With the sound of a slight "Ahem!"

It frightened the female portion

Like the storm which succeeds a calm,
Both maidens and matrons heard it
With a touch of inane alarm.

It told them of pain and sorrow,
Cold, cough, and neuralgic strife,
Bronchitis, and influenza

All aimed at our Curate's life.

It linked all perplex'd diseases
Into one precious frame;

They trembled with rage if a sceptic
Attempted to ask its name.

They have wrapped him in mustard plasters,
Stuffed him with food and wine,

They have fondled, caressed, and nursed him With sympathy divine.

It may be that other Curates

Will preach in that church to them,

Will there be every time, Good Heavens !
Such fuss for a slight-Ahem!

THE CORRECT CHORD.

SEATED for years at the organ,
Just trying the stops and keys,
And wondering how the pedals

Might be got to work with ease :

A. H. S.

By ear, with my notes in my pocket,
Performing-as few men can,

I struck such a chord that the organ
Burst out "You're a Grand Old Man."

It flooded the daily papers,

Like the name of a comic song, And I felt several inches taller As I quietly bowled along.

I think that it nettled NORTHCOTE, Polite as he can be in strife, Though it seemed a sensible echo From the din of my public life.

But it brought down chaff by the cartload,
That possibly may increase ;-

For till CHURCHILL'S in with his Party,
I never shall know any peace.
But I take the whole thing calmly,

For the cord has a swell that's fine;
And I'm glad the popular organ

Has a touch that answers mine.

And whether I stick to the Commons,-
And I certainly will if I can,-

Or go to the Peers,-no matter,

I shall still hear "that Grand Old Man!"

Punch. March 10, 1883.

THE LOST DRINK.

SEATED one day at a café,

I was thirsty and hot as the sphinx,
And my tongue went babbling idly
Over the names of drinks.

I knew not what I was saying,
Nor what I had uttered then ;
But the garçon brought me a mixture
Like a gift of the gods to men.

Its colour was crimson foncé
Like the tip of a toper's nose,
And it tickled my fever'd palate
With a touch of infinite "goes."

It trickled down my gullet
Like oil down a red-hot pipe;
It seemed the harmonious echo
From some supernal swipe.

It linked vin rouge and choice liqueur
Into one perfect drop,

And guggled away down my gullet
As if it were loth to stop.

I have sought-but I seek it vainly-
That one lost drink divine,

Which was mixed by that garçon du café
With curaçoa and red wine.

It may be that some chance garçon
May bring me that drink again;

It may be that some day in Paris
I may utter its name.

But then

I never could find that café,
And lost to mortal ken

Is that supernal boisson

Like a gift of the gods to men!

Judy. October 27, 1886.

IN THE GLOAMING.

A PARODY OF LADY ARTHUR HILL'S SONG.

IN the gloaming, oh, my Proctor,
When your ways are mean and low,
And the sons of Alma Mater

Loudly come and softly go;
When you prowl around my college,
With your Bull-dogs in a row,
Will you watch for me and catch me
As you did one term ago?

In the gloaming, oh, my Proctor,
Think not bitterly of me!
Tho' I tripped you up instanter,

Left you prostrate, and was free.
For my diggings were quite handy,
Five bob more could never be;
It was best to floor you thus, sir,

Worst for you, but best for me!

University College, Oxford. A. HASKETT SMITH.

THE WAILINGS OF A DISAPPOINTED NOVICE.

IN the gloaming, oh! my darling!

Don't I curse the thoughts of thee!
Crowding ever like grim phantoms,
Haunting me unceasingly.

Oh! my heart is sad with longing,
What I dreamed will never be :*
It were best to "chuck you up," dear,
Best for you and best for me.

In the gloaming, oh! my darling!

When thy light burns dim and low,
And the vision of a bobby,,t

Sets my ruby all aglow!

When with pain my limbs are aching,
As I "hook it " awful slow,
Withering condemnations hearty
Of thy maker often flow.

In the gloaming, oh! my darling!
I will mount thee not in vain ;

Take thee to a near relation,

66

Pop thee up the spout " for gain! Thus I'll rid me of thy torments,

Instrument of make insane!

I have learned by sad experience,
Cycling ain't an easy game.

Icycles, 1880.

MORE GLOAMINGLY.

IN the gloaming, O my darling, Now our credit's very low, And the tax-collectors calling, Often come and unpaid go;

"AB INITIO."

Now the landlord's asking quaintly
For the rent you know we owe,
Will you let me have some money,

As you did-once-long ago?

* I dreamed I was the Amateur Champion. + Oh! Lor.

AN OXFORD SHOOTING EXPEDITION

IN the shooting, oh, my comrade,
When the birds are flying low,
And the hares and wily bunnies
Swiftly come and swiftly go:
When the beaters cry, "Mark over!"
And a cock comes skimming low,
Will you blaze away, and pot me,
As you did once long ago?

In the shooting, oh, my comrade,
Think not bitterly of me,
Though I shammed that you had killed me,
And you rushed up pale to see.
For I taught you then a lesson
Which will ne'er forgotten be,
It was best to teach it roughly,
Best for all your friends and me!

A HASKETT SMITH, Oxford.

"IN THE GLOAMING."

(Dedicated to the Ladies of the Studio, South Kensington.)

IN the gloaming, O my darlings,

When our hearts are sinking low,

When our mouths are wide with yawning,

And our backs are aching so;

When the thought of painting longer

Fills us with an untold woe;
How we think of tea, and love it,

While the shadows deeper grow!

In the gloaming, O my darlings,
We think tenderly of tea,

Till our hearts are crushed with longing
Round our steaming cups to be.

(It is only green in mem❜ry,

And at times-'twixt you and me

A malignant grocer sends us

An inferior bohea.)

In the gloaming, O my darlings,

When our hearts are sinking low,
When our mouths are wide with yawning,
And our backs are aching so;
Will the tea be weak? we wonder
(What has been, again may be);
But perhaps 'tis best for us, dears-
Best for you and best for me.

HELEN MARION BURNSIDE.

Th Girls' Own Paper. February 23, 1884.

THE OLD ARM CHAIR.

I LOVE it, I love it! and who shall dare
To chide me for loving that old arm-chair?
I've treasured it long as a sainted prize,

I've bedew'd it with tears, I've embalm'd it with sighs,
'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart;
Not a tie will break, not a link will start;
Would you know the spell?-a mother sat there !
And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair.

*

ELIZA COOK

MY OLD ARM CHAIR.

I LOATHE it, I loathe it! and who shall dare
To chide me for loathing my own arm-chair?
It haunts me daily, and wheels its flight
Into the dreams that I dream by night.
When I look at its cover of outworn chintz,
Where age and washing have blurred the tints,
No earthly passion can well compare
With my deadly hate for that old arm-chair.

I loved with a love of the noblest kind ;

Sensitive, delicate, most refined.

But she spurned my love and betrayed her vow,
And is only a Mrs. McKenzie now.

I cannot forget, though I might forgive;
My wrongs will follow me whilst I live.
But this is the memory worst to bear ;-
She once took tea in that old arm-chair.

I owned a creditor-(frightful man!)
Who bored me as creditors only can.
He vaguely talked of a small amount
Which took the shape of an old account,
Twice in the week, I remember well,

He banged my knocker or twanged my bell.
If he found me without any cash to spare,
He called ine names from that old arm-chair.

Incubi, demons, nightmares, owls,

Vampires, goblins, ghosts, and ghouls,
Visit that seat, and around it swarm
In every possible shape and form.

My life is a torture, a perfect curse

My home is a dungeon, or something worse.

I shall never be happy or freed from care

Until I get rid of that old arın-chair.

From A Town Garland, by HENRY S. Leigh. (Chatto & Windus, London, 1878.)

I LOVE it, I love it; will WORMS, now, dare
To nag me for loving my new Arm-chair?
I shall treasure it long, 'tis a genuine prize,

Of cosy make, of convenient size.

'Twill be bound to my heart by a thousand links,
By memories pleasant of "forty winks."
Thanks, men of Greenwich, whose thoughtful care
Supplies me this capital new Arm-chair.

I have sat in the Commons this many a day,
Till my eyes are dimmish, my locks gone grey :

Oh, the hours I have lounged, and—with trouble-smiled
Whilst CHURCHILL cheeked or the Pats ran wild;
Till the Treasury cushions seemed cold as lead,

And hard as a prisoner's timber bed.

By Jove, how I wish I could wheel you there
And lounge on your cushions, my new Arm-chair!

But HARCOURT'S waiting, and I must go ;
He can't stand his Whitebait cold, you know.
Were it not for the feed and these swells at my side,
My talk might flow on in a lava-like tide.
Ah! excuse this tear that bedews my cheek,

I should very much like to talk on for a week.
Now myself from your presence I really must tear,
But I thank you once more for my new Arm-chair.
Punch. August 27, 1881.

SCENE.-The House of Commons, The Ex-SPEAKER is discovered gazing sadly at the seat he has lately vacated. At length, satisfying himself that he is alone, he relieves his soul in song as follows;

"I LOVED it, I loved it; and who would dare
To chide me for loving that Grand Old Chair?
When they chose me first to its seat to rise,

I looked on it then as a precious prize,

And my heart with joy and with pride was big
When I put on my new full-bottomed wig.
Iwas under a spell as I first sat there,

And a sacred thing was that Grand Old Chair!

"And all at first happened well for me,
And my life was calm as calm could be;
The 'Ayes' were gentle, the 'Noes' were kind,
And rarely to sitting late inclined;

Whilst night after night t'was my happy fate
To retire for my chop' at half-past eight;
To retire and return, unvexed by care,

To sit―aye, and doze, in that Grand Old Chair!

"But as years rolled on, and the sessions sped,
My idol was shattered, my hopes all fled :
For there came o'er the scene a parlous change,
As the new M.P.'s brought their manners strange;
Till one night, alas! was 'Obstruction' born,
And I knew what it was to sit till morn;
Ah! I learned what a Speaker's strength could bear,
As I sat out my life in that Grand Old Chair.

'Tis past! 'tis past! but I gaze on it now
With quivering lips and with throbbing brow;
For there full oft have I sat in vain,

Till the day has peeped through the window pane; 'Twas there I was badgered; 'twas there I heard My solemn rulings declared absurd—

But I loved it! I loved it! and cannot tear

My soul from that once-prized Grand Old Chair."

As the above is being softly sung, the SPEAKER ELECT, attracted by the sound, returns to the House, and remains an unobserved listener till the conclusion of the song, when, remarking MR. PEEL'S presence, the EX-SPEAKER thus addresses him :

"Ah, 'tis well, my new successor,
Aye, 'tis meet you thus have found me
Lingering here in semi-darkness,
And addressing mournful lyrics
To the furniture about me."

Truth. February 28, 1884.

THE OLD ARM-CHAIR.

["A German Professor has discovered that all the wood work about our houses has power to absorb noxious juices' while still growing in its native forest, and that when a tree becomes part of the domestic furniture, and is cut up into chairs and tables and bookshelves, it immediately begins to pour its noxious juices' out into the air of the room.' Daily Paper.]

I DREAD it, I dread it! and who shall dare
To chide me for dreading that old arm-chair?
I've treasured it long as an antique prize,
But Science has suddenly opened my eyes;
So now I say to my startled heart

That 'twere better the chair and I should part.
Would you know my reason?-a mother sat there,
And became the prey of that old arm-chair.

In childhood's hour I lingered near
That treacherous seat without a fear,
And mother, poor soul, no tremour knew

As she worked at her knitting the morning through,
For German savants had yet to produce
Their ghastly theory of "noxious juice,"
And my parent guessed at no cause for scare
In the poisoned breath of her old arm-chair.

The doctor watched her many a day,
While she took her physic and pined away;
And it failed to strike him that p'raps her cure
Might be found in a smash of furniture.
Time passed on, and I heard with glee
That mater intended to try the sea;
But though she recovered in Brighton air,
I never suspected the old arm-chair.

I was guileless then, but I gaze on it now
With a fluttering pulse and a bended brow,
'Twas there she sickened and almost died-
Of chair-as professors sage decide.

Say it is folly, and deem me weak,

For my " creepy" spine and my blanching cheek; But I dread it, I dread it! and mean to bear

To the broker's shop that old arm-chair.

Funny Folks. May 29, 1886.

THE DENTIST'S CHAIR.

I HATE it, I hate it, and who shall dare

To chide me for hating that dentist's chair?

I hated it first in my early youth,

When I groaned in its depths with an aching tooth.

And many and keen are the pangs through my soul, And the terror I feel is beyond control;

I could gnash my teeth in my wild despair,

As I gaze on that terrible, terrible chair.

It has held me many and many a day,

When I fain would have been in the fields at play And I hated the dentist when first I sat

In the chair, and he said, “Take off your hat."

Years roll on and are quickly fled,

And my teeth became shattered within my head:
But I know how much the heart can bear,
When I sit in that horrible, horrible chair.

SONG OF NOVEMBER.
(Another parody of Eliza Cook,)

THAT gridiron by the mantel-piece,
Its look gives every nerve a thrill;
That thing of home begrimed with grease,
Whereon our sprats we learn'd to grill.
November-month to childhood dear,

Old month of Civic feasts and sights,
To see that gridiron so near,

Fills my sad heart with home delights.

November-I remember well

The day when I to market hied,
In search of one with sprats to sell-
Sprats in which childhood might confide.

I bought them, and the savoury fish
On yonder gridiron then were broiled
Experience is a bitter dish,

I had it then-the sprats were spoiled! Punch's Almanac, 1846.

8

THE HYDE PARK CORNER CLOCK.

GASMAN, light that clock,

The time I cannot see; It can't be more than twelve, And yet it looks like three! Its hands are all confused,

Its numbers none can trace: Say, is that humble clock Ashamed to show its face!

It can't be very late :

True, I've been out to sup: But, ho! what says the clock? Come, Gasman, light it up. Say, can the mist be caused

By fumes of generous wine?

Is it three-quarters past eleven,
Or is it only nine!

Is it half after twelve,

Or six, or eight, or two?

That dismal rushlight kept inside
No good on earth can do.
When I go home to bed

I'm quite afraid to knock,
If I've no notion of the hour-
So, Gasman light that clock.

Beneath its shades I heard,
(Guildhall, of course,)

The woodnotes sweet and wild,
(But rather expensive,)
Of many a foreign bird.
(From the Italian Opera.)

My Mother kissed me there,

(In the Chamberlain's Office, when I took up my Freedom.) My Father pressed my hand,

(With a sovereign in it, the fust I ever had :)
I ask then, with a tear,

(Of course, that's all my eye,)
To let the old Oak stand!
(Too obvious to require explanation.)

I've crossed the foaming wave;
(Dover to Calais-oh, Steward!)
I've braved the cannon-shot!
(Figuratively, at the Tower ;)
While I've a hand to save,
(That is, till I've lost 'em both,)
Thy Ax shall harm it not !
(Ax of Parlement, as before.)

Punch. February 11, 1882.

"SPENCER, SPARE THAT TREE !

["IT is beyond all measure the finest tree in London, and being of a kind that defies London smoke, it actually seems It is sad to think that we have to enjoy and thrive upon it. Vandals paid by the public to do such irreparable, wanton mischief."-Mr. Nasmyth on the cutting down of the old South Kensington plan tree.

SPENCER, spare that tree!
Touch not a single bough!
For years you've let it be :-
Why set upon it now?

I know not whose the hand
That placed it on that spot;
But, SPENCER, let it stand,
Or else you'll get it hot!

The old familiar plane

That decks this end of town :

Why, those are scarcely sane
Who want to cut it down.
South Kensington secures

Its end with many a joke;

But if you must have yours,-
O SPENCER, spare this stroke!
When, in my childhood's joy,
T'wards Fulham's fields I strayed;
CHARLES MATTHEWS still a boy,
Grew young beneath its shade.
And later, it was here,

Ere Brompton saw its close,—
Forgive this foolish tear,

The dear old boilers rose !

So, if you've work in view,
Cut down-I'll not repine-
A salary or two,

But not this tree of mine!
And though in wild dismay
Your underlings complain,-
O SPENCER, cut away,
But don't cut down my plane!

Funch. July 23, 1881;'