I asked him if he'd take a whiff

Of 'bacco; he acceded;
He grew communicative too,
(A pipe was all he needed),
Till of the tinker's life, I think,

I knew as much as he did.

"I loiter down by thorp and town;

For any job I'm willing;
Take here and there a dusty brown,
And here and there a shilling.

"I deal in every ware in turn,

I've rings for buddin' Sally

That sparkle like those eyes of her'n;
I've liquor for the valet.

"I steal from th' parson's strawberry plots,

I hide by th' squire's covers;

I teach the sweet young housemaids what's
The art of trapping lovers.

"The things I've done 'neath moon and stars

Have got me into messes:

I've seen the sky through prison bars,
I've torn up prison dresses.

"I've sat, I've sighed, I've gloom'd, I've glanced With envy at the swallows

That through the windows slid and danced (Quite happy) round the gallows.

"But out again I come, and show

My face nor care a stiver,

For trades are brisk and trades are slow,
But mine goes on for ever."

Thus on he prattled like a babbling brook.
Then I, "The sun hath slipt behind the hill,
And my Aunt Vivian dines at half-past six,"
So in all love we parted; I to the Hall,
They to the village. It was noised next noon
That chickens had been miss'd at Syllabub Farm.

Another parody of The Brook is contained in a little anonymous Pamphlet, entitled Idyls of the Rink, published by Judd & Co., in 1876, it is called

THE RINKER,

By Alfred Tennyson.

I START from home in happy mood,
Arrayed in dress so pretty,
And sparkle out among the men,
Who come up from the City.

But first I linger by the brink,
And calmly reconnoitre,

For when I'm fairly on the rink,

I never care to loiter.

Then "follow me," I loudly call,

At skating I'm so clever,

For men may come, and men may fall,

But I rink on for ever.

I chatter with my little band
Of friends so gay and hearty,

And sometimes we go hand in hand,

And sometimes in a party.

I slip, I slide, I glance, I glide,
There is no one can teach me,

I give them all a berth full wide,
And not a soul can reach me.

I chatter, chatter, to them all,

At skating I'm so clever,

For men may come, and men may fall, But I rink on for ever.

I wind about, and in and out,
With here a figure tracing,
And here and there I dance about,
And here I go a-racing,

I'm always making graceful curves,
As everyone alleges.

And while I've nerve, I'll never swerve,
From in and outside edges.

And after me I draw them all,

At skating I'm so clever,

For men may come, and men may fall, But I rink on for ever.

-:0:

I now come to a clever and most amusing little work entitled Puck on Pegasus, by H. Cholmondeley-Pennell, which was published about sixteen years ago by the late Mr. John Camden Hotten. In the original edition this work was a small quarto with numerous illustrations and a characteristic frontispiece, designed and etched by my dear old friend George Cruikshank. It has since run through numerous editions, and is now included in the series known as The Mayfair Library, published by Chatto and Windus. It contains the following parodies" Song of In-the-Water," after Longfellow; "The Du Chaillu Controversy," after The Bon Gaultier Ballads; "The Fight for the Championship," after Lord Macaulay; "How the Daughters come down at Dunoon," after Robert Southey; Wus, ever wus," after Tom Moore; "Exexolor!" after Longfellow's Excelsior; "Charge of the Light (Irish) Brigade," after Tennyson.

The incidents referred to in the last-mentioned parody have now somewhat faded from the public memory. It is sufficient to say that the warlike behaviour of the one brigade was quite as great a contrast to the action of the other, as the parody here given presents to the original poem :

CHARGE OF THE LIGHT (IRISH) BRIGADE. (Not by A-d T— -n).

SOUTHWARD Ho-Here we go!
O'er the wave onward

Out from the Harbour of Cork
Sailed the Six Hundred !
Sailed like Crusaders thence,
Burning for Peter's pence.-
Burning for fight and fame-
Burning to show their zeal-

It would be difficult to find a better example both of the merits, and, so far as mere parody is concerned, of the defects of Mr. CholmondeleyPennell's style than in the following lines, which he has kindly permitted me to insert in this collection. -They parody the Morte D'Arthur :

LINES SENT TO THE LATE CHARLES BUXTON, M. P., WITH MY FAVOURITE HUNTER, WHITE-MIST.

THE sequel of to-day dissevers all

This fellowship of straight riders, and hard men
To hounds-the flyers of the hunt.

I think

That we shall never more in days to come
Hold cheery talk of hounds and horses (each
Praising his own the most) shall steal away
Through brake and coppice-wood, or side by side
Breast the sharp bullfinch and deep-holding dyke,
Sweep through the uplands, skim the vale below,
And leave the land behind us like a dream.

I tear me from this passion that I loved-
Though Paget sware that I should ride again
But yet I think I shall not; I have done :
My hunt is hunted: I have skimmed the cream,
The blossom of the seasons, and no more
For me shall gallant Scott have cause for wrath,
Or injured farmer mourn his wasted crops.

Now, therefore, take my horse, which was my pride
(For still thou knowest he bore me like a man-),
And wheel him not, nor plunge him in the mere,
But set him straight and give his head the rein,
And he shall bear thee lightly to the front,
Swifter than wind, and stout as truest steel,
And none shall rob thee of thy pride of place

:0:

Like the accomplished authors of The Bon Gaultier Ballads, Mr. Cholmondeley-Pennell is almost too much a Poet to be thoroughly successful as a mere Parodist. His muse often carries him away, and whilst she begins in mere badinage, and playful imitation, runs into graceful sentiment and poetical imagery, until the author pulls her up short, and compels her to turn aside again into the well-worn "footprints in the sands of time."

* A room for each man, and plenty of excellent provisions were amongst the inducements held out to the deluded victims who enlisted in the Papal Brigade to fight against Italian unity.

Since the year 1845 Alfred Tennyson has been in the receipt of a civil list pension of £200 a year, so that, in round figures, he has received about £8,000 of the public money, besides drawing the annual salary of £100 since his appointment as Poet Laureate, November, 1850. The sale of his

works, has also, of course, been greatly increased, owing to his official title, and the present fortunate holder of the laurels enjoys a fortune much in excess of that of any of his predecessors in office. From the days of Ben Jonson downwards, the Poets Laureate have been paid to sing the praises of the Royal Family; of these Laureates, Jonson, Dryden, Southey, and Wordsworth were true poets, but the others in the line of succession were mere rhymesters, whose very names are now all but forgotten. Eusden, Cibber, and Pye were unremitting in their production of New Year, and Birthday Odes, but Southey did little in this way, and Wordsworth would not stoop to compose any official poems whatever, although he wore the laurels for seven years.

It was reserved for Alfred Tennyson to revive the custom, and he has composed numerous adulatory poems on events in the domestic history of our Royal Family.

The smallest praise that can be bestowed on Tennyson's official poems is that they are immeasurably superior to any produced by former Laureates, and will probably long retain their popularity. The death of the Princess Charlotte (heiress presumptive to the throne) in 1817 was, no doubt, considered at the time a greater public loss than was the death of Prince Albert in 1861; yet who now reads Southey's poems in her praise? Whereas the beauty of Tennyson's Dedication of the Idylls of the King will cause it to be remembered when people have forgotten the Prince to whom it was inscribed.

This Dedication commences thus:

"THESE to his Memory-since he held them dear,
Perhaps as finding there unconsciously
Some image of himself-I dedicate,

I dedicate,-I consecrate with tears-
These Idylls,

And indeed he seems to me

Scarce other than my own ideal knight." Continuing in this strain for another fifty lines,

NOTE.-Poets Laureate, with the dates of their appointment:-Benjamin Jonson, 1615-16; Sir William Davenant, 1638; John Dryden, 1670; Thomas Shadwell, 1688; Nahum Tate, 1692; Nicholas Rowe, 1715; Lawrence Eusden, 1718; Colley Cibber, 1730; William Whitehead 1757: Thomas Warton, 1785; Henry James Pye, 1790 Robert Southey, 1813; William Wordsworth, 1843; and Alfred Tennyson, 19th November, 1850.

Tennyson credits the Prince with every conceivable virtue, after which it is a relief to turn to a parody taken from The Coming K

THESE to his memory-since he held them dear,
Perchance as finding there unwittingly
Some picture of himself-I dedicate,

I dedicate-I consecrate with smiles-
These Idle Lays-

Indeed, He seemed to me
Scarce other than my own ideal liege,
Who did not muchly care to trouble take;
But his concern was, comfortable ease
To dress in well-cut tweeds, in doe-skin suits,
In pants of patterns marvellous to see;
To smoke good brands; to quaff rare vintages;
To feed himself with dainty meats withal;
To sport with Amaryllis in the shade;
To toy with what Nerea calls her hair;
And, in a general, way, to happy be,
If possible, and always debonair;

Who spake few wise things; did some foolish ones;
Who was good hearted, and by no means stiff;
Who loved himself as well as any man;

He who throughout his realms to their last isle Was known full well, whose portraiture was found In ev'ry album.

We have lost him; he is gone;

We know him now; ay, ay, perhaps too well,
For now we see him as he used to be,
How shallow, larky, genial-hearted, gay;
With how much of self-satisfaction blessed-
Not swaying to this faction nor to that,
Because, perhaps, he neither understood;
Not making his high place a Prussian perch
Of War's ambition, but the vantage ground
Of comfort; and through a long tract of years,
Wearing a bouquet in his button-hole;
Once playing a thousand nameless little games,
Till communistic cobblers gleeful danced,
And democratic delvers hissed. "Ha! ha!"
Who dared foreshadow, then, for his own son
A looser life, one less distraught than his ?
Or how could Dilkland, dreaming of his sons,
Have hoped less for them than some heritance
Of such a life, a heart, a mind as thine,
Thou noble father of her kings to be,-
If fate so wills it, O most potent K-
The patron once of Polo and of Poole,
Of actors and leviathan "comiques;'
Once dear to Science as to Art; once dear
To Sanscrit erudition as to either,
Dear to thy country in a double sense;
Dear to purveyors ; ay, a liege, indeed,
Beyond all titles, and a household name,
Hereafter, through all times, Guelpho the Gay!

"

The Coming K- was published about twelve years ago as one of Beeton's Christmas Annuals, and created a sensation at the time, as it dealt with some social scandals then fresh in the public mind. After enjoying a rapid sale it was suddenly withdrawn in a mysterious manner from circulation, and is now rather scarce. Following the Dedication, just quoted, are parodies of the Idylls of the King, with the following titles:-The Coming of

Guelpho; Heraint and Shenid; Vilien; Loosealot and Delaine; the Glass of Ale; Silleas and Getarre; The last Carnival; and Goanveer. In each of these parts there are parodies well worthy of preservation, but space will only admit of the insertion of the following extracts, one taken from Vilien, the other from Goanveer.

In Vilien, the then prevalent crazes for Spiritualism, Table Rapping, and Cabinet séances are satirised; Vilien seeks out Herlin the Wizard, and thus begs him to reveal the one great secret of his art

"I EVER feared you were not wholly mine,
And see you ask me what it is I want?
Yet people call you wizard-why is this?
What is it makes you seem so proud and cold?
Yet if you'd really know what boon I ask,
Then tell me, dearest Herlin, ere I go,

The charm with which you make your table rap;
What passes of the waving hand it needs
To make it tilt upon its ebon legs,
And rap out secrets to the listening world,
'Tis this I want to know; this must I know
As proof of trust.

O yield my boon, And grant my re-iterated wish, Then will I love you, ay, and you shall kiss My grateful lips-you shall upon my word."

And Herlin took his hand from hers and said,
"O Vilien, ask not this, but aught beside,
Would'st know the bottle trick? I'll tell it thee,
The magic candles? Them will I explain
But as thou lov'st me, Vilien, do not ask
The way in which I make the table rap.
O ask it not !"

And Vilien, like the tenderest-hearted maid
That ever jilted swain or lover mocked,
Made answer, either eyelid wet with tears:
"Nay, Herlin, if you love me, say not so;
You do but tease to talk to me like this.
Methinks you hardly know the tender rhyme
Of Trust me for all in all, or not at all.'
I heard a 'comique' sing the verses once,
And they shall answer for me.

List the song :

'In love, 'tis as in trade; if trade were ours, Credit and cash could ne'er be equal powersGive trust to all, or don't give trust at all.

It is the little rift within the lute

That cracks the sound and makes the music mute, And leaves the banjo nothing worth at all.

It is the little moth within the suit,
It is the merry maggot in the fruit,
That worming surely, slowly ruins all.

It is the little leaven makes the lump, It is the little piston works the pump; And A-L-L spells ALL, and—all is all.'

O, Herlin, do you understand my rhyme?"
And Herlin coughed, and owned that he did not.

And Vilien, naught abashed, replied again:

Lo, now, how silly you must be, you know, My simple stanzas not to understand; 'Tis thus our truest poets write their rhymes; They try their sense and meaning to conceal; But you should solve their riddles, though 'tis said They don't the answers know themselves, sometimes. However, be that as it may, I think

I'll give you one verse more. So Vilien sang:

"That sign, once mine, is thine, ay, closelier mine, For what is thine is mine, and mine is thine, And this, I much opine, is line on line; So learn the obvious moral once for all.” But Herlin looked aghast, as well he might, Nor knew the teaching of her little song.

The last legend, that of Goanveer, tells how"FLEET Goanveer had lost the race, and stood There in the stable near to Epsom Downs."

The Coming K- had backed this mare heavily, but his trusted friend, Sir Looscalot, obtaining access to her stable the night before the race, had drugged her, so that on the day she hobbled sickly to the winning-post. By this evil trick Sir Loosealot wins much, whilst the Coming K- is a heavy loser. Guelpho visits the mare in her stable, and thus addresses her, in a parody of the celebrated passage in Guinevere, where Arthur parts from his faithless Queen

AND all went well till on the turf I went,
Believing thou would'st fortune bring to me,
And place me higher yet in name and fame.
Then came the shameful act of Loosealot;
Then came thy breaking down in that great race;
And now my name's worth nil at Tattersall's,
And all my knights can curl their lips at me;
Can say 'I've come a cropper,' and the like,
And all through thee and he-and him, I mean-
But slips will happen at a time like this.
Canst wonder I am sad when thus I see

I am contemned amongst my chiefest knights?
When I am hinted at in public prints
As being a man who sold the people's race?
But think not, Goanveer, my matchless mare,
Thy lord has wholly lost his love for thee.
Yet must I leave thee to thy shame, for how
Couldst thou be entered for a race again?
The public would not hear of it; nay, more,
Would hoot and hound thee from the racing course,
Being one they had loved, yet one on whom they had
lost."

He paused, and in the pause the mare rejoiced.
For he relaxed the caresses of his arms;
And, thinking he had done, the mare did neigh,
As with delight; but Guelpho spake again :-

"Yet, think not that I come to urge thy faults;

I did not come to curse thee, Goanveer;

The wrath which first I felt when thou brok'st down
Is past-it never will again return.

I came to take my last fond leave of thee,
For I shall ne'er run mare or horse again.
O silky mane, with which I used to play
At Hampton! O most perfect equine form,

And points the like of which no mare yet had
Till thou was't bred! O fetlocks, neater far
Than many a woman's ankles! O grand hocks
That faltered feebly on that fatal day!
O noble quarters! And O Goanveer!
Yet, Goanveer, I bid thee now good-bye,
And leave thee, feeling yet a love for thee,
As one who first my racing instinct stirred,
As one who taught me to abjure the turf.
Hereafter we may meet-I cannot tell;
Thy future may be happy-so I wish.
But this I pray, on no account henceforth
Make mixture of your water-drink it neat;

I charge thee this. And now I must go hence ;
Through the thick night I hear the whistle blow
That tells me that my 'special' waits to start.
Thou wilt stay here awhile, so be at rest;
Bnt hither shall I never come again,

Or ever pat thy neck, or see thee more,
Goodbye!

Take him, O attic, and rock him to sleep!
Strew a viceregal shakedown on the floor!
Welcome him, welcome him, all that is cheap!
Sing, Prima Donna, and fashion stare!
Scrape up your regiments, weak and few,
Hurry, ye Commons, and all be there,
To swell the pomp of the grand review!
Chuckle, Britannia! a Sultan? pooh!
A nobody? don't we know who's who,
Ismail Pasha!

Seeking quarters for change of air,
Come to us, love us (but pay your fare)—
Guests such us you we are happy to see;
Come to us, love us, and have we not shown,
In breakfast, and luncheon, and dinner, and tea,
Kindness to strangers as great as your own?
For Jacksons, O'Tooles, and McStunners we,
Viceroy, Khidevé, or whatever you be,

Yet thorough John Bulls in our welcome of thee,
Ismail Pasha !

:0:

On the arrival of the Princess Alexandra from Denmark in March, 1863, Tennyson wrote :—

A WELCOME TO ALEXANDRA. SEA-KING'S daughter from over the sea,

Alexandra!

Saxon and Norman and Dane are we,
But all of us Danes in our welcome of thee,
Alexandra!
Welcome her, thunders of fort and of fleet !
Welcome her, thundering cheer of the street!
Welcome her, all things youthful and sweet!
Scatter the blossom under her feet!

For Saxon or Dane or Norman we,
Teuton or Celt, or whatever we be,

We are each all Dane in our welcome of thee,

Alexandra!

In 1869, Ismail Pasha, the Viceroy of Egypt, visited this country, and the following welcome appeared in The Tomahawk of July 10, 1869.

BRITANNIA'S WELCOME TO THE ILLUSTRIOUS STRANGer.
PLAGUE of Egypt from over the sea,
Ismail Pasha !
Viceroy, Khidevé, or whatever you be,
Jacksons, O'Tooles, and McStunners are we,
But all John Bulls in our welcome of thee,
Ismail Pasha!

Welcome him, blunder of escort and suite,
Mounted inspector, and mob in the street!
Call up the first cab his Highness to meet !
Throw his hat-box and Bradshaw and rug on the seat !
Welcome him! feast him with fourpenny treat,
One glass of old ale and a sandwich to eat!
Scatter, O Royalty, gold for his keep!
Dream, all ye tradesmen of harvests to reap!
The Palace is empty, our pockets are deep!
Fling wide, O menial, the grand back door!

"The promise of May" was a little bit late, And a fox jumped over a parson's gate,

And he had my cochins, too, if you please,
With a cat to the cream, which was not the cheese;
And a guinea a line is about the rate

You must pay for what flows from the poet's pate
When the blue fire wakes up the whole of the town;
And I'm sure I don't know what to say about Brown.
But whatever I say and whatever I sing
Will be worth to an obulus what it will bring!

The Referee, September, 1883.

It is generally admitted that Tennyson's recent official poetry has added little to his fame, and, of late, his adulatory poems have frequently been ascribed to interested motives. As soon as it was definitely announced that he was to be ennobled,