A nice girl holler'd "Stay, oh stay!
And I will marry you right away;"
While tears all down his cheeks did flow,

"Its no use, young woman, I'm bound to goUpards!"

Said a cute old cove, "Young man, take care, There's a rotten old pine-tree fix'd up there; Sure as eggs is eggs it will fall on your head,” The young man only wink'd and saidUpards!

Next morning at the break of day,

A Shaker chanced to pass that way,"

And thought he heard the voice of a coon,
A-singing to a service toon--

Upards!

By reek and close air overcome,

The Climbing Boy was oft struck dumb,
And stifled soon, unless got out--
Of course he then no more could shout
Excelsior!

His knees were worn by rough ascent
Bare to the very ligament;
Flayed were his fingers and his toes;
Because he grazed them as he rose,
Excelsior!

When, jammed in, on his upward way
He stuck fast, oft, some used to say,
His master, in the grate below,
Would light a fire, to make him go
Excelsior!

These horrors having been at last
Dragged into day, an Act was passed
Declaring it, henceforth, a crime
To make a child a chimney climb
Excelsior!

Still certain Bumbles, it appears,
Against the law, these many years,
Have had their Town Hall's chimneys swept
By means of little boys who crept
Excelsior!

May a new law, more strictly framed,
All parties hit at whom 'tis aimed,
Concerned in making children sweep
Foul flues, whilst painfully they creep
Excelsior!

L

He tarried not to eat or drink,
But got a flag of lightish pink,
And traced on it, in violet ink-
Excelsior!

Though what he meant by that absurd,
Uncouth, and stupid, senseless word,
Has not been placed upon record-
Excelsior!

The characters were very plain,
In German text, yet he was fain,
With greater clearness to explain---
Excelsior!

And so he ran, this stupid wight,
And hollered out with all his might,
(As to a person out of sight)—

Excelsior!

And everybody thought the lad
Within an ace of being mad,

Who cried in accents stern and sad-
Excelsior!

"Come to my arms," the maiden cried : The youth grinned sheepishly, and sighed, And then appropriately replied

Excelsior!

The evening sun is in the sky,

But still the creature mounts on high,
And shouts (nor gives a reason why)--
Excelsior!

But ere he gains the topmost crag
His feeble legs begin to lag;
Unsteadily he holds the flag-
Excelsior!

Now P. C. Nab is on his track!

He puts him in an empty sack,
And brings him home upon his back—
Excelsior!

Nab takes him to a lumber store,

They toss him in and lock the door,

Which only makes him bawl the moreExcelsior!

Edinburgh Sketches and Miscellanies. By ERIC. (John Menzies and Company, Edinburgh, 1876).

THE DOWAGER-DUCHESS AT THE DRAWING ROOM. ("A bleak, nipping south-easterly wind was blowing throughout yesterday, the glass having again fallen, but the usual rules as to the Court dress to be worn by all ladies who attended the Drawing Room were strictly enforced. Lowcut bodies, both at back and front, were de rigueur."Weekly Paper, February, 1880).

THE Dowager-Duchess has been to the Palace,
And duly presented the Honourable Alice;
And now we will show in what sort of condition
Her grace, who is eighty, returned from this mission.
The shades of night were falling fast,
As up a Mayfair street there passed
A carriage with this strange device
As crest:-A rampant cockatrice
And enfant or.

Within was seen an aged dame,

Whose breath in gasps most frequent came;

Her face was white as Death's own hue,

Her Roman nose was red; with blue

Her lips spread o'er.

The fair young maiden by her side,
By briskly rubbing, bravely tried
Her grandma's blood to make reflow-
It seem'd a hopeless object, though,
She labour'd for!

"Oh joy!" this maiden cried, when she
Observed they'd stopped at forty-three;
"We are at home, dear Grandma, come!
Do speak to me!" The Dame was dumb-
E'en as before.

And when she would have left her seat,
She all but tumbled in the street;
Her state, in fact, the house alarms,
When, leaning on the flunkey's arms,
She gains her door.

'Be quick and heat my grandma's bed !” The Honourable Miss Alice said:

"Let well warmed bricks in flannel wrapp'd Without delay be in it clapp'd,

And bottles hot!

"Beware no window open be,

And blankets bring at once to me!"

Thus was the maiden's forethought shownHer Grandma scarce had strength to groan: "Hot ginger, dear!"

And ere of minutes ten had fled,

The chilled old Duchess was in bed;
Where, thanks to measures prompt and sound,
She promised shortly to come round
To health once more.

Then in the firelight, thin and gray,
And cold, but not so cold, she lay,
Whilst from her lips, no longer blue,

A voice came, somewhat hoarse 'twas true,
And somewhat sore.

*

Truth, February 26, 1880.

AFTER LONGfellow.

(A Long Way).

THE western sun was sinking fast,
As through the quiet street there passed
A tinker with a blackened eye,
Who ever and anon did cry--
"Brellas to mend."

His brow was dark with smoke and soot,
His raiment, rags from head to foot;
And like a penny trumpet rung
The beery accents of his tongue-
"Brellas to mend."

He lingered at the corner "pub,'
He drew his last coin from his fob;
He quaffed his glass of half-and-half,
And only answered to their chaff—
"Brellas to mend."

"Go not again," the landlord said,
Wild blows the tempest overhead,
Your rags will lash you unto death."
Our friend replied with bated breath-
"Brellas to mend."

"Oh, stay,” the daughter said, "and rest
Thy weary head upon this breast;

Why should'st thou from our presence fly?"
This was the tinker's sad reply—
"Brellas to mend."

"Beware the stern blue-coated man-
Beware the falling chimney-can;"
Such was the landlord's parting word,
And this was the reply they heard--
"Brellas to mend."

In Duke Street, at the break of day,
Within a court the tinker lay;

In falling he his leg had broke,

When gently raised, these words he spoke---
"Brellas to mend."

He died; his body calmly rests;
His ghost the lonely streets infests;
And often at the midnight hour

A voice cries, with sepulchral power-
"'Brellas to mend."

Teddy May and other Poems, by William Thomson, Glasgow, 1883.

X X X X X

VOICES OF OUR NIGHTS.

(Submitted to the American Poet, by Mr. Wrongfellow).

I HEARD the feline footsteps in the night
Pad through the Court and Hall!

I saw the sable wretch in the moon's light
Climb MRS. COXE'S Wall!

I felt her (that I did! I'm sure I'm right !)

Step o'er me just above;

With shrill pathetic mewings through the night,
As of a cat in love.

I heard the sounds of passion and of fight,

The caterwauling chimes,

That fill each attic chamber in the night,

Where some starved poet rhymes.

My night-capped head in the cool midnight air
Sought vainly some repose;

The echo of perpetual squalls rose there,
From the new cistern rose.

Peace! peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer!
Descend, you green-eyed fright !

I hate, while thus you screech, and spit, and swear,
The cat-infested night!

Punch, May 4, 1861.

PICKED UP AT THE STALL ENTRANCE TO THE NOVELTY THEATRE.

I KNOW a maiden fair to see

K. V. K. V. ! (Cave!)

She dances most bewitchingly

K. V. K. V.!

SUGGESTED BY "THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH." (With Apologies to the Shade of Longfellow.)

UNDER Britannia's spreading oak

The Grand Old Woodman stands ;

A presentation axe he wields
With large and sinewy hands;
But the onslaught of his cruel arms
As yet the tree withstands.

His hair is white and dank and long
His collars none can span;

His brow is wet with honest sweat-
He chops down all he can ;
He won't look Duty in the face,
But he'll talk with any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his speeches flow;
You can hear him wag his ceaseless tongue,
Dreary and loud and slow,

As the sexton's song on the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

The children of his Rebel School

Crowd round his open door;
They love to watch his swelling gorge,
And hear his blatant roar,

And catch the myriad words that fly
Like chaff from a threshing floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;

He hears the parson pray and preach-
He hears his own loved voice,
Reading the daily lessons,

And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like an angel's voice
Singing in Paradise!

Which reminds him he will talk no more
When in the grave he lies,

And with his collar end he wipes

A tear out of his eyes.
Talking-orating-promising,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begun,
Long years don't see it close;

Too much attempted, nothing done,

How can he seek repose?

Experience by thee, my friend,

Thy country has been taught;

Hadst though been doomed to silent life,

As reckless talkers ought,

Then had thy native land escaped

Much evil thou hast wrought.

The Globe, September 10, 1884.

THE LOW BOHEMIAN.

BEFORE the Cheshire Cheese's bar

The low Bohemian stands;

A sallow, seedy man is he,
With dirty nails, and hands;
And 'tis in a gin-sodden voice

He "four of Cork" demands.

His nose is large and very red,

His mouth 'twere hard to span ;
His daily work he likes to shirk,
He borrows when he can,
And he scans new comers anxiously,
For he owes to many a man.

Week in, week out, from mcrn to night,
He loiters bars before;

He knows the barmaids' Christian names

(A fact they much deplore ;) Now here, now there, he, with a leer, Slinks in at the swinging door!

He glories in the Referee,

And reads the Weekly Times,
In Reynolds' finds congenial stuff,
And sends it jokes and rhymes;
For he's a writer for the press,
When liquor duly primes.

Loafing and loitering-liquoring-
Down to his grave he goes;

Each morning finds him "

coppery,"

SPHINX.

66 done,"

He's "screw'd" ere night doth close; Something attempted-some one Whilst liquor always flows.

THE VILLAGE SCHOOLBOY. UNDER the garden apple-tree The village schoolboy stands ; The boy, a nasty boy is he, With muddy, filthy hands; And the mussel-shells he's playing with Are pick'd from dirty sands.

His hair is short, and red, and straight, His face is like the tar;

He cries and bawls when mother calls,

You hear him near and far,

And when he gets a chance he steals

The sugar from the jar.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,

He bellows and he cries,

And in the village there's not one

So good at telling lies;

Big stones he throws at other boys,
And hits them in the eyes.

He goes on Sunday to the church,

And every one annoys;

He pinches all the kids he's near,
And asks them for their toys;
And when they sing up in the choir
He shouts out,

Hold your noise!" His father smacks him in the face, He pulls him by the nose, The village schoolboy only cries, And crying-off he goes; His parents go to bed at night, And THERE, they've no repose.

The Sporting Times, July 5, 1884.

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.

W. C. L.

BESIDE a dingy public-house, the village smithy stands,
The smith, a nasty man is he, with beastly dirty hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms a bruiser well migh
suit,

His face is void of any charm, he looks a nasty brute.
His brow is wet with beery sweat, he scarcely earns a bob;
But to drink up another's drink he's always on the job!

Week in, week out, from morn to night, he curses high and low.

You seldom hear his hammer's beat, his step is dull and slow; Communications from his mouth are seldom "yes" or " or "no." And children coming home from school run frightened past his door,

They fear to see the ugly beast, and shun his drunken roar, They'd only catch a kick or blow, if they lingered near his door.

He never goes inside a church, and never sends his boys, He never heard a parson preach, he hates his daughter's voice,

Snarling over her kitchen work, it makes him swear like vice,

Reminding him of her mother's voice--that wasn't over nice.

And when he thinks of her once more, how in the grave she lies,

He thinks in his heart that Providence is sometimes kind and wise,

Cursing, drinking, borrowing; onward through life he goes. No morning sees good work begin, no evening sees its close. Nothing attempted, nothing done, from gin he gets repose.

The Topical Times, September 13, 1884.

The parody of "A Psalm of Life," entitled "The Maiden's Dream of Life," which was quoted on page 64, Part IV., of Parodies, was copied from a Washington (U.S.) newspaper, dated December, 1871. The idea of this parody had evidently been borrowed from one contained in a small volume by Phoebe Carey, entitled "Poems and Parodies." The borrower made some verbal alterations, which were by no means improvements on Miss Carey's parody, which is decidedly the better of the two :

A PSALM Of Life.

(What the Heart of the Young Woman said to the Old Maia).

TELL me not, in idle jingle,

Marriage is an empty dream, For the girl is dead that's single,

And things are not what they seem.

Married life is real, earnest,

Single blessedness a fib;
Taken from man, to man returnest,
Has been spoken of the rib.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow

Nearer brings the wedding day.
Life is long, and youth is fleeting,
And our hearts, if there we search,
Still like steady drums are beating
Anxious marches to the Church.
In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a woman, be a wife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act-act in the living Present. Heart within, and MAN ahead!

Lives of married folks remind us
We can live our lives as well,
And, departing, leave behind us
Such examples as will tell ;-
Such examples, that another,

Sailing far from Hymen's fort,
A forlorn, unmarried brother,
Seeing, shall take heart, and court.
Let us then be up and doing,
With the heart and head begin ;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labour, and to win!

Poems and Parodies. By Phoebe Carey, Boston, 1854.

The following is an amusing specimen of
advertisement parodies. It was written by
Mr. T. Thatcher, of College Green, Bristol :-
TELL me not in doleful murmurs
Ink is but a mouldy stream!
And the pen it rusts, and murders
Writing paper by the ream!
Thatcher's Ink is Ink in earnest !

And to rust is not its goal;
Mud thou art, to mould returnest,
Was not spoken as its dole.
With enjoyment and not sorrow
Welcome thee in loudest lay:
Ink to write, that each to-morrow
Finds it blacker than to-day.
Blots begone! Vile ink be fleeting!
Penman, be no more a slave !
Let all other inks go beating
Funeral marches to their grave!
In the world's wide field of battle,
In the bivouac of life,
Write not like dumb driven cattle!
Use this Ink and end thy strife!
Lines of this Ink all remind us

We may write with ease sublime,
And departing, leave behind us
Words to live as long as time!
Pen marks, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwreck'd brother,
Reading, shall take heart again.
Let us then be up and doing,

Seize this Ink before too late,
Thatcher's now at once securing,
Neither hesitate nor wait!

SHORT FELLOW.

PLEASE BE CHEERFUL.
(Advice to Modern Novelists.)

TELL us not, in mournful "numbers,
Life is all a ghastly dream!
Such as those we have in slumbers,
When the nightmare makes us scream.

Life is dark enough in earnest,
Without bringing in the gaol;
Only readers of the sternest

Like their heroines out on bail,