OF Locker what? Apollo in the fashion.
Humour and pathos suits, no touch of passion.
From Suckling, Lovelace, Prior, Luttrell, Praed,
Locker inherits his inspiring Maid:

Not nude and passionate, not fast and flighty,
Like Swinburne's rosy-bosomed Aphrodite;
Not icy-cold, as Parian sculpture is,

Like Tennyson's blue-stockingéd Artemis :
Not erudite and sapient, grimly frowning,
Like the Athena that's adored by Browning:
But just the Period's girl, a pretty creature,
Of dainty style, though inexpressive feature,
Who carefully reserves her choice opinions
For length of petticoats and bulk of chignons,
In whom no tragic impulse ever rankles,

Who always says her prayers, and shows her ankles.

AUSTIN DOBSON.

The proverb that "Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery" is somewhat the worse for wear, and perhaps Mr. Austin Dobson was not altogether inclined to agree with it when he heard that the Puzzle Editor of Truth had published the following notification :

"TRUTH" PUZZLE, No. 472.

Thanks to the efforts of Messrs, Austin Dobson, Andrew Lang, and others, Triolets, Ballades, Rondeaux, Vilanelles, and other metrical devices used by Villon aud other French poets of the past, have been freely adapted to English verse-writing, and I am assured that I shall be setting numerous competitors an agreeable task in asking them to write a rhyming composition on one of the revived French models now so fashionable.

The Prize of Two Guineas will accordingly be given for the Best Ballade, written on any Social Subject, in accordance with the following rules:-The Ballade in its normal type, consists of three stanzas of eight lines each, followed by a verse of four lines, which is called the "envoy "-or of three verses of ten lines, with an envoy" of five lines, each of the stanzas and the "envoy" closing with the same line, known as the "refrain." In this instance, a Ballade of the former length is asked for-viz. ; one with three eight-lined stanzas and a four-lined " envoy." But

it will be, perhaps, a better guide for competitors if I print here a Billade as a model on which they are to form the ones they compose. Here, then, is a well-known Balla de by Mr. Austin Dobson, which must be followed so far as the arrangement of rhymes goes. The metre, though, of the Ballade often varies, and competitors are not bound to use the same metre as that employed in the subjoined specimen.

ON A FAN THAT BELONGED TO THE
MARQUISE DE POMPADOUR.
CHICKEN-skin, delicate, white,
Painted by Carlo Vanloo,
Loves in a riot of light,

Roses and vaporous blue;
Hark to the dainty frou-frou !
Picture above, if you can,
Eyes that could melt as the dew,
This was the Pompadour's fan.

See how they rise at the sight,
Thronging the Eil de Boeuf through.
Courtiers as butterflies bright.
Beauties that Fragonard drew,
Talon-rouge, falbala, queue,
Cardinal, Duke-to a man,
Eager to sigh or to sue-

This was the Pompadour's fan.

Ah! but things more than polite
Hung on this toy, voyez vous!
Matters of state and of might,

Things that great Ministers do;
Things that, may be, overthrew
Those in whose brain they began,
Here was the sign and the cue,
This was the Pompadour's fan!

Envoy.

Where are the secrets it knew Weavings of plot and of plan? But where is the Pompadour too?This was the Pompadour's fan?

AUSTIN DOBSON.

A very large number of replies were sent in, and examples were printed in Truth, February 23, and March 8, 1888. Although they cannot be called true parodies, yet two of the Ballades are so interesting as imitations that they are inserted. The first being that to which the prize was awarded, written by Mr. J. C. Woods, of Swansea, and the second written by Mr. F. B. Doveton, of Eastbourne.

A BALLADE OF THE GROSVENOR GALLERY.
ART, fled from earth, Sir Coutts and Co.
Lured back to hold her state benign,
With all the newest masters know
Of magic colour, nude design,
Set in soft shade or mellow shine

Of dexterous curtain, clouded pane,
And tricked men so to deem, in fine,
Restored her grand Saturnian reign.

Thus passed ten grey-green years, when, lo!
What gurgling as from flasks of wine;
What whirl of revellers to and fro;
What lust of eight per cent., or nine,

Or ninety, broke her dream divine,
Her reverie of aesthetic pain.

Musing can any care of mine

Restore the grand Saturnian reign?

Then said she; "Shall they flout me so?
Shall mortals in my presence dine,
Nor heed, for molluscs and clicquot,
The masterpieces on the line?
Forth from the temple, Philistine !

Fling out the banner-Art, not gain ! Carr, Hallé, and Burne-Jones combine; Restore my grand Saturnian reign!

Envoy.

Priest of the desecrated shrine,

Which drum and rout and dance profane, Drive hence the Bacchant bands malign; Restore the grand Saturnian reign!

ALLTIAGO (J. C. Woods.)

A BALLADE OF FIVE O'CLOCK TEA.

SERVED in most delicate ware, Dresden or Sévres-where you spy Dainty devices and rare,

Hues that enrapture the eye: Hands that are shapely and white, Pour out the fragrant Bohea, Beauty presides at this rite

This is your Five O'clock Tea.

Perched in the midst of the fair,
Masher resplendent, yet shy,
Awkwardly shifts in his chair,

He will gain courage by and bye.
Beaux so antique, most polite,
Prattle in garrulous glee,
Here in their element quite-
This is your Five O'clock Tea.

Characters melt into air;

Good reputations must die; Think you" My Lady" will spare

For all that you murmur, "Oh Fy?”

Colloquies vapid and trite,

Slanderous tongues running free,

Small emanations of spite

This is your Five O'clock Tea.

Envoy.

Sugar and cream can excite

Envy and malice, we see ;

Satirists cry with delight

"This is your Five O'clock Tea !"

ORCHIS (F. B. Doveton).

BALLADE OF POT-POURRI.

ORIENTAL, and fragile, and old

Is the pôt-pourri bowl you see there; Dreamy odours-romances untold It confides to this latter-day air.

TU QUOQUE.

An Idyll in the Conservatory.
(Inserted with the Author's permission.)

Nellie. IF I were you, when ladies at the play, Sir,
Beckon and nod, a melodrama through,

I would not turn abstractedly away, Sir,
If I were you!

Frank. If I were you, when persons I affected,

Wait for three hours to take me down to Kew,
I would at least pretend I recollected,
If I were you!

Nellie. If I were you, when ladies are so lavish,
Sir, as to keep me every waltz but two,

I would not dance with odious Miss McTavish,
If I were you!

Frank. If I were you, who vow you cannot suffer

Nellie.

Whiff of the best,-the mildest "honey dew,"

I would not dance with smoke-consuming Puffer,
If I were you!

If I were you, I would not, Sir, be bitter,
Even to write the "Cynical Review ;"-

Frank. No, I should doubtless find flirtation fitter,

Nellie. Go, if you will. At once! And by express, Sir;
Where shall it be? To China-or Peru?
Go. I should leave inquirers my address, Sir,
If I were you!

Frank. No-I remain. To stay and fight a duel

Seems, on the whole, the proper thing to doAh, you are strong,-I would not then be cruel, If I were you!

Nellie. One does not like one's feelings to be doubted,Frank. One does not like one's friends to misconstrue,Nellie. If I confess that I a wee-bit pouted?

Stay! I would take that little trick from
Labby-
If I were you.

W. E. G. Done! I remain-Brummagem to pound well.
Leave it till autumn-now, of course, you're

L. S.

W. E. G. L. S.

W. E. G.

Late L. S.

AUSTIN DOBSON.

Frank. I should admit that I was piqué, too.
Nellie. Ask me to dance. I'd say no more about it,
If I were you!
(Waltz. Exeunt.)

true?

The Pall Mall Budget. June 3, 1886.

K.

L. S.

Right Hon. W. E. Gladstone.

If I were you, when issuing addresses,
I would observe the simple rule of two
Meanings in a sentence-tip for safe successes-
If I were you.

If I were you, when older friends reveal a
Freedom in spending time and money too,
I would not rush to dance a jig with Healy-
If I were you.

W. E. G. If I were you, who swear you cannot suffer
Plutocrat and peer, landlord and Jew,

I would not tilt against the people like a duffer-
If I were you.

L. S. I would not go at such an awful rate, or
Friends may forsake you-thing they're apt
to do

W. E. G. I would remember the fate of such a traitorIf I were you.

:0:

THE PRODIGALS.

(After Mr. Austin Dobson's famous ballade.)

[Dedicated to Mr. Chaplin, M. P., and Mr. Richard Power, M. P., and 223 who followed them.]

MINISTERS!-you, most serious,

Critics and statesmen of all degrees,
Hearken awhile to the motion of us,-

Senators keen for the Epsom breeze!
Nothing we ask of posts or fees;
Worry us not with objections pray!

Lo,-for the Speaker's wig we seize
Give us-ah! give us-the Derby Day.
Scots most prudent, penurious!

Irishmen busy as humblebees !

Hearken awhile to the motion of us,

Senators keen for the Epsom breeze!

For Sir Joseph's sake, and his owner's, please!

(Solomon raced like fun, they say)

Lo for we beg on our bended knees,-
Give us-ah! give us-the Derby Day.

Campbell-Asheton be generous!

(But they voted such things were not the cheese) Sullivan, hear us, magnanimous !

(But Sullivan thought with their enemies.) And shortly they got both of help and ease For a mad majority crowded to say

"Debate we've drunk to the dregs and lees; Give us-ah! give us-the Derby Day."

Envoi.

Prince, most just was the motion of these And many were seen by the dusty way, Shouting glad to the Epsom breeze

Give us-ah! give us-the Derby Day.

W. E. HENLEY.

Ballades, Rondeaus and Villanelles.

The revival of the taste for these curious old French forms of poetry has received a great impetus from the delightful examples produced by Austin Dobson, Edmund Gosse, W. E. Henley, Andrew Lang, R. Le Gallienne, J. Ashby-Sterry, A. C. Swinburne, C. H. Waring and Oscar Wilde.

The composition of all poetry in the English language is governed by clearly defined rules, and although a man ignorant of these rules, if gifted with a fine ear, and original conceptions, may produce a pretty song or ballad, it is very rare indeed that any truly great work is composed, which is not written in accordance with certain regulations as to metre and rhyme.

In ordinary poetry these restrictions allow of great variations in style and treatment, but it is far otherwise when any of the old French poetical fashions are selected; then the rules are exact and peremptory, and for each of the following varieties, the form is clearly defined, and perfectly distinct. They are the Ballade, Chant Royal, Kyrielle, Pantoum, Rondeau Redoublé, Rondel, Rondeau, Sicilian Octave, Triolet, and Villanelle, with a few minor forms.

It is quite beyond the scope of this collection to formulate the rules governing the composition of these poetic trifles, nor indeed is it necessary, for Mr. Gleeson White's charming little book on the subject is readily accessible, and contains nearly all that can be said about it. It is entitled Bullades and Rondeaus, selected, with a chapter on the various forms, by Gleeson White. London, Walter Scott, 1887.

The editor's name is sufficient to indicate that the selections are the best that could be chosen, and the introductory essay is, in itself, a distinct gain to our literature, treating as it does, of a somewhat exotic branch of poetry. Mr. Gleeson White is very much in earnest, and although he inserts a few burlesques it is evident that he regards them as desecrations of his favourite metres.

To the Parodist nothing is sacred, but whilst some of the following parodies are quoted from Mr. White's collection, those who would wish to read the originals must refer to the work itself.

In Punch (October 22, 1887) there was a set of verses (in honour of Mr. White's book) written in the various metres described, and one of each of these may fitly lead the several varieties here dealt with.

THE MUSE IN MANACLES.

(By an Envious and Irritable Bard, after reading "Ballades and Rondeaus," just published, and wishing he could do anything like any of them.)

Bored by the Ballade, vexed by Villanelle,
Of Rondeau tired, and Triolet as well!
THE BALLADE.

(In Bad Weather).

OH! I'm in a terrible plight-
For how can rhyme in the rain?
'Tis pouring from morn until night:
So bad is the weather again,
My language is almost profane!
Though shod with the useful galosh,
I'm racked with rheumatical pain-

I think that a Ballade is bosh

I know I am looking a fright;
That knowledge, I know, is in vain ;
My "brolly" is not water-tight,
But hopelessly rended in twain
And spoilt by the rude hurricane !
Though clad in a stout mackintosh,
My temper I scarce can restrain-
I think that a Ballade is bosh!

Oh, I'm an unfortunate wight!

The damp is affecting my brain;
My woes I would gladly recite,

In phrases emphatic and plain,
Your sympathy could I obtain.

I don't think my verses will wash,
They 're somewhat effete and inane-
I think that a Ballade is bosh!

Envoy.

I fancy I'm getting insane,
I'm over my ankles in slosh;
But let me repeat the refrain-
I think that a Ballade is bosh!

A BALLADE OF OLD METRES.

WHEN, in the merry realm of France,

Bluff Francis ruled and loved and laughed, Now held the lists with knightly lance,

Anon the knightly beaker quaffed;
Where wit could wing his keenest shaft
With Villon's verse or Montaigne's prose,
Then poets exercised their craft
In ballades, triolets, rondeaux.

O quaint old times! O fitting chants! With fluttering banners fore and aft, With mirth of minstrelsy and dance,

Sped Poesy's enchanted craft; The odorous gale was blowing abaft Her silken sails, as on she goes,

Doth still to us faint echoes waft Of ballades, triolets, rondeaux.

But tell me with what countenance

Ye seek on modern rhymes to graft
Those tender shoots of old Romance-

Romance that now is only chaffed?
O iron days! O idle raft

Of rhymesters! they are 'peu de chose,'
What Scott would call supremely "saft"
Your ballades, triolets, rondeaux.

Envoy.

Bards, in whose vein the maddening draught
Of Hippocrene so wildly glows,
Forbear, and do not drive us daft
With ballades, triolets, rondeaux.

The Century.

A YOUNG POET'S ADVICE. You should study the bards of to-day

Who in England are now all the rage; You should try to be piquant and gay; Your lines are too solemn and sage.

In an amusing little collection of poems quite recently published, there are several parodies and three ballades, all on legal topics, from which the following extracts are quoted by the kind permission of Messrs. Reeves and Turner. The title of the book is The Lays of a Limb of the Law, by the late John Popplestone, Town Clerk of Stourmouth, edited by Edmund B. V. Christian. London: Reeves and Turner, 1889. It contains Law Reports in the shape of parodies of Cowper's "Alexander Selkirk ;" of Pope's translation of Homer, "The Splendid Shilling," and of other poems in a manner somewhat similar to those contained in Professor Frederick Pollock's well-known, but scarce little work, "Leading Cases Done into English."

Of the three ballades perhaps the following is the best :BALLADE OF OLD LAW BOOKS.

"I am improving my legal knowledge, Master Copperfield, said Uriah. 'I am going through Tidd's Practice. Oh, what a writer Mr. Tidd is, Master Copperfield.'”

THE law books are standing in dingy array,
They fill every shelf from ceiling to floor,
Old guides to a silent and grass-covered way
Which never a traveller now shall explore,
Save delvers for antiquarian lore,

Who painfully search where their treasures lie hid,
In pages that else had been closed evermore,
Forgotten for aye, like the wonderful TIDD!

Great Blackstone is put up aloft, far away

(The Whig, first edition, in calf, volumes four); The Doctor and Student alike are at play; And Perkins is now but a profitless bore. Old Viner's abridgment is over the door 'Mid dust-begrimed wines that fetch never a bid ;

Even Fearne on Remainders we vainly deplore Forgotten for aye, like the wonderful TIDD !

Oblivion has fallen on the frequent Ca. sa.,

And Cursitor Street is untrod as of yore;

We turn not the leaves of Les Termes de la Ley,
Or these ancient Reports, ah, many a score,
Of a dulness as deadly as dread hellibore,

Of their Latin and law we are joyfully rid.

Let them stand, as we peacefully slumber and snore, Forgotten for aye, like the wonderful TIDD.

Envoy.

How quickly the summers and winters are o'er !
They linger not now as in childhood they did.
Soon we shall be treading yon shadowy shore,
Forgotten for aye like the wonderful TIDD!

The first verse of each of the other two ballades will suffice :

BALLADE OF THE HONEST LAWYER.

THE "noble savage" of long ago

Within a hundred tomes we find;

The foreigner acute we know,

And "general readers," looks resigned; The "law of nature," left behind By a simpler age, has ceased to be

Aught but examination grind ; "The "honest lawyer," where is he?

BALLADE OF LEADING CASES. WHEN August crowns the legal year, When clients leave an hour for play, But-your examination near

You're doomed in London town to stay; When, tired of our prosaic day, You'd catch a glimpse of old-world faces,

Put statutes, text-books, all, awayRead, mark, and learn the Leading Cases.

BALLADE OF THE TIMId Bard. (To Angelica, who bids him publish.) IN Memory's mystical hazes

I see a vast Gander and grey,

I see the small boy that he chases
At the head of a hissing array:
How I wept when they brought me to bay,
How I pleaded in vain for a truce!

Too frightened too shoo them away,

I could never say Boh to a Goose!

Punch, October 22, 1887.

:0:

THE VILLANELLE. (With Vexation.)

I Do not like the Villanelle,

I think it somewhat of a boreThis tinkle of a Muffin-bell!