THE POETS AT TEA.
Rossetti, who took six cups of it.

THE lilies lie in my lady's bower,
(0 weary mother, drive the cows to roost),
They faintly droop for a little hour;
My lady's head droops like a flower.

She took the porcelain in her hand, (O weary mother, drive the cows to roost), She poured; I drank at her command; Drank deep, and now-you understand! (O weary mother, drive the cows to roost).

My goodman skurried adown the road.

(Sing hey, for the joyous drinking bout !)

And after the ochre cur he sped

With many a gruesome shout.

"Now why this haste, good neighbour ?" she cried;

Why after the dog of the umber tint?"

But, waking the echoes with yells, he sped

Through the twilight's gleam and glint.

A smug-face lad looked over the fence

(Sing hey, where the birdlings sing and chirp,)

"Why laughest, good mother!" "I laugh," said she, "To see yon ecru purp."

A smile then smilèd the smug-faced lad.
(Sing lack-a-day, for the sunset red,)
"Then laugh no more, good gossip, because
The kettle is your'n,' "he said.

The Shooting Times. February 11, 1887.

THE LAUNDRESS AND THE LAIDY.

ALL on a sofa fair Ada lay,

(0, for a brandy and soda, she sighed), It was four in the afternoon, and gay Was the outside world, but Ada must stay

In her room, and thus she cried,

"Could I but join the happy throng."

(And O, for a brandy and soda she sighed), "That under my windows pass along To Short's, or to Finch's, I'd soon be gone,

Or to the Inventions glide."

She took down an "afternoon tea-book" to read,
(0, for a brandy and soda she sighed),

But it interested her little indeed,
Such books are tame if you haven't "teaed."
And no one sat by her side.

She went to the window and gazed at the sky,
(0, for a brandy and soda she sighed),

The same paper, for May 23, 1885, contained another very funny parody of Rossetti; but unfortunately it was too suggestive to bear republication here.

It was reserved, however, for that prince of Parodists, Charles S. Calverley, to make the ballad with a refrain supremely ridiculous:

THE auld wife sat at her ivied door,

(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)

A thing she had frequently done before;
And her spectacles lay on her apron'd knees.

The piper he piped on the hill-top high,

(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)

Till the cow said "I die," and the goose ask'd "Why?" And the dog said nothing, but search'd for fleas.

The farmer he strode through the square farm-yard ; (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)

His last brew of ale was a trifle hard

The connexion of which with the plot one sees.

The farmer's daughter hath frank blue eyes;
(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)
She hears the rooks caw in the windy skies,
As she sits at her lattice and shells her peas.

The farmer's daughter hath ripe red lips;
(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)
If you try to approach her, away she skips
Över tables and chairs with apparent ease.
The farmer's daughter hath soft brown hair;
(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)
And I met with a ballad, I can't say where,
Which wholly consisted of lines like these.

In the second part of this pathetic composition the poet thus describes the melancholy sequel :

She sat with her hands 'neath her burning cheeks,
(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)

And gazed at the piper for thirteen weeks;
Then she follow'd him out o'er the misty leas.

Her sheep follow'd her, as their tails did them,
(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)
And this song is consider'd a perfect gem,

And as to the meaning, it's what you please.

When Mr. Calverley composed this burlesque Ballad (which is to be found in full in his Fly Leaves, published by G. Bell & Sons), it is probable that he was thinking of

one by Mr. Morris, entitled "Two Red Roses across the Moon" commencing "There was a lady liv'd in a hall," and ending with the refrain which forms the title.

Having once shown how it could be done, other comic writers followed suit, and the burlesque ballads in this style are almost too numerous to be quoted.

You, I, AND THE POST.

You, the British Public; I,-W. E. G. The Post-
G. P. O.

A STATESMAN sits at Hawarden gate,
(Paper and pens and a bottle of ink.)
A stalwart man with a shapely pate,

And brains to spare, as you rightly think.

The live-long day he's been hacking down trees, (Paper and pens and two bottles of ink.) Toughish work, yet he does it with ease,

Nor e'en doth, as Milton would phrase it, "swink."

Who is't approacheth? ha ha! The post!
(Paper and pens and a pint of ink.)
Of letters and post-cards bearing a host-
Beneath the load he seems ready to sink.

The Statesman opens and reads them all,
(Paper and pens and a quart of ink.)

66

Quoth he, "I'll answer them great and small,
This very night ere I sleep a wink."

In he strides to his big bureau,

(Paper and pens and a gallon of ink.) And answers fourscore letters or so

(Fourscore's the minimum number, I think);

Some answered by note, and some by card,
(Paper and pens and a barrel of ink.)
But when the question's uncommonly hard,
The point of the query he'll deftly shrink.

Oh, the postman puffs, and the postman swears,
(Paper and pens and a sheet of stamps.)
At the load of letters and cards he bears
To Hawarden gate in his daily tramps.

Oh, you who of letters and answers are fond,
(Paper and pens and a grey goose quill.)
Write to Hawarden, there beyond—

And an answer you'll get from the People's Will!

HUBERT JOHN DE BURGH.

(This talented young author died in 1877, at the early age of thirty-two. The above parody originally appeared in Yorick, to accompany a cartoon by Harry Furniss.)

As recently as October 20, 1888, Punch had a similar parody entitled

AGRICULTURE'S LATEST RÔLE.

(A Bucolic Ballad, with a Borrowed Refrain, Dedicated to the British Dairy Farmers' Association,)

"WHERE are you going to, my pretty Maid?"
(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese!)

"I'm going a-milking, Sir;" she said;
(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese!)
"For times are bad, and the farm don't pay.
'Tis Pasture v. Arable so men say.
If still I'd be prosperous this is the way.
(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese!)

"I'm tired of corn-growing that brings little cash, (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese!)

The old business of Ceres seems going to smash.
(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese!)

Free Trade and the Yankee have finished her clean.
From furrow and sheaf there seems little to glean,
From ploughed land to pasture I'm changing the scene.
(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese!)

"I hope you'll allow I look fetching like this,
(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese!)
A Dairymaid's dress suits me sweetly, I wis.
(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese!)
Just twig my short petticoats, look at my pail !
The bards are all ready a Milkmaid to hail!
I mean making prettiness pay,-shall I fail?
(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese!)

"You've been to the Dairy Show, Sir, have you not? (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese!)

Those churners competitive were a sweet lot. (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese!)

Miss HOLMES, and Miss KEEL, and Miss BARRON, who

won,

Seemed not a bit fagged when the business was done. I'm sure Butter-making looks capital fun.

(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese!)

A CHRISTMAS WAIL.
(Not by Dante Gabriel Rossetti.)
ON Christmas day I dined with Brown.
(0 the dinner was fine to see!)

I drove to his house, right merrily dowu
To a western square of London town.
(And I moan and I cry woe's me!)

We dined off turkey and Christmas beef;
(0 the dinner was fine to see!)
My anguish is sore and my comfort brief,
And nought but blue pills can ease my grief,
(As I moan and I cry woe's me!)

We gorged plum-pudding and hot mince pies, (0 the dinner was fine to see!) And other nameless atrocities, The weight of which on my-bosom lies. (And I moan and I cry woe's me!)

We drank dry Clicquot and rare old port, (0 the dinner was fine to see!) And I pledged my host for a right good sort In bumpers of both, for I never thought (I should moan and cry woe's me!)

But I woke next day with a fearful head,
(0 that dinner so fine to see!)
And on my chest is a weight like lead,
And I frequently wish that I were dead,
(And I moan and I cry woe's me!)

And as for Brown-why the truth to tell-
(0 that dinner so fine to see!)

I hate him now with the hate of hell,
Though before I loved him passing well,

(And I moan and I cry woe's me!)

Truth. December 27, 1883.

"My

One of the most ridiculous features of the so-called Esthetic movement was, that a number of brainless noodles set to work to write poetry in serious imitation of Swinburne, Rossetti, and Oscar Wilde. The style was a mixture of mediæval Italian and middle English, and the one principle which guided the dolorous singers was, "We must not have any meaning, or, at any rate, the less the better." lady" was addressed in all kinds of rhymes, "Love" was held responsible for legions of complicated woes, green eyes, golden eyes-even orbs "like a cat's splendid circled eye were quite in fashion. The recipe for this description of poetry was-Begin with an address to your lady; never mind if you have not one, for that is a mere detail. Represent her as bewitching you with the unutterably weary gaze of her eyes-or eyne-"eyne" is preferable; stick in an old word like "teen" "drouth" or wot or "sooth" "wearyhead or "wanhope;" break out with "Lo!" and "Yea!" and "Nay!" and "Ah!" at brief intervals, and be sure to have a weird refrain. This humbug held its own for a while, but a few unsparing satirists dealt with this dreary small-fry of art, and the following, one of the most delightful modern jests was prompted by the school :

or

66

MADONNA MIA.

I would I were a cigarette

Between my lady's lithe sad lips Where Death, like Love, divinely set, With exquisite sighs and sips,

Feeds and is fed and is not fain,

And Memory married with Regret,

And Pleasure amorous of red Pain,

In moon-wise musing wax and wane ; That with the bitter sweetness of her breath

I might somewhile remember and forget
(For Life is Love, and Love is Death!)
It was my hap-ah well-a-way-
To burn my little hour away!

I would I were a gold jewel

To fleck my lady's soft lean throat,

Where Love, like Death, lies throned to swell A strange and tremulous note

Of yearning vague and void and vain,

Delight on flame Desire to quell,

And Pleasure fearful of red Pain,

And dreams fall in to sear and stain ; That in the barren blossom of her breath I might be glad we were not one, but twain (For Love is Life, and Life is Death!) And that without me, well-a-way,

She could not choose but pass away.

or

This masterly balderdash has imposed on many people; and the most comic thing in the world is to see an earnest person endeavouring to discover hidden meanings in it.

"John Bull (a London newspaper) for November 8, 1879, contained a long article from which only the following brief notes can be quoted :

IMMORTAL PICTURES.

Mr. Rossetti has painted a picture, and in an unguarded moment permitted the Athenæum to describe it in the following language.-[Extract given in full.]

Apropos of the above fragment of art-criticism, a cor

respondent sends us the following analysis (clipped from a rival journal) of another remarkable picture :

"It is better to speak the truth at once, and to say that we have in Mr. Symphony Priggins a master as great as the greatest; and in this picture the master-piece of a master; and in this episode of a picture the masterstroke of a master's master-piece. The sublimity of Buonaroti, the poetic fervour of Raffaelle, the tremulous intensity of Sandro Botticelli, the correggiosity of Correggio have never raised these masters to higher heights than our own Priggins has attained in this transcendent rendering of the Dish running away with the Spoon.

"The artist, like some others of his craft, is, as is known, a poet of no mean pretensions; and he has set forth the inner meaning of his picture in the following lines, which form the motto on its frame :

I found the public vulgar scenes liked best,

(A goodly balance is fair to see!)

And so I painted my great "Crowner's Quest;" (The rarest of letters are £ s. d. !)

And when its sordid realism took,

I gave them next my "Fair at Donnybrook." And "Tourists up the Rhine with Mr. Cook." (0, sweet is the chink of cash to me!)

These made my name, and then the Starch firm, Plums, (A goodly balance is fair to see!)

To paint them posters gave me lordly sums;
(The rarest of letters are £ s. d. !)
And there was not a hoarding but did bear
(Above my name, writ large,) a dainty pair
Of damsels, who starched collarettes did wear.
(0, sweet is the chink of cash to me!)

Since then I've turned my art to fresh accounts,
(A goodly balance is fair to see!)
And rival razors puffed for large amounts.
(0, rarest of letters are £ s. d. !)

I've painted, too, with realistic tricks,
"The Penny Steamboat's Progress" (set of six),
From Old Swan Pier, till at Vauxhall she sticks!
(0, sweet is the chink of cash to me!)

LONDON TOWN.

A Lyric à la Mode.

KENT-BORN HELEN, England's pride,
(0 London Town!)

Had a waist a world too wide
For the height of her heart's desire.
Vinegar she in vain had tried.

(0 London Town!

Fashion's thralls ne'er tire!)

HELEN knelt at Fashion's shrine,
(0 London Town!)

Saying, "A little boon is mine,
A little boon, but my heart's desire.
Here me speak, and make me a sign!
(0 London Town!

Fashion's thralls ne'er tire!)

"Look! my waist is in excess,
(O London Town!)

I would die to have it less.
Shape it to my heart's desire.
Fit for fashionable dress.

(0 London Town!

Fashion's thralls ne'er tire!)

"It is moulded like a Greek's,
(0 London Town!)

One of Nature's spiteful freaks.
Pinch it to my heart's desire :
I am full of pains and piques.
(0 London Town!

Fashion's thralls ne'er tire !) "See BELL FANE's, how slim it is! (0 London Town!)

Eighteen inches at most, I wis! Poisons the cup of my heart's desire. O that I should suffer this!

(0 London Town!

Fashion's thralls ne'er tire !)

Whence and whither dost thou fly
Through this bleak autumnal sky?
On a noble oak I grew,

Green and broad and fair to view;
But the monarch of the shade
By the tempest low was laid.
From that time I wandered o'er
Wood and valley, hill and moor;
Wheresoe'er the wind is blowing,
Nothing caring, nothing knowing.
Thither go I whither goes

Glory's laurel, Beauty's rose.

Before leaving Rossetti mention must be made of a singular series of illustrated parodies which appeared in Punch, March 3, 10, 17, 24 and 31, 1866. The illustrations, by Du Maurier, seem to have been intended partly to ridicule Burne Jones's style, and partly that of Rossetti ; as to the poem, it is of the ultra weird and sensational ballad form, with a slight dash of the "Lady of Shalott" thrown in, and the inevitable refrain, popularly supposed to be inseparable from Pre-raffaelite art.

A LEGEND OF CAMELOT.
TALL Braunighrindas left her bed
At cock-crow with an aching head,
O Miserie!

"I yearn to suffer and to do,"
She cried, 66 'ere sunset, something new!
O Miserie!

To do and suffer, ere I die,
I care not what. I know not why.
O Miserie!

"Some quest I crave to undertake, Or burden bear, or trouble make." O Miserie!

She shook her hair about her form
In waves of colour bright and warm.
O Miserie!

It rolled and writhed and reached the floor;
A silver wedding-ring she wore.

O Miserie!

She left her tower, and wandered down
Into the High street of the town.

O Miserie!
Her pale feet glimmered, in and out,
Like tombstones as she went about.
O Miserie!

From right to left, and left to right;
And blue veins streakt her insteps white;
O Miserie!

And folks did ask her in the street
"How fared it with her long pale feet?
O Miserie!

And blinkt, as though 'twere hard to bear
The red-heat of her blazing hair!
O Miserie!

Sir Galahad and Sir Launcelot Came hand in hand down Camelot ;

O Miscrie !

Sir Gauwaine followed close behind; A weight hung heavy on his mind.

O Miserie!