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A NICE YOUNG MAN FOR A SMALL PARTY.

YOUNG BEN he was a nice young man,
An author by his trade;

He fell in love with Polly-Tics,

And was an M.P. made.

He was a Radical one day,
But met a Tory crew;
His Polly-Tics he cast away,
And then turned Tory too.

Now Ben had tried for many a place
When Tories e'en were out;
But in two years the turning Whigs
Were turn'd to the right-about.
But when he called on ROBERT PEEL,
His talents to employ,

His answer was, "Young Englander,
For me you're not the boy.'

Oh, ROBERT PEEL! Oh, ROBERT PEEL!
How could you serve me so?

I've met with Whig rebuffs before,
But not a Tory blow.

Then rising up in Parliament,

He made a fierce to do

With PEEL, who merely winked his cyc;
BEN wink'd like winking too.

And then he tried the game again,

But couldn't, though he tried;

His party turn'd away from him,

Nor with him would divide.

Young England died when in its birth:

In forty-five it fell;

The papers told the public, but

None for it toll'd the bell.

Punch, June 1845. (This parody was accompanied by a portrait of Mr. Benjamin Disraeli).

A FEW WORDS ON POETS IN GENERAL,
AND ONE IN PARTICULAR.

BY THE GHOST OF T- H—d.
"What's in a name?"-Shakespeare.

I.

By different names were Poets call'd In different climes and times;

The Welsh and Irish call'd him Bard, Who was confined to rhymes.

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XIV.

And yet his heart was gentle, too,-Sweet woman could enslave him; And from the shafts of Cupid's bow Even Armour could not save him.

XV.

And if that Armour could not save
From shafts that chance might wield,
What wonder that the poet wise
Cared little for a shield.

XVI.

And Sable, too, and Argent (which
For colours heralds write)
In BURNS' uncompromising hands
Were honest black and white.
XVII.

And in that honest black and white
He wrote his verses bold;
And though he sent them far abroad,
Home truths they always told.
XVIII.

And so for "honest poverty"
Ile sent a brilliant page down;
And, to do battle for the poor,

The gauger threw his gauge down.
XIX.

For him the garb of "hodden gray"
Than tabards had more charms;
He took the part of sleeveless coats
Against the Coats of Arms.
XX.

And although they of Oxford may
Sneer at his want of knowledge,
He had enough of wit at least,
To beat the Heralds' College.
XXI.

The growing brotherhood of his kind

He clearly, proudly saw that,

When launching from his lustrous mind,

"A man's a man for a' that!"

Kival Rhymes, in honour of Burns; by Ben Trovato (Routledge), London, 1859.

THE HAUNTED LIMBO.

A May-Night Vision, after a Visit to the Grosvenor Gallery. (With acknowledgment of a hint from Hoon.)

I.

A WORLD of whim I wandered in of late,
A limbo all unknown to common mortals;
But in the drear night-watches 'twas my fate
To pass within its portals.

Dusk warders, dim and drowsy, drew aside
What seemed a shadowy unsubstantial curtain,
And pointed onwards as with pain or pride,
But which appeared uncertain.

"Bonnie Jean's" maiden name.

I entered, and an opiate influence stole,
Like semi-palsy, over thought and feeling,
And with inebriate haziness my soul

Seemed rapt almost to reeling.

For over all there hung a glamour queer,
A sense of something odd the spirit daunted,
And said, like a witch-whisper in the ear,
"The place is haunted!"

II.

Those women, ah, those women! They were white, Blue, green, and grey,-all hues, save those of nature, Bony of frame, and dim and dull of sight,

And parlous tall of stature.

Ars longa est,-aye, very long indeed,

And long as Art were all these High-Art ladies,
And wan, and weird; one might suppose the breed
A cross 'twixt earth and Hades.

If poor Persephone to the Dark King
Had children borne, after that rape from Enna,
Much so might they have looked, when suffering
From too much salts and senna.

Many their guises, but no various grace

Or changeful charm relieved their sombre sameness;
Of form contorted, and cadaverous face,
And limp lopsided lameness

Venus was there; at least, they called her so:
A pallid person with a jaw protrusive,
Who palpably had found all passion slow,
And all delight delusive.

No marvel she looked passe, peevish, pale,
Unlovely, languid, and with doldrums laden.
To cheer her praise of knights might not avail,
Nor chaunt of moon-eyed maiden.

Laus Veneris they sang; the music rose
More like a requiem than a gladsome paan.
With sullen lip and earth-averted nose

Listened the Cytherean.

This Aphrodite? Then methought I heard

Loud laughter of the Queen of Love, full scornful Of this dull simulacrum, strained, absurd,

Green-sick, and mutely mournful.

A solid Psyche and a Podgy Pan,

A pulpy Cupid crying on a column, A skew-limbed Luna, a Peona wan,

A Man and Mischief solemn ;

A moonlight-coloured maiden-she was hight
Ophelia, but poor Hamlet would have frightened—
A wondrous creature called the Shulamite,

With vesture quaintly tightened;

These and such other phantasms seemed to fill
Those silk-hung vistas, which, though fair and roomy,
Nathless seemed straitened, close, oppressive, still,
And gogglesome and gloomy.

For over all there hung a glamour queer,
A sense of something odd the spirit daunted;
And said, like a witch-whisper in the ear.
"The place is haunted!"
III.

I could no more; I veiled my wearied eyes. I said, "Is this indeed the High Ideal? If so, give me plain faces, common skies, The homely and the real."

But no, this limbo is not that fair land,

Beloved of soaring fancies, hearts ecstatic; 'Tis the Fools' Paradise of a small band,

Queer, crude, absurd, erratic.

I turned, and murmured, as I passed away, "Such limbos of mimetic immaturity Have no abiding hold e'en on to-day,

Of fame no calm security."

For over all there hung a glamour queer,
A sense of something odd the spirit daunted,
And said, like a witch-whisper in the ear,
"This place is haunted!"

Funch, May 18, 1878.

Bret Harte.

The humorous writings of this author are as widely read, and as keenly appreciated, in England as in the United States, and when the prose portion of this collection is reached his Sensation Novels Condensed will be fully considered. In these he has admirably hit off the peculiarities of style of such varied writers as Miss Braddon, Victor Hugo, Charles Lever, Lord Lytton, Alexander Dumas, F. Cooper. Captain Marryat, Charles Dickens, Charlotte Brontë, and Wilkie Collins; whilst in Lothaw he produced a clever little parody of Lord Beaconsfield's Lothair.

Bret Harte has ably described both the comic and the pathetic sides of the wild life of the Californian miners, with which he is thoroughly familiar; and his best known poems deal with phases of life in that part of the world, where the Chinese element enters largely into the popula tion. For convenience of comparison, the original "Heathen Chinee " is given below, followed by the parodies :

:

PLAIN LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES. Table Mountain, 1870.

WHICH I wish to remark

And my language is plain—

That for ways that are dark,

And for tricks that are vain,

The heathen Chinee is peculiar,

Which the same I would rise to explain.

Ah Sin was his name ;

And I will not deny

In regard to the same

What that name might imply;

But his smile it was pensive and childlike,
As I frequent remarked to Bill Nye.

It was August the third,

And quite soft was the skies;

Which it might be inferred

That Ah Sin was likewise;

Yet he played it that day upon William
And me in a way I despise.

Which we had a small game
And Ah Sin took a hand.

It was Euchre. The same
He did not understand;

But he smiled as he sat by the table,

With a smile that was childlike and bland.

Yet the cards they were stocked

In a way that I grieve,

And my feelings were shocked

At the state of Nye's sleeve:

Which was stuffed full of aces and bowers,

And the same with intent to deceive.

But the hands that were played

By that heathen Chinee, And the points that he made,

Were quite frightful to seeTill at last he put down a right bower, Which the same Nye had dealt unto me.

Then I looked up at Nye,

And he gazed upon me; And he rose with a sigh,

And said, "Can this be?

We are ruined by Chinese cheap labour "And he went for that heathen Chinee.

In the scene that ensued

I did not take a hand;

But the floor it was strewed

Like the leaves on the strand

With the cards that Ah Sin had been hiding,
In the game
"he did not understand."

In his sleeves, which were long,
IIe had twenty-four packs-
Which was coming it strong,

Yet I state but the facts;

And we found on his nails, which were taper, What is frequent in tapers-that's wax.

Which is why I remark,

And my language is plain,
That for ways that are dark,

And for tricks that are vain,
The heathen Chinee is peculiar-
Which the same I am free to maintain.

THE HEATHEN PASS-EE.

BRET HARTte.

Being the Story of a Pass Examination.
BY BRED HARE.

WHICH I wish to remark,
And my language is plain,
That for plots that are dark

And not always in vain,

The Heathen Pass-ee is peculiar,

And the same I would rise to explain.

I would also premise

That the term of Pass-ee

Most fitly applies,

As you probably see,

To one whose vocation is passing

The "ordinary B. A. degree."

Tom Crib was his name,
And I shall not deny
In regard to the same

What that name might imply,

But his face it was trustful and childlike, And he had the most innocent eye.

Upon April the First

The Little-Go fell, And that was the worst

Of the gentleman's sell,

For he fooled the Examining Body

In a way I'm reluctant to tell.

The candidates came

And Tom Crib soon appeared;

It was Euclid, the same

Was

the subject he feared;"

But he smiled as he sat by the table

With a smile that was wary and weird.

Yet he did what he could,

And the papers he showed

Were remarkably good,

And his countenance glowed

With pride when I met him soon after

As he walked down the Trumpington Road.

We did not find him out,

Which I bitterly grieve,

For I've not the least doubt

That he'd placed up his sleeve Mr. Todhunter's excellent Euclid, The same with intent to deceive.

But I shall not forget

How the next day at two

A stiff Paper was set

By Examiner U

On Euripides' tragedy, Bacche,

A Subject Tom "partially knew."

But the knowledge displayed

By that heathen Pass-ee,

And the answers he made
Were quite frightful to see,

For he rapidly floored the whole paper
By about twenty minutes to three.

Then I looked up at U

And he gazed upon me,

I observed, "This won't do."

He replied, "Goodness me!

We are fooled by this artful young person."

And he sent for that heathen Pass-ee.

The scene that ensued

Was disgraceful to view,

For the floor it was strewed

With a tolerable few

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Just here let me say

To the ladies below,

Who in polka display

Their fantastic light tow,

That their husbands, upstairs, also " 'poker "

Yes, ladies, you well may cry "Owe!"

If the husbands but knew

How their wives flirt below,

They would sing to them-"Glou!"

For they'd stick to them so

That the popinjays all would look elsewhere,

Nor want for a trip of the toe.

In the waltz I embraced

A fair maid with soft eyes;

O! the size of her waist

Made me waste many sighs:

And I likened her cheeks to red roses,

And whispered, "Sweet love never dyes."

Then together we strayed

In the light of the moon,

Where I kissed that sweet maid;

She pretended to swoon,

But her faint was a feint, so I kissed her

Again, for I relished the boon,

Back again on the floor,

With my sweetheart I danced,

While the people there wore

Merry smiles, as they glanced

At my partner, so stayed-in her manner,

And at me, so completely entranced.

When my love turned around

I was shocked at the sight; Where the roses were found,

One had met with a blight;

While a cheek was still blooming and rosy, The other was fearfully white.

From my good-looking lass,

Filled with fright, I straight flew To a bad looking-glass,

Where I gazed then I knew

That my nose, which was formerly turn-up, Was radish-bright crimson in hue.

Which is why I remark,

That a pleasure in vain

Is a kiss in the dark

When it leaveth a stain;

And a maiden who runs when you kiss her,

Is fast-which I'll ever maintain.

Which is why I remark

And my language is plainThat for ways that are dark,

And for tricks far from vain.

The Germany Jew was peculiar,— But he won't soon be at it again.

Jon Duan.

THAT GERMANY JEW.
London, 1874.

WHICH I wish to remark

And my language is plainThat for ways that are dark,

And tricks far from vain,

The Germany Jew is peculiar,

Which the same I'm about to explain.

Eim Gott was his name ;

And I shall not deny

In regard to the same,

He was wonderful" fly,"

Merry Folks.

But his watch-chain was vulgar and massive,
And his manner was dapper and spry.

It's two years come the time,

Since the mine first came out;

Which in language sublime

It was puffed all about :

But if there's a mine called Miss Emma
I'm beginning to werry much doubt.
Which there was a small game

And Eim Gott had a hand

In promoting! The same

He did well understand;

But he sat at Miss Emma's board-table,

With a smile that was child-like and bland.

Yet the shares they were "bulled,"

In a way that I grieve,

And the public was fooled,

Which Eim Gott, I believe,

Sold 22,000 Miss Emmas,

And the same with intent to deceive.

And the tricks that were played

By that Germany Jew,

And the pounds that he made

Are quite well known to you.

But the way that he flooded Miss Emma

Is a "watering" of shares that is new.

Which it woke up MacD

And his words were but few,

For he said, "Can this be?"

And he whistled a "Whew!"

"We are ruined by German-Jew Swindlers !"—

And he went for that Germany Jew.

In the trial that ensued

I did not take a hand;

But the Court was quite filled

With the fi-nancing band,

And Eim Gott was "had" with hard labour,
For the games he did well understand.

ST. DENYS OF FRANCE (A.D. 272).

N.B.-The following lay was composed in humble imitation of the popular bard of Transatlantica.

WHICH I mean to observe

And my statement is true-
That for ways that unnerve,

And for deeds that out-do,
St. Denys of France was peculiar,
And the same I'll explain unto you.

Dionysius his name,

And none will deny That Denys the same

Does mean and imply;

And he fell in the hands of the pagans,
Who doom'd him a martyr to die.

'Twas century third,

As the history states,

That Denys incurr'd

This saddest of fates;

With one Eleutherius, deacon.

And Rusticus, priest, for his mates.

Yet the woes that were laid

On those Christians three, And the pluck they display'd Were quite frightful to see,

And at first you would scarcely believe it, But the same is asserted by ME. 'Twas one of their foes'

Diabolical whims,

To the flames to expose

The martyr's bare limbs.

But Denys, for one, didn't mind it,

He lay and sang psalms-likewise hymns. And then he was placed

In a den of wild beasts With a preference of taste

For martyrs and priests;

But Denys, by crossing, so tamed them,

They turned from such cannibal feasts.

Next Denys was cast

In a furnace of fire;

All thinking at last

He'd have to expire;

But the flame sank so low in a minute,
No bellows could make it rise higher.

And when he'd been hung

On the cross for a spell,

St. Denys was flung

With his friends in a cell,
As narrow and close as a coffin,
And dark as H E double L.
Said the judge, stern and curt,
"Bring the captives to me.'
When he found them unhurt
He cried, "Can this be?

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We are ruin'd by Christian endeavour;" And he meant to destroy the whole three.

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