad that my tongue can't utter,
The oaths that my soul points out.

It's well for the china-shop man,

Who gets a fresh order each day; And deucedly well for yourself,

Who are in the said china-man's pay.

And my stately vases go

To your uncle's, I ween, to be cashed; But it's O for the light of my broken lamp, And the tick of my clock that is smashed. Break, break, break!

At the foot of thy stairs in glee;

But the coin I have spent in glass that is smashed Will never come back to me.

E. B. IWAN-MULLER.

The Shotover Papers. Oxford, 1875.

ACHE! ACHE! ACHE!

ACHE! ache! ache!

In my throbbing jaw, O tooth!

And I would that my tongue could utter
A groan that expressed half the truth.
O plague take the neighbour's lad!

How he shouts with his sister at play;
And plague take the newspaper boy,

How he howls in the street all the day, And the terrible ache will go on

Till the dentist's chair I fill,

But oh! what a wrench by that savoury hand Ere this jumping nerve is still.

THE BATHER'S DIRGE.
By Tennyson Minor.

BREAK, break, break,

On thy cold hard stones, O Sea!
And I hope that my tongue won't ̄utter
The curses that rise in me.

O well for the fisherman's boy,

If he likes to be soused with the spray!

O well for the sailor lad,

As he paddles about in the bay!

And the ships swim happily on

To their haven under the hill :

But O, for a clutch at that vanish'd hand, And a kick-for I'm catching a chill!

Break, break, break,

At my poor bare feet, O Sea!

But the artful scamp who has collar'd my clothes

Will never come back to me.

From Funny Folks, 1879.

The two following are taken from Punch:

THE MUSICAL PITCH.

BREAK, break, break,

O voice!-let me urge thy plea !

O lower the Pitch, lest utter

Despair be the end of me!

'Tis well for the fiddles to squeak, The bassoon to grunt in its play : 'Twere well had I lungs of brass,

Or that nothing but s'rings gave way! Break, break, break,

O voice! I must urge thy plea,

For the tender skin of my larynx is torn, And I fail in my upper G!

TENNYSON AT BILLINGSGate.

(Apropos of the Ring of Wholesale Fish Dealers.) TAKE! Take! Take!

O grabber of swag from the sea,
And I shouldn't quite like to utter
The thoughts that occur to me!
Oh, ill for the fisherman poor

That he toils for a trifle all day,
And ill for the much-diddled public
That has through the nose to pay.
And the swelling monopolist drives
To his villa at Haverstock Hill,

But it's O for the number of poor men's lives
Food-stinted to plump his till!

And he turned, his face was frightful, pale with anger for poor me;

Was it fancy that he muttered something like a big, big D-?

*

As my husband is, his wife is, rich, the envy of the town; How a life in shabby lodgings would have dragged my spirit down!

How my beauty would have faded, growing daily paler, thinner!

Making puddings, washing clothing, planning for the children's dinner.

Comes the butler, "Lunch is ready, madam!" iced champagne, I know

Mayonnaise and lobster salad; I am hungry and I go.

BACCHANALIAN DREAMINGS.

CRONIES leave me in the bar-room, while as yet I've cash to spend,

Leave me here, and if I'm wanted, 'mum's' the word to every friend,

'Tis the place I can assure you, if from funds you wish to part;

Yet for these you'll get a mixture, wisely stirred will warm the heart.

This old house is situated in a street well-known as High ; Here the choicest spirits gather, when the moon is in the sky.

Oft at night I've seen the taper seemingly to multiply
And assume these quaintish fashions so deceptive to the eye.
Till in fancy I've been lifted high above this earthly ball;
And the lights, like stars have twinkled, in the mirrors on the
wall.

In the happiness that followed, I've forgot life's cankering

care,

Yet from these Elysian dreamings I've waked to misery and despair.

In this mood I've heard, with pleasure common mortals cannot know,

Grand debates, and songs and speeches, which from sparkling genius flow.

Then I've built aerial castles towering up to heights sublime, And I've questioned in my fancy, if such blissfulness were mine.

For the nonce, a powerful statesman, I have ruled with iron sway,

Millions of my fellow-creatures, who, of course, were rougher clay.

Changing, then, to mighty warrior, at the head of armies bold,

I've crushed all who dared oppose me, just for glory, not for gold.

Or, again, as learned historian, I've noted down the deeds of yore,

Woven in a graceful fashion, mines of thought from ancient lore.

Burning passions, that consumed me, caused my throbbing heart to swell,

Or, when seized with poet's fancy, I've attempted oft to tell. But the finest of our fancies very quickly disappear,

If from thoughtfulness we're wakened by the foolish jest or jeer.

White-sleeved waiters can't appreciate thoughts superior to red wine,

And that Act, by one Mackenzie, foeman is to Muses Nine.

In my rev'rie I was shaken, by a hand, and gruffly told That the hour had just departed, when with safety wine was sold.

From The Modern Athenian, 18th March, 1876.

BLIGHT.

JOHNSON, mix another tumbler; Johnson, light a fresh cigar,

Don't be off to the Casino, but be happy where you are. Listen, Johnson, taking warning from my spirit-crushing tale,

Taking, too, your muddy bluchers from that fender's polish'd rail.

Proudly stands the house of Vivian Grey the Younger, Grosvenor Gate;

Six doors off there lived a lady, and her christian name was Kate.

Oh, the bright and fresh young morning; oh, the upward springing lark,

Oh! the getting up at seven, to take a ramble in the Park. Cursed be the loud alarum, fixed at random over night, When one talks of early rising in a style absurdly light! Cursed be the maid who calls you-brings hot water to your door,

Waking you at five because the sweeps have waked herself at four !

Did I lay that gravel walk down, did I plant those elms and oaks,

Did I set those snug alcoves like traps for catching single folks?

Many a morning did I meet her-I was always reading Locke,

While she sat and gleaned a lighter mental food from Paul de Kock.

Wherefore came a ribald urchin, in unseemly corderoy, Creeping near her, unsuspected, then uncouthly bawling, "Hoy!"

Wherefore turned she pale and fainted, nearly falling from her seat?

Wherefore howled he at the whopping which I tendered for his feat?

Then I said, "O Miss. or Madame, you look white as any paper;

Trust me, lady, he'll think twice before he dares encore that caper."

Then the ice was broken, Johnson,—broken, Johnson, in a trice;

Would my neck, before that day, had shared the fortune of the ice!

Many a morning did I meet her, never more I brought my Locke,

Never more she studied morals at the feet of Paul de Kock.