More dull were I than any mule
That eyes did ever see,
If I should not remember Yule,
And Yule remember me.

Anonymous.

SELF-EVIDENT

HEN other lips and other eyes

W

Their tales of love shall tell,

Which means the usual sort of lies
You've heard from many a swell;
When, bored with what you feel is bosh,
You'd give the world to see

A friend, whose love you know will wash,
Oh, then remember me!

When Signor Solo goes his tours,
And Captain Craft 's at Ryde,
And Lord Fitzpop is on the moors,
And Lord knows who besides;
When to exist you feel a task
Without a friend at tea,

At such a moment I but ask
That you'll remember me.

J. R. Planché.

AFTER LORD MACAULAY

THE LAUREATE'S TOURNEY

By the Hon. T-B-M.

"WH

FYTTE THE FIRST

HAT news, what news, thou pilgrim gray, what news from the southern land?

How fare the bold Conservatives, how is it with

Ferrand?

How does the little Prince of Wales - how looks our lady Queen?

And tell me, is the monthly nurse once more at Windsor seen?"

"I bring no tidings from the Court, nor from St. Stephen's hall;

I've heard the thundering tramp of horse, and the trumpet's battle-call;

And these old eyes have seen a fight, which England ne'er had seen,

Since fell King Richard sobbed his soul through blood on Bosworth Green.

"He's dead, he's dead, the Laureate's dead!' 'T was thus the cry began,

And straightway every garret-roof gave up its minstrel man;

From Grub Street, and from Houndsditch, and from Farringdon Within,

The poets all towards Whitehall poured on with eldritch din.

"Loud yelled they for Sir James the Graham; but sore afraid was he;

A hardy knight were he that might face such a minstrelsie.

Now by St. Giles of Netherby, my patron Saint, I swear,

I'd rather by a thousand crowns Lord Palmerston were here!

"What is 't ye seek, ye rebel knaves - what make you there beneath?'

The bays, the bays! we want the bays! we seek the laureate wreath!

We seek the butt of genercus wine that cheers the son of song;

Choose thou among us all, Sir Knight — we may not tarry long!'

"Loud laughed the good Sir James in scorn

Rare jest it were, I think,

But one poor butt of Xeres, and a thousand rogue

to drink!

An' if it flowed with wine or beer, 't is easy to be

seen,

That dry within the hour would be the well of Hippocrene.

"Tell me, if on Parnassus' heights there grow a thousand sheaves;

Or has Apollo's laurel bush yet borne ten hundred leaves?

Or if so many leaves were there, how long would they sustain

The ravage and the glutton bite of such a locust train?

"No! get ye back into your dens, take counsel for the night,

And choose me out two champions to meet in deadly fight;

To-morrow's dawn shall see the lists marked out in Spitalfields,

And he who wins shall have the bays, and he shall die who yields!'

"Down went the window with a crash, in silence and in fear

Each ragged bard looked anxiously upon his neighbor near;

Then up and spake young Tennyson - Who's here that fears for death?

'T were better one of us shall die, than England lose the wreath !

"Let's cast the lot among us now, which two shall fight to-morrow;

For armor bright we'll club our mite, and horses we can borrow;

'T were shame that bards of France should sneer, and German Dichters too,

If none of British song might dare a deed of derringdo!'

"The lists of Love are mine,' said Moore, and not the lists of Mars; '

Said Hunt, I seek the jars of wine, but shun the combat's jars!'

'I'm old,' quoth Samuel Rogers. —'Faith,' says Campbell, so am I!'

'And I'm in holy orders, sir!' quoth Tom of Ingoldsby.

"Now out upon ye, craven loons,' cried Moxon, good at need;

'Bide, if ye will, secure at home, and sleep while others bleed.

I second Alfred's motion, boys, let's try the chance of lot;

And monks shall sing, and bells shall ring, for him that goes to pot."

"Eight hundred minstrels slunk away

dred stayed to draw;

Now Heaven protect the daring wight that pulls

the longest straw!