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And the Alps shall be ranked with the asses
For the fracture, the frostbite, the sprain,
And the mangling of flesh in crevasses,
Our Lady of Pain!

And if leaving me, though, unshattered-
An accident fell should betide,

And the train that I ride in is scattered
In ruin on every side-
Dislocations and discolourations,

And gush of bright gore, not in vain
Shall awake in me languid sensations,
Our Lady of Pain!

Thus I roam through the universe vasty,
O'er mountain, vale, meadow, and wood;
And I venerate all that is nasty,

And gird against all that is good;
In the mire my delight is to linger,

Although I to the heights might attain :
But you don't catch me scratching my finger,
Our Lady of Pain !

Fun. October 12, 1867.

MY LADY CHAMPAGNE.

WAYWARD, Soft, luscious, and tender,
Lightsome, and spotless from stain,

Graceful of figure and slender,

Decked with a golden crown's splendour-
Our Lady Champagne.

Brilliantly sparkling and creaming,
Haughty and lovely and vain,
Gay 'midst the froth lightly beaming,
Swift o'er the crystal edge streaming-
Our Lady Champagne.

Bubbling and seething and springing,

Solace and soother of pain,
Joys of an outer world bringing,
Sweets to the air gaily flinging-
Our Lady Champagne.

Proud in the depth of deep scorning,
Haughty and grand with disdain,

Rosy as soft clouds at dawning,
Fresh as the breeze of the morning-
Our Lady Champagne.

Kisses seductive in greeting,
Falling like soft summer rain,
Rapturous bliss of lips meeting,
Sighing a woe at retreating-

Our Lady Champagne.

Frothy, light, bubbly and beady, Life to the overworked brain; Beer for the humble and needy, Wine for the wealthy and greedyOur Lady Champagne ! Judy. May 26, 1880.

THE SOUTHERN CROSS.

A Frustration.

FOUR stars on Night's brow, or Night's bosom,
Whichever the reader prefers ;

Or Night without either may do some,
Each one to his taste or to hers.

Four stars-to continue inditing,
So long as I feel in the vein-
Hullo! what the deuce is that biting?
Mosquitos again!

Oh glories not gilded but golden,
Oh daughters of Night unexcelled,
By the sons of the North unbeholden,
By our sons (if we have them) beheld;
Oh jewels the midnight enriching,

Oh four which are double of twa in!
Oh mystical-bother the itching!

Mosquitos again!

You alone I can anchor my eye on,
Of you and you only I'll write,
And I now look awry on Orion,
That once was my chiefest delight.
Ye exalt me high over the petty
Conditions of pleasure and pain,
Oh Heaven! Here are these maladetti
Mosquitos again!

The poet should ever be placid.

Oh vex not his soul or his skin!
Shall I stink them with carbolic acid?
It is done and afresh I begin.

Lucid orbs!-that last sting very sore is;
I am fain to leave off, I am fain ;

It has given me uncommon dolores-
The Latin for pain.

Not quite what the shape of a cross is-
A little lop-sided, I own-

Confound your infernal probescis,
Inserted well nigh to the bone!

Queen-lights of the heights of high heaven,
Ensconced in the crystal inane-

Oh me, here are seventy times seven Mosquitos again.

Oh horns of a mighty trapezium !
Quadrilatoral area, hail!

Oh bright is the light of magnesium !—
Oh hang them all, female and male!
At the end of an hour of their stinging,
What shall rest of me then, what remain?
I shall die as the swan dieth, singing,
Mosquitos again!

Shock keen as the stroke of the leven!
They sting, and I change as a flash
From the peace and the poppies of heaven
To the flame and the firewood of-dash !
Oh Cross of the South, I forgot you!
These demons have addled my brain.
Once more I look upward- -Od rot you!
You're at it again.

There! stick in your pitiless brad-awl,
And do your malevolent worst!
Dine on me and when you have had all,
Let others go in for a burst!

Oh silent and pure constellation,
Can you pardon my fretful refrain?
Forgive, oh forgive my vexation—

They're at it again!

Oh imps that provoke to mad laughter, Winged fiends that are fed from my brow,

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One of the cleverest parodies on Swinburne was written by the late Mr. Tom Hood, the younger, on the above named poem, and first appeared in Fun, whence it has frequently been copied without proper acknowledgment.

The parody will be better appreciated after reading a few stanzas of the original which, as will be observed, is written in a difficult and very uncommon metre :

IF love were what the rose is,
And I were like the leaf,
Our lives would grow together
In sad or singing weather,
Blown fields or flowerful closes,
Green pleasure or gray grief;
If love were what the rose is,
And I were like the leaf.

If I were what the words are,

And love were like the tune, With double sound and single Delight our lips would mingle,

If you were April's lady,

And I were lord in May, We'd throw with leaves for hours And draw for days with flowers, Till day like night were shady,

And night were bright like day; If you were April's lady,

And I were lord in May.

If you were queen of pleasure, And I were king of pain, We'd hunt down love together, Pluck out his flying-feather, And teach his feet a measure, And find his mouth a rein; If you were queen of pleasure, And I were king of pain.

A CATCH.

A. C. SWINBURNE.

(By a Mimic of Modern Melody.)

IF you were queen of bloaters,
And I were king of soles,
The sea we'd wag our fins in
Nor heed the crooked pins in
The water dropt by boaters,

To catch our heedless joles;
If you were queen of bloaters
And I were king of soles.

If you were LADY MILE-END,
And I were DUKE OF Bow,
We'd marry and we'd quarrel,
And then, to point the moral
Should LORD PENZANCE his file lend,
Our chains to overthrow;
If you were LADY MILE-END,
And I were DUKE OF Bow.

If you were chill November,
And I were sunny June ;
I'd not with love pursue you;
For I should be to woo you
(You're foggy, pray remember)
A most egregious spoon;
If you were chill November,
And I were sunny June.

If you were cook to Venus
And I were J. 19;
When missus was out dining,
Our suppetites combining,
We'd oft contrive between us

To keep the patter clean; If you were cook to Venus And I were J. 19.

If you were but a jingle, And I were but a rhyme; We'd keep this up for ever, Nor think it very clever,

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IF life were never bitter,

And love were always sweet,
Then who would care to borrow
A moral from to morrow-
If Thames would always glitter,
And joy would ne'er retreat,
If life were never bitter,

And love were always sweet!

If care were not the waiter
Behind a fellow's chair,

When easy-going sinners

Sit down to Richmond dinners,

And life's swift stream flows straighter

By Jove, it would be rare,

If care were not the waiter
Behind a fellow's chair.

If wit were always radiant,

And wine were always iced,

And bores were kicked out straightway Through a convenient gateway;

Then down the year's long gradient 'Twere sad to be enticed,

If wit were always radiant,

And wine were always iced.

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Your promise once extorted,
I'd leave you to your fate;
If I were well supported,
And you of little weight.

If you were at the polling,
And I were in the booth,
And if your vote you gave, or
Recorded in my favour,
I'd find it both consoling,

And powerful to soothe,
If you were at the polling,
And I were in the booth.

If you should vote against me, And I were standing by,

I might be forced to fell you, And then should simply tell you That having so incensed me

You ought to mind your eye; If you should vote against me, And I were standing by.

If I were not elected,

And you would keep alive, You oughtn't to come nigh me, But shun, avoid, and fly me, And go about protected

(For vide stanza 5). If I were not elected,

And you would keep alive.

If you were not a voter,

Nor I a candidate,

I would not give a penny,

To know your views (if any),
Contingency remoter

I can't enunciate,

If you were not a voter,

Nor I a candidate.

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If you were what your nose is,
And I were like the red,
Then should we glow together,
Sunned in the singing weather,
Blown well as winter closes,

And colds come in the head-
If you were what your nose is,
And I were like the red.

If I were what your words are,
And you H aspirate,

We ne'er should dwell together;
For you would snap your tether,
And leave me where the birds are,
And drop at hailstone rate-
If I were what your words are,
And you н aspirate,

If you were "call to-morrow,"
And I an unpaid bill,
You'd meet me at all seasons,
With plaintive looks and reasons,
And leave me then to sorrow,

And all unsettled still

If you were "call to-morrow."
And I an unpaid bill,

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