In November, 1879, The Weekly Dispatch (a high-class London Liberal newspaper) commenced a series of Prize Competitions, the subjects, and methods of treatment, being indicated by the Prize Editor. On April 18, 1880, the prize of Two Guineas was for the best Poem on the Downfall of the Beaconsfield Government, in the form of a parody of "The Burial of Sir John Moore." It was awarded to Mr. D. Evans, 63, Talma Road, Brixton, S.E., for the following:

:

(From a Tory point of view.)

Not a hum was heard, not a jubilant note,
As away from the House we all scurried-
Not a Liberal's tear bedewed the spot,

The grave where our hopes were buried.

We buried them sadly and deep that night,
For we had no hope of returning,

By Reason's bright returning light,
And our hearts were sadly yearning.

Few indeed were the words we said,

But though few they were pregnant with sorrow,

As we all in search of Benjamin fled

To inspire us with hope for the morrow.

No gaudy star was upon his breast,

No ermine cloak was around him,

Yet he stood like a man who had feathered his nest ;
And he smiled at us all, confound him!

We thought, as we left with a silent tread,
Of Cross and his dreadful Water,

That the Liberals would soon be seen there instead,
And we far away from that quarter.

Lightly they'll talk of us when we have gone,
And of course they've a right to abuse us;
But little we'd care if they'd let us keep on
In our places and wouldn't refuse us.

THE BURIAL OF THE MASHER.

"Mr. Burnand's good-natured but well-directed chaff in 'Blue Beard,' at the Gaiety, may be said to have ridiculed that curious product of modern civilisation, the Masher, out of existence. His continued life now seems to be impossible." - Daily Paper.

NOT a laugh was heard, not a cheery sound,
As the song to an encore was hurried;
Not a man in the stalls to cheer was found,
On the night that the Masher was buried.

He'd come before to a parlous pass,

Sore stricken by TRUTH'S endeavour;
But "Blue Beard" gave him his coup de grace,
And finished him once for ever!

It killed and buried him sitting there,
By ridicule on him turning;

'Neath the shifting lime-light's brilliant glare, With the footlights brightly burning.

His wired gardenia graced his breast,
And sodden in scent one found him,

As he sat there sucking his stick with zest,
With his three-inch collar around him.

A deep red groove in his puffy throat,

That collar's starched edge was flaying;

And the bow trimmed pumps, on which youths now dote, Were the clocks of his hose displaying.

Pearl-headed pins kept his tie in place,

And his shirt-front's wealth of whiteness

Made yet more sallow his pasty face,

More dazzling his chest-stud's brightness.

No thought worth thinking was in his breast,
Nor on his dull brain was flashing,
But he sat encased in his board-like vest,
Equipped for the evening's mashing.

But few and short were the leers he gave
At the chorus-girls singing before him ;
For cold and swift as an ocean wave,

The chaff of Burnand swept o'er him.

And vainly he turn'd, sore at heart and sick,
Some hope from the "Johnnies" to borrow;
For they steadfastly sucked every one his stick,
And most bitterly thought of the morrow.

They thought, as the dramatist chaffed them to death,
And foreshadowed their doom so plainly,

That they next morning, with feverish breath,
Might demand devilled prawns all vainly;

That their faith in the curried egg might go,
And a cayenne salad not serve them,

Nor champagne cheer when their "tone" was low,
Nor a fricassee'd oyster nerve them!

They felt that the power to attention gain
Would surely henceforth evade them,

And that public contempt would let them remain

In the grave where a "Blue Beard" had laid them.

And so, when Burnand his task had done,

And received a right warm ovation,

Of all the Mashers was left not one; 'Twas complete annihilation.

And they buried them there, where they first were born,
With gardenias on them clustered-

In the mashing garbs that they long had worn-
Near the stalls where they'd nightly mustered.

Blithely and gaily they laid them down,

Nor heard was a sob nor a sigh there;

And they carved not a line and they raised not a stoneFor the Mashers were worthy of neither!

Truth, March 22, 1883..

NEVER JOHN MOORE; OR, THE REJECTED Suitor. (An old story by an Old Bachelor.}

(With sincere apologies to the Rev. Charles Wolfe--for the sheep's clothing.)

I.

He felt highly absurd, as he put on his coat,
And, of course, exceedingly worried;
He swore he'd never return to the spot,
As out of the front door he scurried.

II.

He tried to banish her face from his sight,
She for whom he was yearning;
Hadn't Fred said, he knew he was right,
And that she was fond of spurning.

III.

But who'd have thought-ah, even guessedThat after she had caught and bound him ;

It was to be but a flirting jest,

An impartia! joke to sound him.

IV.

Few and short were the words he had said,
Only this-only this, "love be mine."
She gave him a rap with her fan on his head,
And laughingly left him to pine.

V.

What was he to do? should he hate her instead?
Or weeping wail, waly willow;

Or wiping away the tears he had shed,
Launch in some fresh peccadillo?

VI.

Lightly they'd talked in the days that were gone, In arbours and in kitchen gardens ;

.Only to find his poor heart torn

By devotion, which her hard heart hardens.

VII. L'ENVOI.

The moral of this I hope you won't shun,
Don't be in your mind too enquiring,
Don't fall in love, or as sure as a gun,
You're not cared for by her you're admiring.

VIII.

Talk to them civilly and leave them alone,
And this is the end of my story,

And as I don't mean to alter my tone,

I drink to all flirts "con amore."

From Cribblings from the Poets (Jones & Piggott), Cambridge, 1883.

A FUNERAL AFTER SIR JOHN Moore's, FURNISHED BY AN UNDERTAKER.

NOT a mute one word at the funeral spoke Till away to the pot-house we hurried, Not a bearer discharged his ribald joke

O'er the grave where our party" we buried.
We buried him dearly with vain display,
Two hundred per cent. returning,
Which we made the struggling orphans pay,
All consideration spurning.

With plumes of feathers his hearse was drest,
Pall and hatbands and scarfs we found him ;
And he went, as a Christian, unto his rest,
With his empty pomp around him.

None at all were the prayers we said,

And we felt not the slightest sorrow,

But we thought, as the rites were perform'd o'er the dead,
Of the bill we'd run up on the morrow.

We thought as he sunk to his lowly bed
That we wish'd they'd cut it shorter.

So that we might be off to the Saracen's Head,
For our gin, and our pipes, and our porter.
Lightly we speak of the "party" that's gone,
Now all due respect has been paid him;
Ah! little he reck'd of the lark that went on
Near the spot where we fellows had laid him

As soon as our sable task was done,

Nor a moment we lost in retiring;

And we feasted and frolick'd, and poked our fun,
Gin and water each jolly soul firing,

Blithely and quickly we quaff'd it down,

Singing song, cracking joke, telling story;

And we shouted and laughed all the way up to Town, Riding outside the hearse in our glory.

Punch, January 5, 1850.

At the time when the above parody appeared there was an agitation on foot to reform the costliness and vain display at funerals. Punch, both in his cartoons and his letterpress, was exceedingly bitter against the undertakers.

The matter was so energetically taken up by the press and the public, that funerals were soon shorn of their costly mummery, and are now conducted on much more sensible and economical principles than they were in 1850.

In reference to the disputed authority of the ode "Not a drum was heard," the Rev. T. W. Carson, of Dublin, has kindly forwarded a facsimile of the letter, (to which reference was made on page 105), from the Rev. C. Wolfe to his friend Mr. John Taylor. It varies slightly from the version already given, and seems conclusively to establish Wolfe's title as author of the poem.

It runs thus:—

"I have completed the Burial of Sir John Moore, and will here inflict it upon you; you have no one but yourself to blame, for praising the two stanzas (?) that I told you so much :

In Hood's poems a rare blending is found of wit, fancy, humour and pathos; and as his personal character was amiable, gentle and good, his memory is cherished by Englishmen with peculiar affection and respect.

Thomas Hood was born in London, and was the son of a member of the then well-known firm of booksellers, Vernor, Hood, and Sharp.

Hood was intended for an engraver, and although he soon deserted that profession, he acquired a sufficient knowledge of it to enable him to illustrate his own works, which he did in a quaintly comical manner. His sketches, though generally crude and inartistic, admirably explain his meaning, and never certainly did puns find such a prolific, and humourous, pictorial exponent as Hood.

Hood's eldest son (Thomas Hood the younger) was also the author of several novels and some humourous poetry. He was for many years editor of Fun.

Of Hood's poems the four most usually selected for parody and imitation are, The Song of the Shirt; The Bridge of Sighs; The Dream of Eugene Aram; and a pretty little piece entitled I remember, I remember.

It is a somewhat curious fact that one of the most earnest and pathetic of Hood's poems should first have appeared in Punch. The Song of the Shirt will be found on page 260 of vol. 5, 1843, of that journal.

This dirge of misery awoke universal pity for the poor victims of the slop-sellers and readymade clothiers; but like most of the spasmodic outbursts of British rage and indignation little permanent good resulted from it. The ma

chinists, and unattached out-door employés of the London tailors, are probably worse off now than ever they were in Hood's time.

As might have been expected from the wonderful popularity of The Song of the Shirt and its peculiarly catching rhythm, it has been the subject of almost innumerable parodies, and has also served as the model for many imitations of a serious nature.

TRIALS AND TROUBLES OF A TOURIST.

In clothes, both muddy and wet,

Without hat-left on the fell;

A pedestrian sought, with a tottering gait,
Refreshment at this hotel.

He'd walked a long and weary way,
O'er mountain-top and moor;

And thus he mused, mid'st wind and rain,
As he approached the door.

"I walk

walk! walk!

First climbing hills, and then down Where the people are not to be seen, Many miles from village or town. Oh! haven't I been a dupe, Pedestrian pleasure to seek, When so quiet I might have stayed At Redcar all the week."

"I walk! walk! walk!

With my boots fast breaking up, And walk! walk! walk!

Without either bite or sup. Oh that again I was at home, To feel as I used to feel,

And not as now, in hunger and thirst, With a doubly-blistered heel."

"I walk! walk! walk!

Up to the knee in bog,

And loudly call, 'Lost! Lost !'
Surrounded by clouds and fog.

I walk walk! walk!

Till my head begins to spin; Oh! that I ne'er had scrambled out The stream I tumbled in."

"I walk! walk! walk!

With cheeks all swollen and red; A nasty aching within my ears, Rheumatics in my head.

I walk walk! walk!

In trousers tattered and torn!

With every thread from foot to head Quite soaked since early morn."

For one who hither has come for a change, And cannot change a clout."

"I walk! walk! walk!

And nothing can find to see;
While water and mud from out my boots
Is squirting up to each knee.
Talk of scenery! Bah! it's all stuff,
But the waterfall, I admit,

Is good, for it's running down my back,
And I've no dry place to sit."

"I walk walk! walk!

With my throat quite parched and dry ; No spirit to rouse my spirits up;

With pulse quite fevered and high.
I've a dropsy got outside,

Whilst inside there's a drought;
Oh! for a good warm draught within,
As a check to the draught without."

"Walk! walk! walk!

I'll never come here again :
My holiday shall be spent elsewhere,
Free from fatigue and pain.

"

Or I'll stay at home with my wife,
Where a dry shirt I can wear ;
And worn out with misfortune's strife,
And almost weary of his life,

He sank in the old arm chair.

JOHN REED APPLETON, F.S.A.

THE SONG OF THE SPUrt.

WITH hands all blistered and worn,
With eyes excited and red,

A boating man sat, in jersey and bags,
Awaiting the signal with dread.
Tug! Jug! tug!

Every bone in his body is hurt ;
And still, with a sigh and a dolorous shrug,
He sang the "Song of the Spurt !"

"Work! work! work!

Till I shiver in every limb;
Work! work! work!

Till the eyes begin to swim
Steam, bucket, and pant,
Pant, bucket, and steam,
Till over the oar I almost faint,
And row along in a dream.

"O, men, with sisters dear,

O, men, with pretty cousins,

,,

I must mind and keep my form for the endThey'll be there on the barge by dozens ! Pull pull pull !

What is poverty, hunger, or dirt, Compared with the more than double dread

Of catching a crab in the spurt !"

Rub, rub, rub,

It seems to be fun for him.

Sheeted from head to foot,

I'd rather be covered with dirt ;

I'll give you the sheet and the blankets to boot,

If you'll only give me my shirt.

"Oh men, with arms and hands;

Oh men, with legs and shins;

It is not the sheet you're wearing out,
But human creatures' skins.

Rub, rub, rub,

Body, and legs, and feet,

Rubbing at once with a double rub,

A skin as well as a sheet.

"My wife will see me no moreShe'll see the bone of her bone

But never will see the flesh of her flesh,
For I'll have no flesh of my own:

The little that was my own,
They won't allow me to keep,

It's a pity that flesh should be so dear,
And water so very cheap.

"Pack, pack, pack,

Whenever your spirit flags,

You're doomed by hydropathic laws
To be packed in cold wet rags: