Our reading is all moonshine-the wind is not more free: The champagne is all sparkling; we quaff it day and night, Like creatures in whose sunny throats a thirsty flame burns bright.

All Oxford knows our triumph: fast birds around us sweep; Strange "duns" come up to look at us, their masters though so deep;

In our wake, like any serpent, doth the night policeman go, And at the toll-bar tarrieth the proctor with his pro.

Proud, proud must be each Brasenose man, at least so I should say,

Of all those grooms and flunkies who promptly him obey, Who've ta'en his horse to covert, who've cleaned, with labour sore,

The snowy "tops" which he shall have when chapel-time is o'er.

Who would not be a Brasenose man to order with a word,
His pink and well-built leathers, to turn out like a lord?
I'd shout to yonder hack there, though somewhat screwed
it be-

Each morn I'll make thee carry me Lord Redesdale's hounds to see.

Each term our pace grew faster, and faster still it grew,

Yet talked we to our tradespeople, and gull them not a few; And we looked into our bankers, but nothing could we see, And at last there came the fearful time for what we call "degree.

We read 'twas but an instant! for speedily the pride
Of being plucked twice for "little go," all chance of ours
defied;

This gave boldness to th' examiners, as, sitting in a row,
They told us we might mizzle, for indeed it was no go.

That night a horrid proctor fell on us where we lay,

And we knew some fine policemen were carrying us away; And we heard the wash of waters-hard by the gutter weAnd a whistle from a friend of ours who knew how it would be.

Till dawn they watched the body in its most unpleasant sleep,

And the two next Terms, at morning, they refused to let us keep;

And ever from that moment did one shudder for to see,
The proctor or policeman that had followed in our lee.

From Hints to Freshmen. Oxford: J. Vincent.

(An amusing little pamphlet, which has been ascribed to the Rev. Canon Hole.)

THE RETURN TO TYROL. I.

How merrily, how jollily we haste along the steep, Though mist is all around us, and snow is lying deep;

Brasen Nose College, Oxford.

All nature holds a washing-day, with froth, and slop, and steam,

The wintry sun will scarcely deign vouchsafe one vagrant beam;

So when we reach Landek and stop, well may the
Gastwirth grin,

He sees the Nirgend's Wanderer come very soppy in:
(Chorus of enthusiastic partizans and compatriots :-)
The long-haired German Wanderer comes very soppy in!
II.

Oh! wet must be the Wanderer, for it has rained to-day,
Though he a red umbrella has, from Rome brought all the

He wrinkles up his forehead like an ancient Chimpanzee's, And babbles of the "puff-puff," and prattles of " geegees: "

He guggles and he struggles, and he will not stand nor sit,
But he gives an imitation of an apoplectic fit.

I am not very captious, and I wish not to complain-
But what a crying grievance is the Baby in the Train !

I wish to feign the friendly, but I earnestly reflect-
In silly finger-snapping do I lose my self respect?
Can I crow or can I chuckle with a countenance serene?
Is "kitchee-kitchee " fitted for my gravity of mien?
Can I talk of "doggie-oggies," or prate of "ittle dears"?
Is "peep-bo" fit amusement for a person of my years?
And though I do my very best to try to entertain,
I'm thought a vile impostor by the Baby in the Train!

He knows that I am longing to make faces on the sly,
How spitefully I'd pinch him if no guardians were nigh!
He clutches at my watch-chain, he smiles upon my suit,
He tries to eat my eye-glass, he jumps upon my boot;
He takes away my walking-stick, he crumples up my Punch;
He burrows deep in paper-bags in foraging for lunch;
And cups of milk at stations, too, how eagerly he'll drain,
With sighs of satisfaction, will the Baby in the train !

O bold Directors, build a car to take such household pets!
And fit it up with cots and cribs and rocking bassinettes,
And lullabies and picture-books and bon-bons, cakes, and
toys,

To soothe the savage bosoms of these little girls and boys.
O brim the cup with caudle high! Let Soothing Syrup
flow !

Let roasted mutton deck the board, and milky rice also!
And let all Railway Companies immediately sustain
A Separate Compartment for the Baby in the Train!

(After "The Sea! The Sea!")

THE NEWS! the News! the motley News!
Oh, how I love the motley News!

'Tis here, 'tis there, 'tis everywhere, At market, statute, wake and fair, And tells to all the country round,

Where rogues and knaves may soon be found.
I love the News! I love the News!
And when I'm bothered with "the blues,"
I turn me to the motley page,
Where barbers boast, and patriots rage,
And if it tells of bankrupt Jews,
What matter? I'm among the News!

I love, oh, how I love the News!
It's gay bon-mots and keen reviews --

To loll at ease from morn till night,
With nought but News within my sight,
While lords attend the huntsman's becks,
And set no value on their necks.

I never see the motley News,

But love the more its new-born dews;
And I think of the curl of an editor's nose,
As he scans the scraps of rhyme and prose,

That come to his hand from wits and blues,
Ambitious of places within the News.

The devil was black, 'twas early morn,

And the press men sweat, when the News was born; A proof had been in the editor's gripe,

And there wasn't a single misplaced type.
Each pig was set, the galleys were high,
No column could crumble into pie-

The forme was so well lock'd up with quoin,
And the chase was proud of every line.

I love, I love, the motley page,

And if I live to well-fed age,

And e'er-so-often change my views,

What matter? I'll always love the News!

From "Songs of the Press, and other Poems relative to the art of Printing, original and selected." Compiled by C. H. Timperley, and published by Fisher, Son & Co., London, 1845.

THE PRESS.

THE Press! the Press! the glorious Press !
The deep, the fresh, the ever free,

Without a mark, without a bound,

It searcheth the earth's wide regions round.
It plays with despots, it mocks their spleen,
Or like a flaming rod is seen.

I'm on the Press! I'm on the Press !
I am where I would ever be,

With the ink above, and the paper below,
And the devil to pay wherever I go.

If the Os should storm, and threaten my fall,
What matter? what matter? I can beat them all.

It loves, oh! how it loves to ride
On the lordly voice of the popular tide,
When every madcap speaks his mind,
Or thumps his knuckles for want of wind.
And tells how goeth the National Debt,
And why at taxes the people fret.

I never reported for one short hour,
But I loved the free Press more and more,
And backwards flew to my devils and type,
Like a bear cub that loveth its mother's gripe;
And kinder and kinder it is to me,

For the Press was born to be useful and free!

The world was changed, and the Pope looked round,
When the hydra head of the Press was unbouud,
And the eyes of oppression and hatred rolled,
And tyrants offered their bags of gold;
And never was heard such an outcry wild,
As strove to smother the free-born child.

It has stood since then with great strength and weight,
In spite of prisons and engines great,
With Truth to guide, and Power to range,
And never may England see its change;
And life,-whenever it loves me less,
Shall see me bound to the glorious Press !
From Songs of the Press.

OLD SONGS AND BALLADS.

THE MIDDLESEX ELECTION.

(A Ballad to the tune of Chevy Chase.) GOD prosper long our noble king,

And eke his subjects too;

And grant such deeds as now I sing
We never more may rue.

* Overseers.

In seventeen hundred sixty-eight,

All on a summer's day,

Grim death did on our member wait,

And took him clean away.

O, then a writ was issued out,

To chuse a member in ;

And soon began a mighty rout

For Procter and for Glynn.

When as the day advanced nigh,

Each party did its best;

And Horne (who scorns to tell a lye)
Turn'd Proctor's cause to jest.

Some worthy wights, the Lord knows who,
Of Irish strength assur'd,
Provided many a gallant crew,

True men, I'll pawn my word.

Such crowds to Brentford town' did hie,
As fill'd the place outright;

While thousands knew not where to lie,
And so sat up all night.

At length the fatal morning came,
O had it ne'er arriv'd!

For many a wight crawled home quite lame,
Full glad that he surviv'd.

Soon as the rising sun had clear'd
The gloomy shades of night,

All on the hustings they appear'd-
O! 'twas a glorious sight!

With ribbon and with star bespread,
(Given by the good old king)
Sir William hung his languid head,
And looked-like any thing.

The serjeant held his head upright,

For conscious still was he,

That those who do the deed that's right,
Have real cause for glee.

Mr. O'Murphy too was there,

Hight counsellor at law

His business was to strut and stare,
And find or make a flaw.

Count Gambler look'd as who should say, "I'll bet ye six to one

"That Beauchamp Proctor gets the day:" "I'll take it, damme."-" Done."

Whilst bustling still from place to place,
Old Brentford's priest was seen,
Who for this meal said many a grace,
And fervent pray'r, I ween.

And still to heighten all they could
This mighty gallant show,

Close by the hustings numbers stood,
Like-soldiers all a-row.

The clock told two, up flew the hat,
(A signal for each wounder)

And soon the freeholders lay flat

As ever lay a flounder.

Then eyes and sculls, and arms and legs,
Were darken'd, fractur'd, broke;
And those who could not keep their pegs,
Fell down-to mend the joke.

And many a ribbon flew about,
(For favours then were common)
And hundreds of the rabble rout
Were dizen'd out like yeomen.

What they did more, let other bards

In other guise declare ;

For, truth to say, they play'd their cards,
To make all England stare.

Now God preserve our noble king,
And grant henceforth, for aye,
No future poet e'er may sing
The deeds of such a day!

THE LITCHField Defeat.
GOD prosper long our noble king!
Our lives and safeties all;

A woful horse-race late there did
At Whittington befall.

Great Bedford's duke, a mighty prince!
A solemn vow did make,

His pleasure in fair Staffordshire
Three summer's days to take,

At once to grace his father's race,
And to confound his foes:

But ah! (with grief my Muse does speak)

A luckless time he chose.

For some rude clowns, who long had felt
The weight of Tax and Levy,
Explained their case unto his Grace
By arguments full heavy.

The whole of this parody will be found in volume iv. of The New Foundling Hospital for Wit. London, 1786.

Another parody of Chevy Chase occurs in the same volume, it is very long, and relates to some persons and political events of interest in 1776, but long since forgotten.

: 0:

VERSES BY SIR WALTER RALEIGH. Go soul, the body's guest,

Upon a thankless errant, Fear not to touch the best,

The truth shall be thy warrant. Go, since I needs must dye, And give them all the lye.

Go, tell the court it glowse
And shines like painted wood;
Go, tell the church it showes
What's good, does no good.
If court and church replye,
Give court and church the lye.

Tell potentates they live

Acting, but oh! their actions, Not lov'd unless they give!

Not strong, but by their factions.

If potentates replye,

Give potentates the lye.

A PARODY WRITTEN IN 1764.

Go, truth, unwelcome guest !
Upon a thankless errant ;
Fear not to touch the best,

For truth is a safe warrant.
Go, since thou needs must die,
And give them all the lye.

Go, tell the Tory faction,

Now in their noontide hour, England won't bear an action Of an arbitrary power. If Tories should reply,

Give Tories all the lye.

Go, tell th' ennobled thief,

While cares oppress him most, He ne'er shall taste relief

From guilt-from Ayliffe's ghost. And if the thief reply,

Then give the thief the lye.

The original and the parody are both given at full length in volume iv. of The New Foundling Hospital for Wit. London, 1786.

-:0:

BEN JONSON'S

"ODE ON THE STAGE."

Ben Jonson was very unfortunate in not conciliating the affections of his brother writers. He possessed a great share of arrogance, and was desirous of ruling the realms of Parnassus with a despotic sceptre. That he was not always successful in his theatrical compositions is evident from his abusing, on the title pages of his plays, both the actors and the public. I have collected the following three satirical odes, written when the unfavorable reception of his "New Inn, or The Light Heart," warmly exasperated the poet.

He printed the title in the following manner: "New Inn, or The Light Heart; a Comedy never acted, but most negligently played by some, the King's servants; and more squeamishly beheld and censured by others, the King's subjects, 1629. Now at last set at liberty to the readers, his Majesty's servants and subjects, to be ju 'ged, 1631."

At the end of this play he published the following Ode, in which he threatens to quit the stage for ever; and turn at once a Horace, an Anacreon, and a Pindar.

"The just indignation the author took at the vulgar censure of his play, begat this following Ode to himself:

COME, leave the loathed stage,

And the more loathsome age;

Where pride and impudence (in fashion knit,)
Usurp the chair of wit

Inditing and arraigning every day

Something they call a play.
Let their fastidious, vaine

Commission of braine

Run on, and rage, sweat, censure, and condemn ; They were not made for thee,-less thou for them.

Say that thou pour'st them wheat,

And they will acorns eat;

'Twere simple fury, still, thyself to waste
On such as have no taste!

To offer them a surfeit of pure bread,
Whose appetites are dead!

No, give them graines their fill,
Husks, draff, to drink and swill.
If they love lees, and leave the lusty wine,
Envy them not their palate with the swine.

No doubt some mouldy tale

Like Pericles*, and stale

As the shrieve's crusts, and nasty as his fish-
Scraps, out of every dish

Thrown forth, and rak't into the common-tub,
May keep up the play-club:
There sweepings do as well

As the best order'd meale,

For who the relish of these guests will fit,
Needs set them but the almes-basket of wit.

And much good do't you then,

Brave plush and velvet men

Can feed on orts, and safe in your stage clothes,

Dare quit, upon your oathes,

The stagers, and the stage-wrights too (your peers), Of larding your large ears

With their foul comic socks,

Wrought upon twenty blocks :

Which if they're torn, and turn'd, and patch'd enough, The gamesters share your guilt and you their stuff.

Leave things so prostitute,

And take the Alcæick lute,

Or thine own Horace, or Anacreon's lyre;
Warm thee by Pindar's fire;

And, tho' thy nerves be shrunk, and blood be cold,
Ere years have made thee old,
Strike that disdainful heat
Throughout, to their defeat;

As curious fools, and envious of thy strain,
May, blushing, swear no palsy's in thy braint.

But when they hear thee sing
The glories of thy King,

His zeal to God, and his just awe o'er men,
They may blood-shaken then,

Feel such a flesh-quake to possess their powers,
As they shall cry like ours,
In sound of peace, or wars,
No harp ere hit the stars,

In tuning forth the acts of his sweet reign,
And raising Charles his chariot 'bove his wain."

This Magisterial Ode, as Langbaine calls it, was answered by Owen Feltham, author of the "Resolves." His character of Ben Jonson should be attended to :

Leave then this humour vain,
And this more humourous strain,

Where self-conceit, and choler of the blood,
Eclipse what else is good :

Then, if you please those raptures high to touch,
Whereof you boast so much :

And but forbear your crown

Till the world puts it on:

No doubt, from all you may amazement draw,
Since braver theme no Phoebus ever saw.

To console Ben for this reprimand, Randolph, one of the adopted poetical sons of Jonson, addressed him as follows:

AN ANSWER TO MR. BEN JONSON'S ODE,

TO PERSUADE HIM NOT TO LEAVE THE STAGE.

I.

BEN, do not leave the stage

Cause 'tis a loathsome age;

For pride and impudence will grow too bold,
When they shall hear it told

They frighted thee; Stand high, as is thy cause;
Their hiss is thy applause :

* The names of several of Jonson's Dramatis Personæ, New Inn, Act iii. Scene 2.-Act iv. Scene 4.

This break was purposely designed by the poet, to expose that equally singular one in Ben's third stanza.