Now-scorning the aid of that personage odious, The two-sticked dark gentleman known as Asmodeus; St. Peter's great bell tells one more day is dead; Only a beggar or woman with shrewd eye, Ten thousand wax tapers emit their bright rays, Of satin and silk, at a price rather higher Was that all the fat Monks of Jacopolo there, a vessel of brass-yes, 'twas that And in heretic lands 'twould be known as a HATKETTLE: What are they doing? Some mischief is brewing! In the cauldron like that one in Macbeth, is stewing E'en the Abbot himself lays his hand on, and blesses it : They roll it, and wrinkle, Punch it, and sprinkle : A silver bell's tinkle Is heard then the Abbot proceeds to un-padlock A HAT BLOCK took out, And 'twas hailed by the Monks with a song and a shout:- And without further parley you have the thing pat. "Hail Mary!" the Abbot cried-"Look upon that I ne'er saw a handsomer CARDINAL'S HAT! In England, I fancy-'twill rather surprise Man, Woman, and Child, when 'tis worn by NICK WISEMAN." (And really, to give the old Abbot his due The latter remark was undoubtedly true ;) "And," he added, "Proceed, your good work and divine in, As now 'tis our duty to put in the lining." * All this being done-said the Lord Abbot-"That, Yes, the Cardinal's Hat was completed at last, Who, it seems, a fresh chance for our souls, won't deny us, ARCHBISHOP OF WESTMINSTER-CARDINAL WISEMAN !" And his newly-made Eminence rose from his knees As proud and designing a Priest as you please! But a very short time had passed by, and the HAT Was dingy and shabby, and crushed almost flat : For on it, John Bull, set his sturdy old heel, And to Wiseman- -" Old Craftyman-vanish from here-" But the CARDINAL'S HAT! How fared it with that? Why from Westminster it was sent into RAG FAIR! :0: TEMPTATION OF THE GOOD ST. GLADSTONE. THE good St. Gladstone sat on his stool, With a steadfast patience, as was his rule, Like a wanton urchin a-weary of school; He studied in quiet, and kept himself cool, On his stool of repentance-a hard-bottomed stool- "We will woo," cried Old Nick, "good St. Gladstone's eyes Off from that excellent book. We will cluster around him in strange disguise, And plague him with shindies and Party cries, And bother his bosom with phantasies, That he upon us may look." So they came to the Saint in a motley crew There were imps of every shape and hue, But the good St. Gladstone kept his eyes From it they did not sink or rise, Nor sights, nor laughter, nor shouts, nor cries Could win away his look. One black imp came in a masquerade Most like a ghoul's attire, With a face like a skull in dried parchment arrayed, And bat-wings dingy that fluttered and played About St. Gladstone through light and through shade, Till they made the Saint perspire. And another one came apparalled In silk and velvet stuff, With a sort of tiara upon its head, And a shadowy alb, and a ghostly cope, As it blustered and blazed, Another yet, of diminutive size, And with hairy lip and with goggle eyes, He pounced like a hawk, and he whisked like the wind, And the more the Saint he deafened and dinned, But the good St. Gladstone bent his eyes, Upon that excellent book. He heard the shout and the laugh arise, But he knew that the imps had a naughty guise, And he did not care to look. Last comes an imp-how unlike the rest- With two dark Irish optics that ogle with zest, She fires his heart with its ancient might, Though he's grey with the frosts of age. Ha! the good St. Gladstone boggles his eyes Ho! ho! at the corners they seem to rise. There are many devils that walk this world- Devils saint-meagre, and sinner-stout; But a blarneying Colleen with two bright eyes Punch. January 9, 1886. Ye Sette of Odd Volumes, a small and very exclusive literary society founded in 1878 by Mr. Bernard Quaritch. The Brethren (as they style themselves) are united once a month to form a perfect sette for the purposes of Conviviality, and Mutual Admiration. The Brethren are, for the most part, men of note in Art, Literature, or the Drama. Each "Odd Volume" has his special title and office in the "Sette," many of the observances at the meetings are quaint and peculiar, whilst the dainty little Opuscula containing reports of their proceedings are eagerly sought after by collectors of literary curiosities. Ought to read in history's pages, With what eclât, That radiant star, Mr. Pharaoh Rameses Ra, In mortal garb on this earth once trod," I have learn'd from the sages, and seers of yore; Over the sod Mr. Rameses trod, Softly and slow to the shrine of the God; The High Priest solemnly waved his rod, The doors roll'd back, And there in a crack The books stood reveal'd, such a queer-looking squad, They gave each other a nudge and a prod As the High Priest said, with a wink and a nod, And from least to greatest all worthy are Of the Persiah Shah, Or of Mr. Pharaoh Rameses Ra." After describing the various members, and enumerating their literary or artistic works, the High Priest observes:"Such your Majesty's picture books are, Mr. Pharaoh Rameses Ra!" The monarch smiled with approving nod, And muttered, "All charming-but Odd! very Odd!" :0: MR. BARNEY MAGUIRE'S ACCOUNT OCH the Coronation! what celebration When to Westminster the Royal Spinster, And the Duke of Leinster, all in order did repair! 'Twas there you'd see the New Polishemen Making a skrimmage at half after four, Then the cannons thunder'd, and the people wonder'd, When along the line came bowlin' wid a sound like thunder rowlin', All the dignitaries howlin' that grate Europe has to show; Dhressed in glitterin' stars an' laces, sittin' proudly in their places, Like their images that graces Madame Twoswoords' waxwork show; Spanish High and Mightinesses, Russian military dhresses, Belgium, Austhria, Grase, and Dinmark, all like Court cards smilin' there, Germans stout and sentimental, jooks and Princes Continental, Ownin' a conthracted rental, but a precious dale of hair! Then, with polished sword-blades glancing, goulden tags an' feathers dancing, Came the princely escort prancing all beside a gilded coach Drawn by eight crame ponies-Ginnett or Bill Holland wasn't in it, Was the cry the very minnit that procession did approach. And VICTORIA, Britain's Queen, there, of her subjects' eyes was seen there, Lookin' glorious and resplendent in her Sunday satin gown, Wid a dacent white lace bonnet wid a bunch of feathers on it, Though 'tis said that Salisbury begged her on his knees to wear her crown. There was Our Princess the blessin'! She's the wan for stylish dhressin,' Wid her charrums that do be increasin' as the years go rowlin' by; Cambridge bloomin' like a picthur, foine-looking young Albert Victor, Editors in shoals and batches, thieves intent on priggin' watches, The Brown Potter, Lady Colin, and the Saturday Review! But the day that day succeeded its excitement superseded When the Board Schools all was weeded of their flower an' their pick; An' the title Levy Lawson long had hoped to get his claws on, Hung convanient widin' reachin' of the handle of his stick! Sure the work was warm an' tirin', and the taychers all perspirin', Into buns some children wirin', while the dhrinks went round about, Bands and banners wildly clashin', Jubilee mementos smashin', Punches squeakin', airballs squashin', was there ever such a rout! But at last the fait was over, guardian angels ceased to hover, Pickpockets retired in clover, and the cats began to roam, Whilst the parents of the threated bore away the more repleted Or conveyed the flattered darlin's to the shelter of the home. Off wint Navy, off wint Army, with the sex that's born to charm ye; Off wint Press, Police, and Public; home wint Royalty to tea, And Her Majesty did utther, as she tuk the bread and butther Misther Battenberg had cut her-"Well, We've Had Our JUBILEE. Lady's Pictorial. July 2, 1887. A LAY OF ST. DUNSTAN'S, FLEET STREET. SIR CHRISTOPHER WREN! O Sir Christopher Wren ! How slumbered your keen architectural ken When you planned Temple Bar, Nor foresaw from afar How the witlings would spit you, And Levi the Thunderer How the D.T., the pet, pink, and pride of the Press, All through you, dear Sir Christopher, Narrow street-way, to be cursed at and hissed of a Who howled in the squeezes Like epics Satanic declaimed by some sham Milton The traffic anew that the Bar had let loose; And triumphantly carries it through the C.C.t Is to stand, spite of those whose loud protests it smothers, |