These pretty pleasures might me move
To switch with thee, my cockney Love.

But hills and valleys have their fears
For maidens of discreeter years;
And nymphs when they have had their tea
Like to digest it quietlie.

These sudden flights, and jumps, and shoots
Plunge hearts from bosoms into boots;
And where in flowering Arcadee
Flow founts of Sal Volatile?

Thy checks, thy tie, thy gilt of stud,
Stir no bold humours in my blood;
And nothink, 'Arry, can me move
To switch with thee, my cockney Love.

The Globe. September 20, 1887.

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AFTER HERRICK.

(Upon seeing her picture in profile.)

I DIE

If I but spy

One eye;

Yet would I fain

See twain.

(Upon receiving the same in a full view.)

In profile

'Twas vile;

But in th' obverse

'Tis worse.

ERNEST RADFORD.

CATS' meat, cats' meat-meat I cry

On a skewer-come and buy;

From Hyde Park Corner to Wapping Wall,
All the year I cats' meat bawl;
Cats' meat-cats' meat-meat, I cry,
On a skewer-come and buy.

From The Book of Cats, by C. H. Ross. 1868.

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THE WHIP'S SONG.

(After Ben Jonson.)

COME to my lobby with thy vote,

And give it in with mine;

Or pair with one who'd vote against,
And I'll not ask for thine.
Divisions thus will make us still
More closely link'd as friends,
And when our party is in place,
You may attain your ends.

I sent thee late a three-lined whip,

And posted it to thee,

In hopes that ere the House was made,

It might deliver'd be.

But thou didst never come that night

Nor wrote a line to me!

Do this again my friend, I swear,

I'll make it hot for thee.

R. B. SHERIDAN.

On page 195 a list was given of the principal burlesques founded upon Sheridan's plays, but the two following were accidentally omitted:

PIZARRO; a Spanish Rolla King Peruvian Drama. A Burlesque in one act. by C. J. Collins. 1856. This was produced at Drury Lane Theatre, on September 22, 1856, with Mr. and Mrs. Keeley, Mrs. Frank Matthews, and George Honey in the caste.

PIZARRO; or, the Leotard of Peru. An original Burlesque Extravaganza by Leicester Buckingham. Produced at the Strand Theatre, in 1862. Miss Fanny Josephs, Miss C. Saunders, Miss Woodin, Miss Ada Swanborough, Miss E. Bufton, James Rogers, and J. Clarke were the principal performers.

OF THE GENDERS OF NOUNS.

Air-"Here's to the Maiden of bashful fifteen.'
ALL names of the male kind you masculine call,
Ut sunt (for example), Divorum,

Mars, Bacchus, Apollo, the deities all,
And Cato, Virgilius, virorum.

Latin's a bore, and bothers me sore,
Oh, how I wish that my lesson was o'er.

Fluviorum, ut Tibris, Orontes likewise,

Fine rivers in ocean that lost are,

Aud Mensium-October an instance supplies;
Ventorum, ut Libs, Notus, Auster.

Latin's a bore, and bothers me sore,

Oh, how I wish that my lesson was o'er.

From The Comic Latin Grammar, by Paul Prendergast (Percival Leigh.) Published by David Bogue. London.

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GLEE.

THIS bottle's the sun of our table,

His beams are rosy wine:
We, planets that are not able
Without his help to shine.
Let mirth and glee abound!
You'll soon grow bright
With borrowed light,
And shine as he goes round.

R. B. SHERIDAN.

THE LIGHT OF THE STUD. BICYCLE'S the sun of our stable, His beams the spokes so fine; We planets that so are able With him to roll and shine. Let circling mirth abound; We'll all grow bright With borrowed light,

And shine as he goes round.

From Lyra Byclica, by Joseph G. Dalton, Boston. 1885.

C. H. WARING.

THE HON. MRS. NORTON. (This lady was a grand-daughter of R. B. Sheridan.) THE ARAB'S FAREWELL TO HIS STEED.

My beautiful, my beautiful! that standest meekly by, With thy proudly arched and glossy neck, and dark and fiery eye!

Fret not to roam the desert now with all thy winged speed; I may not mount on thee again!-thou'rt sold, my Arab steed!

Fret not with that impatient hoof-snuff not the breezy wind;
The farther that thou fliest now, so far am I behind;
The stranger hath thy bridle-rein, thy master hath his gold
Fleet-limbed and beautiful, farewell !-thou'rt sold, my
steed, thou'rt sold!

Farewell!-Those free untired limbs full many a mile must

roam,

To reach the chill and wintry clime that clouds the stranger's home;

Some other hand, less kind, must now thy corn and bed prepare:

That silky mane I braided once, must be another's care. The morning sun shall dawn again-but never more with thee

Shall I gallop o'er the desert paths where we were wont to be

Evening shall darken on the earth; and o'er the sandy plain, Some other steed, with slower pace, shall bear me home again.

Yes, thou must go; the wild, free breeze, the brilliant sun and sky,

Thy master's home, from all of these my exiled one must fly; Thy proud, dark eye shall glow less proud, thy step become less fleet,

And vainly shalt thou arch thy neck thy master's hand to

And sitting down by the green well, I'll pause, and sadly think.

"'Twas here he bowed his glossy neck when last I saw him drink."

When last I saw thee drink!-Away! the fevered dream is o'er !

I could not live a day, and know that we should meet no more;

They tempted me, my beautiful! for hunger's power is strong

They tempted me, my beautiful! but I have loved too long. Who said that I had given thee up? Who said that thou wert sold?

'Tis false 'tis false! my Arab steed! I fling them back their gold!

Thus thus, I leap upon thy back, and scour the distant plains!

Away! who overtakes us now shall claim thee for his pains. HON. MRS. NORTON.

THE DYING VENDOR OF VEGETABLES TO HIS
PALFREY OF Jerusalem.

WHERE art thou now? where art thou now? my beautiful, my bold;

And shall they take thee far away to green-yards to be sold? O rather let them take the bed, where now, alas! I lie, Than seize on thee, for debt or rent, my beautiful-my shy! They tell me they'll take care of thee-I know what 'tis they

mean,

A truss of hay in half a year, with thistle-tops between.
O no! it shall not be thy fate, I'd rather, ere I part,
Plunge deep, my mild and patient ass, this pitchfork to thy
heart!

Nay, do not turn aside thy nose, and shake thine honest ear, Thy master's sense is wandering, but thou'st no cause to fear;

But let me give thee one embrace, ere from the world I go. There! there! nay, do not shrink from me, my terrified

my slow !

Thou'st drawn with me, boy, many a year, the cart along the

streets :

Put thine hoof on thy master's heart-thou feelest how it beats.

But Oh, thine eyes benevolent, my anguish'd feelings lull. Farewell, my Jackass !—Oh! farewell-my beautiful! my dull!!

Punch. May 27, 1843.

The four following Parodies appeared in a Prize Competition in One and All, 1879:

A TRAVELLER'S FAREWELL TO HIS TRAIN. (Which he thinks he has missed while lunching at York.) My railway train, my railway train, that stoodst all steaming by,

With thy paraffin and oily lamps and one red gleaming eye. Thou goest to fly along the line with all thy wheeled speed; I cannot ride in thee again—I'm sold, I am indeed!

Puff not with that impatient blast; cleave not the breezy wind;

The farther that thou fliest now, so far am I behind : The driver tends thy furnace fires; the "clerk " he hath my gold;

Swift wheeled and punctual, farewell!-I'm sold, my train, I'm sold!

Farewell! Those swift and tyred wheels full many a mile must glide

To reach old Scotland's bonnie moors and heather'd mountain side;

Some other man more fortunate must occupy my seat,
The corner place I sat in once must be another's treat.
The morning sun will dawn again, but not again with thee
Shall I ride along the iron rails where thou art wont to be;
Evening shall darken on the earth, and o'er the grassy plain
Some other train with slower wheels will bear me on again.

Yes, thou must go; the wild free breeze, the autumn sun and sky,

Thy terminus-to all of these my punctual one must fly. The 66 99 ticket-man will go his rounds, and vainly seek my "tip," And vainly will he ply his punch my ticket then to clip. Only in sleep shall I behold that red eye gleaming bright, Only in sleep shall hear again that whistle shrill at night; And when I rouse my dreaming brain to wonder at thy speed, Then must I starting wake, to feel-I'm sold, my train, indeed.

"When last I saw him shunt! " Away! The foolish dream is o'er ;

I see that thou art shunting still, and here thou art once more. They tempted me, my railway train, for hunger's power is strong;

They tempted me, my railway train! I near had gorged too long!

Who said that I had lost the train? Who said that thou wast gone?

'Tis false-'tis false, my railway train; I still shall travel on. Thus, thus, I leap into my seat, and my good fortune bless; Who overtakes us now must beat a G. N. R. express!

W. G. McMILLAN.

THE HORSE AND HIS MASTER.
(A panegyric.)

My-anything but beautiful, that standest "knock-knee'd by,

"Inverted arch" describes thy back, as "dismal" doth thine eye.

My pewter full, my pewter full, that stands untasted by, With thy amber hue, and odour sweet, and froth heaped up so high,

Fret though I may to taste thee now, howe'er I feel inclined, I may not drink of thee again-I've signed the pledge, I've signed.

I fret not 'neath this cosy roof, snug near the taproom fire; The further thou art from me now, the more is my desire. The landlord hath thee still his own, and "cabby" hath his gold.

Beer! yes, my pewter full, farewell, to me thou art not sold.

I cannot live a day and know I ain't to drink no more. Thou'st tempted me, my pewter full, for habit's power is strong;

Thou'st tempted me, my pewter full, and I have drunk too long.

Who said that I had given thee up? who said thou wert not sold?

'Tis false, 'tis false; here, guv'nor, come and change us this 'ere gold.

Thus, thus I give my lips a smack, and call for number two; Who tries to make me sign again shall have enough to do! GEORGE R. GALLAHER,

THE BICYCLIST'S FAREWELL TO HIS STEED.

My bicycle, my bicycle, that crouchest weakly by, With thy proudly arched backbone a wreck, thy spokes all bent awry,

Though not of late untreasured, now I swear, I do indeed, If any man says one pound ten, thou art sold, my iron steed. Straight shot right o'er thy patent head, my spill no easy kind,

All smashed and low thou liest now: I'm sort beforebehind.

A stranger who'll the trifle pay right fain would I behold, And then, my bicycle, farewell! thou'rt sold, my steed, thou'rt sold.

Farewell! this knee, these tired limbs full many a mile

must roam

To reach the railway-then, oh my! where's cash to take me home?

Some other plan must I contrive ere I to bed repair
(My silver watch, paraded once, is in another's care).
The morning sun shall dawn again, but never more, ah me!
Shall I whirl upon my bicycle through tollgates running free.
Evening shall darken on the earth, and over hill and plain,
While I must needs with weary step slow tramp it home again.
Yes, I must go, though barked my knees, a bump above my
eye;

Although I'm lame and scarce can wheeze, I yet to trudge must try,

My big black eye will grow more black, more tired become my feet,

And vainly shall I stretch my legs thy treadles' whirl to

meet.

Only in sleep shall I behold thy smart lamp gleaming bright, Only in sleep shall hear again thy bell's tinck-tinckling light, And when I move my dreaming arm to brake thy gathering speed,

Then must I starting wake to wish thou wert sold, my iron steed.

Ah, rudely then, unseen by me, some traveller may deride On finding here thy rusted frame upon this lone way-side, While paraffin, that tear-like wells slow through thy lamp's cracked pane,

His careless nose will so surprise that on he'll start again. Will folks ill-use thee? If I thought-but no, that couldn't

When last I rode full clink! Away! the fever'd dream is o'er ;

I could not live a day and know that thee I'd mount no more,

I'll tinker thee, my bicycle, for solder's sometimes strong; I'll tinker thee, my bicycle, perchance thou'lt serve me long. Who said that I had given thee up? who said I wished thee sold?

'Tis false, 'tis false, my iron steed; I wouldn't have their gold.

Thus, thus I'll heap upon my back thy battered, bulged remains ;

Away! who from me takes thee now gets little for his pains! S. T. A. N.

From One and All. November 8, 1879.

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THE CYCLIST'S FAREWELL TO HIS STEED.

My beautiful, my bicycle! that standest patient by,
With thy proudly arched and glossy back, 'twould please a
critic's eye,

Fret not to roam the country oer with all thy willing speed,
I may not mount on thee again-thou'rt sold, my iron steed.
Fret not; thy modern Stanley head, held high in breezy
wind,

The farther that thou fliest now, so far am I behind ;

The stranger hath thy handling now, thy master hath his gold

To thee, my bicycle, farewell,-thou'rt sold, my steed, thou'rt sold.

Will they ill use-thee? If I thought-but no-it cannot be, Thou art so swift, so easy worked, so silent, yet so free; And yet, if haply when thou'rt gone, this lonely heart should yearn,

Can the hand that casts thee from it now, command thee to return?

Return! alas! my iron steed, what will thy master do,

When thou that wast his all of joy, has vanished from his view,

When the dim distance greets mine eyes, and through the wandering tears,

Thy bright form for a moment like the false mirage appears. Slow and unmounted will I roam, with wearied foot, alone, Where with fleet speed thy whirling wheels full oft hast borne

me on;

And sitting down on grassy bank, I'll pause and sadly think 'Twas here he bowed his glossy neck and shot me o'er the brink.

Yet still, I love thee! away, away, the fever'd dream is o'er! I could not live a day and know that we should meet no more;

They tempted me, my beautiful for money's power is strong, They tempted me, my bicycle but I have loved too long. Who said that I had given thee up? Who said that thou wert sold?

'Tis false, 'tis false, my iron steed, I fling them back their gold.

Thus, thus, I leap upon thy back, and roll o'er distant plainsAway, who overtakes us now, shall claim thee for their pains.

ANONYMOUS.

A parody with the same title as the above, and written by R. P. Nind, appeared in Rare Bits for December 18, 1886. A prize was awarded to it as being the best poem written in praise of the bicycle. There was also another parody, entitled "The Englishman's Farewell to his Train, "which appeared in Vol. I. of Tit Bits.

THE PUBLIC'S ADDRESS TO HIS CABMAN.

My insolent, my turbulent! that stands crest-fallen by,
With the recent Cab Act in thy hand, and tear-drops in thine
eye,

Try not to overcharge us now, or make our pockets bleed;
You cannot do it now again-thou'rt sold, my man, indeed
Fret not with that impatient cough: if surlily inclined,
The nearest station is the place at which redress to find;
The magistrates have now the power to mulct thee of thy
gold,

Or send thee off to jail, my friend. Thou'rt sold, my man, thou'rt sold.

Do they ill-use thee, Cabman? No! I'm sure it cannot be ; You that have bullied half the world, and humbugged even

me.

And yet, if haply thou'rt done up, and for thee we should yearn,

Can the same law that cut thee off compel thee to return? Return! alas! my Cabman bold, what shall the public do, When rain is falling everywhere, wetting the public through? I'll stand me up beneath an arch, and pause and sadly think

'Twas at the beer-shop opposite, the Cabmen used to drink.

The Cabmen used to drink! Away-my fevered dream is o'er ;

I could not live a day and know cabs were to be no more.

They've cut thee down, exacting one; but legal power is

strong:

You tempted us, my insolent! you kept it up too long. Who said that I had given thee up? Who said that thou wert sold?

'Tis false tis false ! Thou'rt better off, my Cabman, thou art told.

Thus, thus, I leap into thy cab, to ride five miles from town, And when at Acton I alight, I'll pay thee half-a-crown.

Punch. July 30, 1853.

THE RINKER'S FAREWELL TO HER SKATES.

My beautiful! my beautiful!
That hang so calm and still,

I may not use you e'er again,
For you have wrought me ill.
Though you may roll the rink again
With all your wingéd speed,

I may not mount on you again
I mayn't, I mayn't indeed.
You'll fly as you are wont to fly,
Fast as the breezy wind,
Alas! however fast you fly,
You'll leave me still behind.

I must not rink on you again,

For so by all I'm told;

Swift wheel'd and beautiful, farewell!

They say you must be sold.

Farewell! your patent "canting" wheels

Full many a mile must rink,

Ere into fell oblivion.

Like others you must sink.

Some other foot less soft than mine

Must now upon you press,

Some other hand must oil your wheels

And maybe make a mess.

The morning sun shall dawn again

But never more with thee

Shall I across the asphalte skate
Where we were wont to be.
Evening shall darken on the rink,
For that what shall I care?
I'll ne'er return alone again

I never shall go there.

Yes! you must go! no matter though
The wrench should break my heart;
My parents, friends, and doctors too,
All say that we must part.

Your tender straps some other foot
To grasp must now endure,
Beneath whose weight your "rubber pad "
Perchance will grow less sure.

Only in sleep again shall I
Your springing action feel;
Only in sleep shall hear again
The creaking of your wheel.
And when I raise my toe or heel
To guide you through the stream,
Then must I, starting, wake to find
"'Tis nothing but a dream."

A dream? alas! my much loved skates,
What shall your mistress do

When you, who were her joy of joys,
Have vanish'd from her view?

Shall I the charms of Badminton