Now hangs upon the kitchen walls
Its ancient glories fled.

So pass the fads of former days.
So fashion's whim is o er.

Old China that was once the craze
Now fetches" fools no more.

(One more verse.)

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HERE'S THE BOWER. HERE'S the bower she lov'd so much, And the tree she planted; Here's the harp she used to touchOh, how that touch enchanted!

T. MOORE.

WHEN he who now bores thee has left but the fame Of his one little weakness behind,

Oh! say wilt thou smile when they mock at his name,
Thou, to boredom so sweetly resigned.

Nay, weep, and however my face may condemn
Thy tears shall efface their decree;
For though I have often been shut up by them
I have always found patience in thee.

To buttonhole thee was my constant delight,
Every cock and bull story was thine,

Each mare's nest I found I exposed to thy sight,
To my twaddle thine ear thoud'st incline.

Oh! blest be thy kindness which hearing would give
To my fulsomest fiddle-de-dee.

The great race of Buttonhole-Bores could not live,
Were it not for Pill-Garlics like thee !

HERE'S the box that held the snuff,
And the bean so famous;
Here's the pipe he used to puff,-

Oh! how that puff o'er came us! Strasburgh, Tonquin,-both are dry,Where's the hand to soak them? Pipes around extinguished lie,— Where's the lip to smoke them?

Gin may fall, but he who loved

It, ne'er shall feel its cheapness; Porter pots may be improved,—

Lost on him their deepness. Quarts were pints where'er he stayed,Pints were to quarterns nearer ; Whiff ne'er warmed a jollier blade, Nor drinking killed a dearer.

THERE'S of benches a row in St. Stephen's extreme,
And the minister's sitting there all the night long,
In the time of my power 'twas like a sweet dream,
To sit on those rows in the Cabinet throng.

That bench and its placemen I never forget,

But oft when alone at the close of the year,

I think are conservatives sitting there yet,

Are the subs to their speeches still clamouring "hear!'

No, the Tories are ousted each plundering knave,

But rich harvests they pluck'd while the sun on them shone, And wealth was amassed from their jobbing which gave All the profits of place when their places were gone. Thus the minister takes, from his power e'er it dies, A pension that gives him some thousands a year. So lucrative either in fall or in rise,

Is a seat on some bench in the treasury sphere. Figaro in London, November 10, 1832,

"THERE'S A BOWER OF BEAN-VINES," THERE'S a bower of bean-vines in Benjamin's yard, And the cabbages grow round it, planted for greens ; In the time of my childhood 'twas terribly hard To bend down the bean-poles, and pick off the beans.

That bower and its products I never forget,

But oft, when my landlady presses me hard,

I think, are the cabbages growing there yet,

Are the bean-vines still bearing in Benjamin's yard? No, the bean-vines soon withered that once used to wave, But some beans had been gathered, the last that hung on And a soup was distilled in a kettle, that gave

All the fragrance of summer when summer was gone.

Thus memory draws from delight, ere it dies,

An essence that breathes of it awfully hard ; And thus good to my taste as 'twas then to my eyes, Is that bower of bean-vines in Benjamin's yard. Poems and Parodies. By PHOEBE CAREY, Boston, U. S., 1854.

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PARLIAMENT AND THE TORY.

'Every one is acquainted with Moore's beautiful poem of Paradise and the Peri, in which the fallen spirit is represented as seeking on earth for a boon to regain the heaven she has lost. The story assimilates closely to a late affair, in which a certain military Tory (the Duke of Wellington), having lost the heaven of place (to him far more desirable than any place in heaven) devised all kinds of tricks to regain his former position.

ONE morn a Tory at the gate
Of Stephen's stood disconsolate;
And as he listened to the words

Of Whigs within, like poison flowing,
And caught the sense of what he heard,
The downfall of his party knowing,
He wept to think his plundering race
Should e'er have lost that glorious place

The Devil, who is always keeping
The doors, beheld the Tory weeping,
And as he nearer drew and listened
To the complaint, a tear-drop glistened
Within his eyelids, like the spray

From Eldon's fountain, when he cries With tears which those who know him say Proceed from no where but his eyes.

"Thou scion of a plundering line," The Devil said one hope is thine." I think it is not yet too late

The Tory may again get power, Who brings to this infernal gate

Some trick or bribe to suit the hour; "Go seek it," said he with a grin, "'Tis sweet to let the Tories in."

Downward the Tory turns his gaze,
And through excitement's lowering haze,
Beholds a noble premier stand

Desponding, 'mid the people crying

Reform, just falling from his hand,

And his last hope to save it dying. He tried what chance he found remain, A threat of Peers, but all in vain.

False flew the shaft, though pointed well Corruption lingered, freedom fell ;

It would stain not the purest of those who still Long to sit on the treasury bench of bliss.

Oh, if there be on this earthly sphere

A boon that the Devil holds truly dear,
'Tis the false eclat which knavery draws

From a premier who falls with the people's cause.

"Sweet," said the Devil, as he gave
The gift unto his grasping hand,
"Sweet is our welcome of the brave
Who such a hellish trick has plann'd ;"
But see, alas! the golden bar

Of office moves not-craftier far
Than even this trick, the means must be
To open the gates of place for thee.

Figaro in London, 1832.

He wept to think he'd run his race,

And left for aye that glorious place.

"How happy" exclaimed that child of airAnd 'twas true, though he hadn't much truth to spare

"Are Gladstone and Bright in clover there!
But I've made a mess they'll find hard to repair
I've shed innocent blood in every clime,
Sent thousands of men to death in their prime,
Have carried my rule by falsehood and crime,
Done deeds that will stink the end of time,-
And I leave my country my heir!"

"Woe, woe for ever!

The Election's done, The votes are cast

And I've not won!"

Bits of Beaconsfield. (ABEL HEYWOOD & SON, Manchester.)

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THE LAMENT OF THE PERI.
FAREWELL-farewell to thee, ARABY's daughter
(Thus warbled a PERI beneath the dark sea,)
No pearl ever lay, under Oman's green water,
More pure in its shell than thy spirit in thee.

Oh! fair as the sea-flower close to thee growing,
How light was thy heart till Love's witchery came,
Like the wind of the south o'er a summer lute blowing,
And hush'd all its music, and wither'd its flame!

Farewell, farewell-until Pity's sweet fountain
Is lost in the hearts of the fair and the brave,
They'll weep for the Chieftain who died on that
mountain,

They'll weep for the Maiden who sleeps in this wave.
The Fire Worshippers.
T. MOORE.

"The wrongs of Ireland which are exciting so much sympathy on all hands at this moment, naturally call to recollection one of her most devoted advocates, as well as one of her brightest ornaments.

AIR.—Farewell—farewell to thee, Araby's daughter.
FAREWELL-farewell to thee desolate Erin,
(Thus warbled a patriot beneath a dark tree,)
No curl ever lay on Law's visage so leering,
More bright in its oil than thy spirit in thee.

Oh fair as the flowers all over thee growing,
How light was thy heart till curs'd Castlereagh came,
Like the breath of a Croker o'er eloquence blowing,
To hush all its music, and render it tame.

But yet when to Parliament they are returning,
There will still be amongst both the young and the old,
Some who with disgust most indignantly burning,

Will weep when they think how thy freedom was sold
The new made elector whene'er he advances,
To vote on some Irish Electoral day,
Will think of thy fate, till forgetting his franchise,
He mournfully turns from the poll-booth away.
Nor shall Daniel* beloved of thy people forget thee,
Though tyrants watch over his tears as they start.
Close, close in his bosom that hero will set thee,
Embalmed in the innermost shrine of his heart,
Figaro in London, February 23, 1833.

THE SONG OF THE SULTAN

FAREWELL-farewell to thee, ARABI darling!
(Thus murmured the SULTAN beneath his moustache.)
No help for it now: the curst Giaour is snarling;
Complete is the sell, and most utter the hash.

Oh! sweet as the whiff from my chibouque soft blowing, Our joint little game till the Britisher came,

Like the wind from the desert rose-gardens o'erthrowing And blew it to bits. 'Tis a thundering shame!

But long upon ARABI'S Orient guile and

Astuteness shall ABDUL sit brooding in gloom.
To be bowled out at last by that crass Western Island!
Would, would it were swept by the blasting Simoom!

And now by Old Nilus SIR GARNET is burning,

And calls to his standard the young and the old.
E'en the Guards, such home pastime as Polo stern spurning,
In sunshine Egyptian can broil yet be bold.

I've played fast and loose, but the Giaour's successes
My dark schemes have dished in the dismallest way ;

I must leave thee to fate, though my bosom still blesses
The nice little game I must trust thee to play.

Nor shall Islam, who hails thee as hero, forget thee-
Those tyrants of Infidel dogs are too smart,

But if thou shouldst lick them, by Allah, she'd set thee
Supreme in the innermost shrine of her heart.

Farewell!-be it mine still to squat on this pillow,
And muse upon dodges exceedingly deep;

But those sons of burnt fathers who've come o'er the billow
Will crumple my rose-leaves, and trouble my sleep.

I've ground my poor teeth till I've shivered the amber,
My bloated pipe-bearer I've kicked till he wept.
(He lies at this moment, and howls, in yon chamber,
Most sore-footed slave that on blisters e'er stept.)

I'll dive where Intrigue's deepest plots still lie darkling
But this Proclamation must hurl at thy head.
Thy prospects on Egypt's hot sands scarce look sparkling.
They gather, the Giaours, the Nile's in his bed.

* Daniel O'Connell, M.P.

On January 7, 1880 The World published four parodies on the same poem which had been sent in for Competition, the subject selected being:

THE AMEER OF CABUL, YAKOOB KHAN.
FIRST PRIZE.

BEGONE, begone with thee, son of Shere Ali !
(Thus chanted a Mollah on Gandamak's brow.)
No cursed Hindu, timid servant of Kali,

Is feeble in heart and in spirit as thou.

O, brave as the chieftains thy palace adorning

How high was thy pride ere the Englishman came, Like the frost of the north on the flow'r of the morning,

And silenced thy boasting, and withered thy fame
Not long, by the Prophet, on Cabul's green highlands,
Shall we and thy warriors mourn for the doom
Of thee, whom, afar in the Andaman Islands,*
Some infidel hireling may bear to the tomb.
Nor yet when the glorious trumpet is sounding,
And summons to combat the bold and the strong,
Shall one Barakzai, on the enemy bounding,

Ever call on thy name as he rushes along.

So shall Cabul, beloved of Shere Ali, forget thee,
As soon as her tyrants have bid thee depart;
Far, far from the pride of thy father shall set thee,
And curse thee from out of her innermost heart.

Begone! Be it ours to atone for thy meekness,
With ev'ry revenge that a victor may deal;
Each sign of submission, each token of weakness,
Shall hasten our footsteps and sharpen our steel,

We'll charge where the thickest the foe is deploying,
And lose in the battle the thought of thy name;
We'll seek where the Angel of Death is destroying,
And gather new laurels to cover thy shame.

Begone, begone, until life is departed,

And still are the hearts of the true and the brave! We'll weep for the warriors who died noble-hearted; We'll curse at the coward who sued like a slave.

TOFFER.

(Sir Louis Cavagnari, the English Envoy to Afghanistan, and his staff having been murdered in the Cabul, English troops hastened to that city which was captured on Christmas Eve, 1879. Yakoob Khan, accused of complicity in the massacre, was sent as a prisoner to India.)

SECOND PRIZE.

AWAY, away with the Ameer unlucky!

(Thus murmured the Viceroy o'er India's plain;) No oyster fished up by a pearl-diver plucky, Ever proved such a sell as thy spiritless reign.

*A possible place of exile for the Ameer, as it was used for the King of Delhi's prison.

O, bright as the passion-flower by the wall creeping, How fair was thy promise till treachery came ! Like the storm of the desert through rose-garden sweeping

And quenched thy brief glory in blood and in flame. But long by Cabul's rapid glacier-fed fountains

Shall the young and the old shudder over the fate
Of the fifty men hanging beneath the great mountains
With jackals for mourners to howl by the gate.
And when the cold winter and snows are returning,
They'll tell the old tale how the infidels fell;
As they huddle together around the logs burning
They'll bitterly think of our vengeance as well.
The vendor of kabobs, while deftly preparing
His wares, will remember brave Roberts' return
Till, losing himself in his cursing and swearing
He carelessly leaves al! the kabobs to burn.
Nor shall England, great mother of heroes, forget him,
Who worthily wiped out the stain on her fame;
High up on the roll of her heroes she'll set him
Inscribed, that her children may honour his name.

Away! Be it mine to surround thy seclusion
With everything innocent, harmless and bright
Tin trumpets and drums in the richest profusion,
And candy to sweeten the wearisome night.

My cook shall prepare thee the daintiest dishes,
My doctor shall ease thee whene'er thou'rt in pain;
I'll willingly grant thee whate'er thy heart wishes,
But ne'er shalt thou see Afghanistan again.

'TWAS EVER THUS.

I NEVER loved a dear gazelle,

In fact, I never knew one;

And though I've loved a sweet mam'zelle I've ne'er had pluck to woo one.

'Twas ever thus, 'twas ever thus

From boyhood's early prime, sirs,
It's been my fate to be too late-
I never was in time, sirs!

I never went to dance or ball,
But there I made a blunder;
My partners always had a fall,
And I was always under.
A martinet I've got to wife
Oh, quite an acid tartar :
She has all the sweets of life,
While I'm a bilious martyr.

'Twas ever thus, 'twas ever thus ;

I thought her parents wealthy;

I've found them poor-they live next door, And are so beastly healthy.

I speculated all my cash

In her relations' ventures;

Of course the comp'nies went to smash-
And I'd to pay debentures!

Twas ever thus, 'twas ever thus:
My life is far from sweet, sirs,
My cash is gone, I've nought to pawn
So I must beat retreat, sirs.

I'll take a trip across the seas
To-day for other nations;
For I shall never be at ease,

With wife, or wife's relations.

'Twas never thus, 'twas never thus, I'd ne'er in view such blisses;

In ecstasy I'd fly to thee,

Sweet freedom, joy, and kissesOh, wretched dog, I now must jog, For here comes dreadful missus

A FEW MUDDLED METAPHORS BY A MOORE-OSE

MELODIST.

Oн, ever thus, from childhood's hour, I've seen my fondest hopes recede !

I never loved a tree or flow'r

That did'nt trump its partner's lead.

I never nursed a dear gazelle,

To glad me with its dappled hide,

But when it came to know me well,
It fell upon the buttered side.

I never taught a cockatoo

To whistle comic songs profound.

But, first when "Jolly Dogs" it knew

It failed for ninepence in the pound

I never reared a walrus-cub

In my aquarium to plunge,

But, when it learnt to love its tub
It placidly threw up the sponge !

I never strove a metaphor

To every bosom home to bring
But-just as it had reached the door
It went and cut a pigeon's wing!

Tom Hood, the younger.

"I never had a piece of toast,
Particularly long and wide,
But fell upon the sanded floor,
And always on the buttered side."

'TWAS EVER THUS.

ANONYMOUS.

I NEVER rear'd a young gazelle,
(Because, you see, I never tried ;)
But, had it known and loved me well,

No doubt the creature would have died.

My rich and aged Uncle John

Has known me long and loves me well,
But still persists in living on-

I would he were a young gazelle.

I never loved a tree or flower;
But, if I had, I beg to say,

The blight, the wind, the sun, or shower
Would soon have wither'd it away.

I've dearly loved my uncle John,

From childhood till the present hour,

And yet he will go living on

I would he were a tree or flower!

From Carols of Cockayne. By Henry S. Leigh. (Chatto

and Windus, London, 1874.)

WUS, EVER Wus.

Wus! ever wus! By freak of Puck's

My most exciting hopes are dashed ;

I never wore my spotless ducks

But madly-wildly! they were splashed.

I never roved by Cynthia's beam,
To gaze upon the starry sky;
But some old stift-backed beetle came,
And charged into my pensive eye :

And oh! I never did the swell

In Regent street, amongst the beaux,
But smuts the most prodigious fell,
And always settled on my Nose !

From Puck on Pegasus, by H. Cholmondeley-Pennell. (Chatto and Windus, London,)

DISASTER.

'TWAS ever thus from childhood's hour!

My fondest hopes would not decay:

I never loved a tree or flower

Which was the first to fade away!

The garden, where I used to delve

Short-frock'd, still yields me pinks in plenty

The Peartree that I climbed at twelve

I see still blossoming, at twenty.