And dares to brave you on your native waves,
If Briton's rights be worth a Briton's care,
To shield them from the sons of Rapine, swear!
Then to Invasion be defiance given,

Your cause is just, approved by earth and heaven,
Should adverse winds our gallant fleet restrain,
To sweep his bawbling* vessels from the main,
And fate permit him on our shores t'advance.
The Tyrant never shall return to France:
Fortune herself shall be no more his friend,
And here the history of his crimes shall end,
His slaughtered legions shall manure our shore,
And England never know Invasion more.

HAIL, glorious edifice, stupendous work!
God bless the Regent and the Duke of York!
Ye Muses! by whose aid I cried down Fox,
Grant me in Drury Lane a private box,
Where I may loll, cry Bravo! and profess
The boundless powers of England's glorious press;
While Afric's sons exclaim from shore to shore,
"Quashee ma boo!"-the slave-trade is no more!
In fair Arabia (happy once, now stony,
Since ruined by that arch-apostate Bony),
A Phoenix late was caught: the Arab host

Long ponder'd-part would boil it, part would roast;
But while they ponder, up the pot-lid flies,
Fledged, beak'd, and claw'd, alive they see him rise
To heaven, and caw defiance in the skies.
So Drury, first in roasting flames consumed,
Then by old renters to hot water doom'd
By Wyatt's trowel patted, plump and sleek,
Soars without wings, and caws without a beak.
Gallia's stern despot shall in vain advance
From Paris, the metropolis of France;

By this day month the monster shall not gain
A foot of land in Portugal or Spain.

See Wellington in Salamanca's field

Forces his favourite general to yield,

Breaks through his lines, and leaves his boasted Marmont

Expiring on the plain without his arm on;

Madrid he enters at the cannon's mouth,

Thy hatch, O Halfpenny!* pass'd in a trice,
Boil'd some black pitch, and burnt down Astley's twice;
Then buzzing on through ether with a vile hum,
Turn'd to the left hand, fronting the Asylum,

And burnt the Royal Circus in a hurry

('Twas call'd the Circus then, but now the Surrey).
Who burnt (confound his soul !) the houses twain

Of Covent Garden and of Drury Lane?
Who, while the British squadron lay off Cork
(God bless the Regent and the Duke of York!)
With a foul earthquake ravaged the Caraccas,
And raised the price of dry goods and tobaccos ?
Who makes the quartern loaf and Luddites rise?
Who fills the butchers' shops with large blue flies?
Who thought in flames St James's court to pinch?
Who burnt the wardrobe of poor Lady Finch ?—
Why he, who, forging for this isle a yoke,
Reminds me of a line I lately spoke,
"The tree of freedom is the British oak."

Bless every man possess'd of aught to give ;
Long may Long Tylney Wellesley Long Pole live ;
God bless the Army, bless their coats of scarlet,
God bless the Navy, bless the Princess Charlotte ;
God bless the guards, though worsted Gallia scoff,
God bless their pig-tails, though they're now cut off;
And, oh! in Downing Street should Old Nick revel,
England's prime minister, then bless the devil!

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GEORGE BARNWELL

In Bishop Percy's Reliques of Ancient English Poetry is the Ballad having this title, which the Bishop states had been printed at least as early as the middle of the 17th century. Upon this Ballad, George Lillo, the dramatist, founded a tragedy, entitled "The London Merchant, or the History of George Barnwell," which was first performed at Drury Lane Theatre, in 1731. Lillo departed from the ballad by making Barnwell die repentant, thereby spoiling his dramatic character, and the piece was faulty in other respects, yet it held the stage for many years, and Mrs. Siddons frequently performed the part of the fair but naughty Millwood, and Charles Kemble was considered the best Barnwell ever seen on the boards.

At the time, therefore, that Rejected Addresses were written, and for many years afterwards, George Barnwell was a piece thoroughly familiar to London playgoers, consequently it was quite natural that the topic should be selected for a burlesque, and the following was written by James Smith:

Their bodies were never cut down ;
For granny relates with amazement,
A witch bore 'em over the town,

And hung them on Thorowgood's casement.
The neighbours, I've heard the folks say,
The miracle noisily brag on;

And the shop is, to this very day,

The sign of the George and the Dragon.
Rum ti, &c.

In 1858 the late Mr. Shirley Brooks chose this burlesque as the basis of a parody he composed on the ecclesiastical procedure adopted by Samuel Wilberforce, then Bishop of Oxford. It contains nothing more offensive to religion than the somewhat familiar address to the Bishop as Soapy Sam, It is said, the origin of which sobriquet is lost in doubt. that when asked its meaning by a lady, Bishop Wilberforce replied, "I believe they call me 'Soapy Sam' because I am so often in hot water, and always come out with clean hands."

SAM.

A Melancholy but Instructive Narrative, Founded on Facts, and on James Smith's "George Barnewell"

SAM SOAPEY stood at his Palace door,
Promotion hoping to find, Sir;

His Apron it hung down before,

And the tail of his wig behind, Sir.

A Lady, so painted and smart,

Cried "Pardon my little transgression,
But I know what is next to your heart,
Now, what do you think of Confession?"
Rum-ti-iddi-ti-ti.

Her face was rouged up to the eyes,
And red was her ladyship's toggery,
And folks who are thought to be wise,
Recognised a professor of roguery.

A bundle of Keys at her waist

Says she, "I can help you, Sir, that I can, In the South I am very much graced, And I live at a place called the Vatican." Rum-ti-iddi-ti-ti.

Her language his wits did bereave,
She proceeded to carney and gabble on,
And at last (which you'd hardly believe)
He smirked at the Lady of Babylon.
Says he, "I should get in a scrape,
Could my late and respectable Sire hark;
He'd frown should a Wilberforce ape
A sleek Ultramontanist hierarch."
Rum-ti-iddi-ti-ti.

Says she, "Don't be frightened at names,
You've always to Rome had a tendency!
Stand up for Confession; your game's
To struggle for priestly ascendency.
Cut the priest a back-way to the house,
And you've cut through the Isthmus of Darien :
Fathers, husbands, are not worth a souse
After that, my fine stout-legged Tractarian.
Rum-ti-iddi-ti-ti.

This counsel he took from his love,

And in Parliament's very next Session

He pleaded, with voice of a dove,

For "the excellent rite called Confession."

was accordingly written by Mr. Lewis Morris, and set to music by Sir Arthur Sullivan. The Ode contained the usual commonplaces, expressed in language more than usually dull and meaningless, as the following extracts will suffice to show :

I.

WITH Soaring voice and solemn music sing,
High to Heaven's gate let pealing trumpets ring!

To-day our hands consolidate

The Empire of a thousand years.
Delusive hopes, distracting fears,

Have passed, and left her great,

For Britain, Britain, we our jubilant anthems raise, Uplift your voices all, worthy is she of praise !

III.

No more we seek our Realm's increase

By War's red rapine, but by white-winged Peace;
To-day we seek to bind in one,

Till all our Britain's work be done-
Through wider knowledge closer grown,
As each fair sister by the rest is known,
And mutual Commerce, mighty to efface
The envious bars of Time and Place,
Deep-pulsing from a common heart
And through a common speech expressed-
From North to South, from East to West,
Our great World Empire's every part;
A universal Britain strong

To raise up Right and beat down Wrong-
Let this thing be! who shall our Realm divide?
Ever we stand together, Kinsmen, side by side!
V.

First Lady of our British Race!

'Tis well that with thy peaceful Jubilee
This glorious dream begins to be,

This thy lost Consort would, this would thy Son,
Who has seen all thy Empire face to face

And fain would leave it One,

Oh, may the Hand which rules our Fate
Keep this our Britain great!

We cannot tell, we can but pray

Heaven's blessing on our work to-day.

Uprise, oh, Palace fair, where every eye may see
This proud embodied Unity!

For Britain and our Queen one voice we raise,

Laud them, rejoice, peal forth, worthy are they of praise!

THE INAUGURAL ODE AS IT OUGHT TO HAVE BEEN.

(With Apologies to Mr. Lewis Morris.)

WITH partial pomp and sounding bands of brass,
And Royalties-both first and second class-
To-day the Queen, in semi-state,

Consents a project to befriend

Which for so long seemed doomed to end In a fiasco great!

But at last, at last, the Prince his labour finds repaidThe Imperial Institute's foundation stone is laid!

When first the grasping "Gang" its birth decreed,
And greedily made Kensington its site,
The project's progress was but small, indeed,
And the subscriptions strangely light.
And though the Prince to the occasion rose,
And summoned all the Mayors to town;

But was the "Gang" disheartened? Nay;
It persevered, and gathered here to-day,
Where "jobs" have in the past been done,
It sees, we fear, one more begun,
For, spite of all that has been said,
Upon this latest subject light to shed;
Spite of the promises which have been made
That the new Institute shall foster trade :
Spite, too, official zest and skill,
And of the fervent hopes express'd,
From North to South, from East to West,
That it will some good end fulfil,
And make the Empire yet more strong,
We fear such hopes will all prove wrong,
And that this building, with its tower so tall,
Will only be the biggest "job" of all!

Yet do we dare to-day,

As in this solemn rite we here engage, To hope the future will our fears gainsay,

And make this place a glorious heritage

For all our people, and a source of strength

Throughout the teeming Empire's breadth and length. But, if we this would see,

Then, by a stern decree,

This Institute must be forthwith set free

From greed and jobbery!

Those who would batten on it must be told

At once to loose their hold,

So that it may uprise a Palace free and fair,

In whose great benefits an Empire wide may share.

First Lady of our British Race,

We'll hope that with thy peaceful Jubilee
We of this dream may a fulfilment see,

For this, were thy lost Consort with us still,
Yon scene of pomp and pageantry to grace,
Would surely be his will;

And this we fain would trust thy son,
Undoing what he's done,

Will also help fulfil.

Time this must show, but we can pray

That higher motives from to-day

May strengthen those who execute

The business of the Institute;

That from to-day its end and aim

May be the country's wealth and fame.
That flunkeys, toadies, snobs may find

It is not for their sake designed;
Whilst Kensington, forced to admit
It has no lot nor part in it,

No more will claim to such extent

What is for all the Empire meant.

Then will the Palace fair, by patriotism planned,

Be hailed a glory of the land,

And, as the Empire joins its walls to raise,

Its people, one and all, will loudly sound its praise.

Truth. July 7, 1887.

Mr. Lewis Morris was rewarded for his ode by a silver Jubilee medal, with permission to wear it on public occasions.

Some time afterwards he wrote to a Manchester newspaper complaining that people confounded him with Mr. William Morris, the poet and socialist, on which The Star published the following

POET AND POETASTER.

IF this kind of thing goes on, Sir, I shall have to change my name;

'Tis an odious position to be in;

Though the other Mr. Morris may be better known to fame, I am Mr. Lewis Morris, of Penbryn.

He was christened after Shakespeare, but his other name is mine;

Yet, though critics are so quick at me to quiz,

I can honestly asseverate I never wrote a line
That could fairly be compared with one of his.

When I wrote an ode to praise the life our precious Prince has led,

Though I must confess it fell a little flat,

There were certain silly editors who ignorantly said

Mr. William had been capable of that.

Now I happen to be certain it would take him all his time To indite an ode on Royalty's affairs,

For disloyalty to Princes isn't reckoned any crime,
'Mong the people whose society he shares.

In a word he is a poet, and a Socialist to boot,
One whose company 'tis wiser to eschew;

For although I am a person of importance and repute,
It is certain I am neither of the two.

The whole of this amusing poem will be found in Carols of Cockayne by Mr. Henry S. Leigh.

Mr. Leigh died early in June, 1883, and the following graceful parody of his poem appeared in Judy, June 27, 1883.

IN THE STRAND.

IN form and feature, face, and limb,

He tried to build a double,
And folks got taking it for him,
For want of taking trouble.
"A bitter-minded cynic this!
Said those who argued blindly.
He took their finding not amiss,
Nor thought it meant unkindly.

He dreamed long dreams, and meant to do

A heap of great grand work;

'T is p'r'aps the same with me and you,
And still the race we shirk.
Another face gone from the Strand,
A voice we hear no more;
We miss the pressure of a hand,
Oft pressed on this LEIGH shore.

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