Like the pairings of nails Eonian-clippings and snippings of stars

Shavings of suns that revolve and evolve and involve-and at times

Give a sweet astronomical twang to remarkably hobbling rhymes. IX.

And the sea curved in with a moan-and we thought how once-before

We fell out with those atheist lecturers-once, ah, once and no more,

We read together, while midnight blazed like the Yankee flag,

A reverend gentleman's work-the Conversion of Colonel Quagg.

And out of its pages we gathered this lesson of doctrine pure

Zephaniah Stockdolloger's gospel-a word that deserves to endure

Infinite millions on millions of Infinite Eons to come"Vocation," says he, "is vocation, and duty duty. Some." X.

And duty, said I, distinctly points out-and vocation, said he, Demands as distinctly-that I shouid kill you, and that you should kill me.

The reason is obvious-we cannot exist without creeds-who can?

So we went to the chemist's-a highly respectable churchgoing man

And bought two packets of poison. You wouldn't have done so. Wait.

It's evident, Providence is not with you, ma'am, the same thing as Fate.

Unconscious cerebration educes God from a fog,

But spell God backwards, what then? Give it up? the answer is, dog.

(I don't exactly see how this last verse is to scan,
But that's a consideration I leave to the secular man).

XI.

I meant of course to go with him-as far as I pleased-but first

To see how my old man liked it-I thought perhaps he might burst.

I didn't wish it—but still it's a blessed release for a wifeAnd he saw that I thought so—and grinned in derisionand threatened my life

If I made wry faces-and so I took just a sip-and he—
Well-you know how it ended-he didn't get over me.

XII.

Terrible, isn't it? Still, on reflection, it might have been

worse.

He might have been the unhappy survivor, and followed my hearse.

"Never do it again?" Why, certainly not. You don't Suppose I should think of it, surely? But anyhow-thereI won't.

There still remain a great many parodies of Tennyson's poems to be quoted, and every day increases their number. It will, therefore, be necessary to return to this author in some future part of this collection; the following references are given to some of the more easily accessible parodies, which space will not now permit me to quote in full:—

"Edinburgh Sketches and Miscellanies." By ERIC. Edinburgh and Glasgow: John Menzies and Company, 1876, contains Codger's Hall, a long and humorous parody of Locksley Hall; Once a Week, Echoes from the Clubs, and The Weekly Dispatch, October 19, 1884, also contained parodies of the same poem,

Lady Clara Vere de Vere was the subject of an advertising parody, of which the best verse

"The Song of the 'Skyed' one, as sung at the Academy on the first Monday in May," was a parody, in ten verses, commencing:AWAKE I must, and early, a proceeding that I hate, And cab it to Trafalgar Square, and ascertain my fate; For to-morrow's the Art-Derby, the looked-for opening day Of the Fine Art Exhibition, yearly shown by the R.A.

This appeared in Punch, May 11, 1861.

The May Queen was also imitated in a poem contained in Modern Society, March 29, 1884. It was entitled "Baron Honour," and was a very severe, and rather vulgar, skit on Lord Tennyson's adulation of the Royal Family.

In The Weekly Dispatch, September 9, 1883, five parodies were printed in a competition to anticipate the Poet Laureate's expected poem in commemoration of the late John Brown; a subject on which, however, Lord Tennyson has not as yet published a poem. In the same newspaper six parodies of Hands All Round were inserted on April 2, 1882.

These were very entertaining, and were severally entitled: "Pots all Round;" "Tennysonian Toryism Developed;" "Drinks all Round;" 66 Cheers all Round;" "Hands all Round (with the mask off)"; and "Howls all Round."

Truth, February 14, 1884, contained a parody entitled "In Memoriam; a Collie Dog." Punch also had a parody with the title "In Memoriam " on July 9, 1864.

"The Two Voices, as heard by Jones of the Treasury about Vacation time," was the title of a long parody in Punch, September 7, 1861.

There was also a political parody, on the same original, in Punch, May 11, 1878.

"Recollections of the Stock Exchange," a long parody of Recollections of the Arabian Nights, and dealing with the topic of Turkish Stocks, appeared in Punch, December 18, 1875.

"The Duchess's Song," after Tennyson, was in Punch, September 3, 1881; and British Birds, by Mortimer Collins (1878), contained, amongst others, a capital parody of Tennyson.

THE POETASTERS: A DRAMATIC CANTATA.
Chorus of Poetasters.

AN itch of rhymes has seized the times
Till every cobbler's turned a poet,
And he who taught the secret ought
In justice to be made to know it.

Rhyme, brothers, rhyme, vast odes and epics vaster,
And post them to the Master, Master, Master.

Bards, pour your benison on Baron Tennyson,
Who vulgarised the art of rhyming,
And set the twaddle that fills each noddle
In endless jingle-jangle chiming:
Rhyme, brothers, rhyme, each puling poetaster,
And inundate the Master, Master, Master.

Recitative and Aria: Lord Tennyson.
Bards, idle bards, I know not what ye mean!
Words powerfully expressive of despair
Rise to my lips and flash from out my eyes
In looking o'er the reams each post-bag yields.
But, mark me, I'll return the stuff no more.
When morning sees the groaning board
With my baronial breakfast spread-
With bacon crisp and snow-white bread,
And fragrant coffee freshly poured,

I greet with joy the cheerful sight,

When, hark! there comes the postman's knock :
I thrill as with a lightning shock
And bid adieu to appetite.

For song and stave and madrigal
Make dark to me the opening day,
And sonnet, ode, and roundelay
Sink on my spirit like a pall.
And lunch-time brings another host,
At each delivery they throng,
While any hour may bring along
Three tragedies by parcels-post;
And twelve-book epics, ton on ton,
Each with its laudatory ode
Of drivelling dedications, load
The vans of Carter, Paterson.

I can nor eat, nor drink, nor sleep
In peace; I vow that from to-day
I'll have them carted straight away
Unopened to the rubbish-heap.

Call in the dust man'!-Lo! 'tis done!

The contract signed, I breathe again.
Come, load at once thy lingering wain
Blest henchman of oblivion !

Finale: Chorus of Foetasters.
Not return nor e'en acknowledge!
Dares he treat our verses thus ?
Knows he not the might malignant
Of a poetaster's "cuss?"
Dreads he not our "spiteful letters,"
Epigrams, satiric skits?

Let him learn that would-be poets
Also shine as would-be wits.
Who is he to scorn our verses?
British taxpayers are we;
Is he not the Poet Laureate ?
Don't we stand his salary?
Straightway we'll transfer allegiance
To some other, blander bard,
Whom no paltry peerage renders
Uppish, arrogant, and hard.
Mr. Browning, for example,

Won't treat brother poets thus.
Though we may not understand him,
Doubtless he'll appreciate us;
He'll return with mild laudation
Our effusions every one.
Poetasters, snap your fingers
At the played-out Tennyson !

W. A.

St. James's Gazette, June 24, 1884.

The Reverend Charles Wolfe.

Since the June and July parts were published containing parodies on "The Burial of Sir John Moore," Truth has had a Parody Competition with that poem as the selected original. The Editor of Truth published no less than twentyfour parodies, many of which were very amusing.

Some of the best are given complete, with a few extracts from the remainder :

PARODIES OF

“THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.”

The Death of the “Childerses.”

Nor half-sovereigns were we, but ten-shilling bits,
The thin, jaundiced children of Childers;
To name us the public were put to their wits,

As some called us “Guilders,” some “Gilders.”
We buried our heads in our cradle, the Mint,
And were sparingly fed by our nurses;

In our life, which was brief, we received without stint
Abuse, imprecations, and curses.

No useless retorts did we ever return

To those who so coldly received us :

But we patiently bore each contemptuous spurn,
Till sweet death in his mercy relieved us.
Few and short were our moments on earth,
And they were brief snatches of sorrow;
Our parents were told at the time of our birth,
We were only for idiots to borrow.

We thought, as we lay in our embryo mould,

Of the fun we should have when grown older;
But we learnt that all glittering things are not gold,
That a "gilder" is hardly a "golder."
Lightly they talked of our humble alloy,
And how we were base and degraded ;
And tried in all possible ways to annoy
Our lives, which already were faded.
Though half our heavy blows and kicks,

We never thought once of returning;

We passed over the "Styx" without passing the "Pyx, ' Or the wonders of life ever learning.

Slowly but gladly, too tired to laugh,

We made room for the use of our betters; Heavy our grave-stone, and our epitaph Was a column of newspaper letters.

THE BURIAL OF THE SEASON.

DALETH.

NOT a "drum" was given, nor dance of note,
From the " course at fair Goodwood we'd hurried;
Not a soul here but uttered farewell, and shot
Out of town, looking jaded and worried.

And lightly they'll talk of the "Master" that's gone,
And o'er his own "Hashes" abuse him;
But little he'll reck, if they'll let him sail on
In the yacht which was built to amuse him!

But half of our heavy trunks were down,

When the clock struck the hour for departing;
And we heard the distant discordant groan
Of the engine ready for starting!

THE BURIAL OF MY FELLOW LODGER'S BANJO.
Nor a "strum" was heard, not a tune or a note,
As his chords to the damp earth I hurried;
Not a soul there was by when I stripped off my coat,
O'er the grave where the banjo I buried.

I buried it darkly at dead of night,
The sods with a fire shovel turning.
My heart throbbing fast with a wild delight,
And revenge in my heart fiercely burning.
No useless fingers I close to it pressed,
Not as much as once did I sound it,
But I laid it gently down to its rest,
With a Daily News wrapped round it.

THE FATE OF GENERAL GORDON.
NOT a drum was heard, not a martial note,
As our Gordon to Khartoum was hurried;
But into the desert our hero we shot,

And there in the desert he's buried.

No useful soldiers were with him sent,
Neither horseman nor footman we found him;
But alone, on a camel, our warrior went,
With the foe and the desert all round him.
Few and short were the prayers he made,
Not a word of complaint or of sorrow;
But we coldly declined to give him our aid,
And told him to wait-till "to-morrow!"
And he thought as he lay on his anxious bed,
Or the foe-threatened city defended :
""Tis plain that the men who are over my head
Have ideas I've not quite comprehended."
And lightly men talk of his fanatic ways,

Because life and wealth he nought reckons ;
But little he recks of their blame or their praise,
And goes straight where his own honour beckons.
Not half of his heavy task is done,

That of "rescuing and retiring'

He will not retire, for he has rescued none,
And thousands upon him are firing.

Slowly and sadly I lay my pen down,
'Tis a mean and pitiful story;

God grant we mayn't have to carve on his stone, "England left him alone in his glory."

GUINEA PIG.

THE FUNERAL OF ONE MORE VICTIM AT
MONTE CARLO.

Nor a franc he had, not a louis nor note,
As forth from the tables he hurried;
Resolved to discharge one fatal shot,
And leave his corpse to be buried.
They buried him deeply at dead of night,
The soil with their mattocks turning;
When the sinking moon refused her light,
And the lamps had ceased from burning.

THE BURIAL OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.
THE drums were heard, and the funeral notes,
As his corpse to the City was carried;
The soldiers discharged their farewell shots,
Near the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him grandly in noon's full light,
The clay to earth's bosom returning;
With the cheerful sunbeams shining bright,
And within the lantern burning.

Three costly coffins encased his breast,

(In sheet and in shroud they had wound him); And he lay like a conqueror taking his rest With his marshal compeers round him.

Many and long were the prayers we said,

And we murmured last words of sorrow;

As we steadfastly gazed on the grave of the dead,
And we sighed, "Who will lead us to-morrow?"

We thought as they filled in his narrow bed,
Of his struggles across the billows;

And we dreamt that all ages would honour the dead,
As a Captain above his fellows.

Lightly men speak of him now that he's gone,

And grudge e'en the recompense paid him : But little he'll reck if they'll let him sleep on, In the tomb where a grateful land laid him.

At length our grievous task was done,

And the masses were slowly retiring,
And the clangour ceased of the minute gun,
That for hours had been steadily firing,

Solemnly, sadly, we left him alone,

With his roll of deeds famous in story;

We carved him a trophy, we praised him in stone,
And to-day-we've forgotten his glory!

OBSERVER.

THE BURIAL OF THE BACHELOR.

Nor a laugh was heard, not a frivolous note,
As the groom to the wedding we carried;
Not a jester discharged his farewell shot
As the bachelor went to be married.

We married him quickly that morning bright,
The leaves of our Prayer-books turning,
In the chancel's dimly religious light;
And tears in our eyelids burning.

No useless nosegay adorned his chest,

Not in chains, but in laws we bound him; And he looked like a bridegroom trying his best To look used to the scene around him. Few and small were the fees it cost, And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we silently gazed on the face of the lost, And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought as we hurried them home to be fed,
And tried our low spirits to rally,

That the weather looked very like squalls overhead
For the passage from Dover to Calais.
Lightly they'll talk of the bachelor gone,

And o'er his frail fondness upbraid him;
But little he'll reck if they let him alone,

With his wife that the parson has made him!

But half of our heavy lunch was done

When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
And we judged from the knocks which had now begun,
That their cabby was rapidly tiring.

Slowly and sadly we led them down,
From the scene of his lame oratory;

We told the four-wheeler to drive them to town,
And we left them alone in their glory!

The man in possession ate, drank of her best,
In well-aired holland sheets he wound him;
And he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his pipe alight-confound him!
Few and short were the prayers he said,
And he spoke not a word of sorrow;

And he steadfastly smoked till Jane wished him dead,
As she bitterly thought of the morrow.

He chaffed the girl thus: "When you makes my bed,
And smoothes down my lonely pillow,
Don't you go for a stranger, nor wish me dead,
If you don't want to wear the willow."
Lightly he talked when the "spirits" were gone,
For pipe-ashes why should she upbraid him?
But little he'd spy if she'd let him smoke on,
In the bed where Britannia had laid him.
But half of the tyrant's task was done,

When the clock told the hour for retiring;
The minion quailed at the sound of the gun,
Which to signal her triumph was firing.
Of that spinster householder martyr's crown,
O, never shall perish the story:

Her friends paid her taxes, she had the renown--
Thus we leave her alone in her glory!

J. MCGRIGOR ALLAN. All the above are from Truth, July 31, 1884.

THE MURDER OF A BEETHOVEN SONATA.
(Executed by Miss--)

SUCH a strum was heard-not a single right note,
When to make you play every one worried;
Yet I would not discharge one satirical shot
As to the piano you hurried.

You hurried so quickly, 'twas scarcely right,

I knew not the piece you'd been learning;

But I saw by the flickering candle-light

Your cheeks were with nervousness burning.

No useless music encumbered the rest;

No pieces had any one found you;

But you played it by heart, no doubt doing your best,
Though the people would talk around you.
Dreary and long was the thing you played,
And we listened in suffering sorrow;
And I thought to myself that, if any one stayed,
You'd have finished, no doubt, by the morrow.
Lightly they'll talk of the piece when it's done,
And wonder whoe'er could have made it ;
But nothing she'll reck if they let her strum on
At the piece till she's thoroughly played it.
When you'd made but some fifty mistakes, or more,
And no more such torture requiring,

I managed to get to the open door,
And succeeded in quickly retiring.

I've but one thing more in conclusion to say,
Though you no doubt will think it a story;
'Tis this, that no matter wherever you play,
You will get neither money nor glory!

THE BURIAL OF THE PAUPER. NOT a knell was heard, not a requiem note, As his corpse to the churchyard we hurried; Not a mourner had donned his sable coat, By the grave where our pauper we buried.

MOZART.

We buried him quickly at shut of night,
The sods with our keen shovels turning ;
By the closing day's last glimmering light,
And the lantern palely burning.

No oaken coffin enclosed his breast,

In a sheet for a shroud we wound him :
And he lay as a pauper should, taking his rest,
With his four deal planks nailed around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we shed not a tear of sorrow;
But we carelessly looked on the face of the dead,
And we heedlessly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed,
And smooth'd down its green turf billow;
That haply a stranger would lay a wan head
To-night on his tenantless pillow.

Lightly they'll talk of the poor soul that's gone
At the "House," and maybe they'll upbraid him,
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where his parish has laid him.

But half of our thankless job was done,

When the cold sky grew sullen and low'ring;
And the raindrops came pattering one by one,
And soon all the heavens were pouring.

Swiftly and smoothly we sodded him down,
In his last bed of shame, gaunt and hoary;

We raised not a cross, and we scored not a stone,
But we left him to earth with his story.

SEFTON.

"These gentlemen (the Tory party) can really get no sleep at night, owing to their burning anxiety to enfranchise their fellow men."-Vide Sir Wilfrid Lawson's Speech.

NOT a snore was heard, not a slumberous note,
For my Lords are too awfully worried;

Not a Peer but bewails the Bill's sad lot,
Tho' he feels that it musn't be hurried.

They think of it sadly, at dead of night,
The thing in their mind's eye turning,
By the somewhat foggy, misty light

In their noble bosoms burning.

No useless logic confused their heads,
'Tis but little they ever heed it;

But they tossed and they turned on their sleepless beds,
And one and all they d――d it.

"Few and short were the prayers they said❞—
The fact I record with sorrow;

They thought of the day when the Bill would be read,
And they wished there were no to-morrow.

They thought of the words Mr. Gladstone had said—
Each word was a thorn in their pillow-

Of laurels that still would encircle his head,
While they would be wearing the willow.

Nightly they burn for their brothers to be
Enfranchised, as they would have made 'em ;
And little they'll reck, till the "rustic
be free,
Of how a cold world may upbraid 'em.

But half of the weary night was gone,

And my Lords were still busy enquiring, "The deuce, now! the deuce! what IS to be done?" And they found that the effort was tiring,