And so displays high art. The sixth phase shifts
Into the scarlet-robed and gartered Peer,
A spectacle in pose, touched with the pride
Of titled state from all the world to hide

His youthful pranks; his late commanding voice,
Toned down to softest accents, mildly speaks
In gentle pleadings. The last phase of all

Is the poor part of intellect decayed

In second childhood of extreme old age;
Sad sight! sad hearing; sad the end of all!

-ALL the night's a stage,

OLD LOG.

And all the singers on it merely cats;
They have their solos and their choruses,
And one cat in the night sings many tunes,
Her songs being seven tortures. At first a purring,
Mewing and scratching at the kitchen door,
Then a whining scuffle with a neighbour's tom
About an ancient bone, bleached in the mud,
Each claiming shares: and then the love duet,
Burning with passion, rising to my window,
In hideous cadences; then the war song
Betwixt two rivals to Miss Muffet's favour
Starts up, eloquent with hisses and mad
Careering up and down the area stairs
Even to my very door; and then the tabby,
In sleek fat form, with good grey coat of fur,
With twinkling eyes and well-trimmed whiskers,
Lifts her voice in wild, untuneful melody,

And so she sings her part. The sixth song falls
To the lean and half-starved tortoiseshell,
All scratched on nose and wounded side,
Her youthful freshness faded years too soon,
And gone for aye, but her strong feline voice,
With hideous likeness to infantile howls,
Still screeches in the night. Last scene of all
That ends this awful, maddening night,
Is one last howl-then day breaks in upon us,
Sans sleep, sans rest, sans peace, sans breakfast.

ZENAS DYKES.

-ALL the day's a plague,
And all the people merely peace-disturbers,
They have their exits and their entrances,
And each one plays his own discordant part
Till the brain madly rages. At first the sweep,
Screeching and shouting loud his wild alarm;
Then that morning nuisance, with his basket
And tinkling muffin-bell, shouting "all 'ot'
When all his store is cool. And then the beggar,
Singing, like saw-mill, a hymn or a tender ballad
Smugly, yet winking his eyebrow. Then the "Army,"
Causing wild oaths as, clad in monstrous garb,
With drum and cornet, gaily they preach or quarrel,
Seizing the soldier's designation,

But facing no cannon's mouth, And then th' Italian,
His poor pinched belly seldom with square-meal lined,
With coal-black eye and hair that should be cut.
And organ belching nigger melodies.

And so he plays his part. The next plague springs
From German deep trombone and wild bassoon,
From flute, from clarionet, and ophecleide,
Teutonic youths, ill-taught, with English airs
Playing strange pranks, who, from the lowest bass
Alike even to the highest treble, yield
Most irritating sounds. Till last of all,
To close the days tormenting history.
The prayer for death, and sweet oblivion
Of sweeps, of bands, of Booth, of everything.

NOMAD,

ALL the world's a stable.

And all its denizens are merely horses;
They have their hardships and their pleasures,
And one horse in his time sees many changes,
His life being seven ages, At first, the foal,
Frisking and skipping in the breeder's yard;
Then the "whinnying" colt, with curb and rein,
And smack of whip, pacing, like schoolboy,
Unwillingly in trammels. And then the racer,
Flying like lightning for the cup or plate
Given by the Jockey Club. Then the hunter,
Full of high keep, and coat as sleek as silk,
Perfect in shape, and proud of pedigree,
Gaining a wide-spread reputation

For being in at the death." And then to mailcoach,
In spendid show indignantly is harness'd,

By critics scanned at formal "meet '; then urg'd
To th' instant point of modern expedition;
And so he runs his stage. Sold up," he shifts
Into the shafts of jaunty hansom cab,

With fare inside, and driver perch'd aloft ;

His early vigour gone, a shower of blows

Are rain'd on his shrunk back; his wind is bad

And he has turned a "piper" and oftimes
Loudly whistles in his sound. The next phase ends
His cruel and unpitied destiny;

To Knacker's yard for slaughter he is led,
Sans eyes, sans hoofs, mere carcase--fit for dogs.
EAST ANGLIA.

-ALL the world's a field,

And all the men and women cricket-players,
They have their innings and their fielding out,
And one man in his time plays many games,
His life being seven matches. First, the infant,
Mowing and poking at his nurse's slows;
And then the school-boy, boundless in ambition,
But green in judging lengths, slogging like fun,
And bowled by yorkers; then the undergrad,
Smoking strange weeds, and blazer'd like the Turk,
Heedless of honours. puppet of every fancy,
Seeking a college reputation

Even in the schools despite ; and then the lover,
Shying like Frenchman, with a woeful habit,
Of dropping all his catches; then the husband,
With waist expanding, to short runs inclined,
With eyes correct, and coat of formal cut,
Full of old joys, and new incumbrances,
And so he meets his match. The sixth is played
By the stiff pater with his growing lads,
With spectacles on nose, and bat in hand;
They trundle at the stumps a world too fast
For his sore shins; yet his big, manly heart,
Turning again toward youthful pleasure, glows
And revels at each ball. Last match of all,
Which ends the sturdy cricketer's career,
Is played in his arm-chair at second hand,
Sans bat, sans ball, sans stumps, sans everything.

ALL the world's a feast,

TUB.

And all the men and women merely gourmands;
Few have their chef, they mostly pot-luck share,
But all guests in their turn try many plats,
The courses being seven, At first the Soup,
Unsatisfactory, greasy, and cold;

Then Fish, whose shining face is seen too long,
Proclaims his advent ere he comes in sight.
Entrées as twins appear; you choose of one,

To wish your choice had fallen on the other.
Mutton disguised with mint to pass for lamb,
Taking his dubious imposture

Into our plates, but not beyond our palates,
A bird comes next-a bird that crowed too long;
Crestfallen warrior, done to death and tough;
And so we sit and eat, while cheap champagne
Goes round with tedious jokes, both flat and stale.
At length the scene is changed-the Sweets appear;
Misshapen, quiv'ring jellies, doughy tarts,
The fruit but scant, the paste too thick by far.
(Pale cream accompanies, whose "turn" is come,)
Dessert-a prematurely-shrivelled pine,
Torn from its tropic soil in early youth;

Dried fruits, and nuts that, cracking, leave but dust.
The end of this unpalatable dinner

Is coffee weak and full of grounds; and so
Our last hope flies, our time is come,
We go
With teeth, with eyes, with taste, unsatisfied.

CHUM-CHUM.

-A State Church is a stage,

Its well-paid priests and bishops often players;
They have their stipends and emoluments,
And each man, if he plays his part with skill.
May gain preferment. At first the student,
Reading or larking at his Alma Mater;
And then the genteel curate, with chasuble,
And early morning prayers, with Oxford twang,
Invincible at croquet. Then the incumbent,
Preaching like furnace, with a shilling pamphlet,
On some new-fashioned high-go. Then the rector,
Full of strange whims, robed like a queer old barb,
Sudden and quick to seize the next preferment,
Seeking the bubble reputation

E'en in a canon's stall. And then the bishop,
In fair lawn sleeves and with a purse well lined;

His youthful friends now get the formal cut,

Full of anxiety to keep things pleasant;

And so he plays his part, The sixth age shifts

Into the grand and courtly Archbishop;

A spectacle he grows of pride and pomp,

And thinks the Church well saved, and world beside,
By his tall talk; with namby-pamby voice,
Pointing again to Becket and to Laud,

Like whom he would be found. Last scene of all
That best will cure this curious history,
Is Disestablishment and Disendowment,
Sans worldly power, sans many an evil thing.

A. MEERAM.

-ALL the land's a booth,
And all the men and women merely voters,
They have their franchise and their ballot-box,
And one man in his time gives many votes.
He votes for seven parties. The first, a Whig,
Frightened and cautious in the Liberal ranks;
And then the so-called Liberal, with his promises,
And sheep-like party-gait, creeping like snail
Towards long-sought reform. Then the Home Ruler
Roaring for freedom, with a piteous tale
Told of his country's misery. Then a Radical
Full of reform and moving with the time,
Scenting abuses, sudden and quick to right 'em,
Seeking the people's happiness

Even at the lordling's cost. And then the Independent
With smooth-tongued speech, and pocket well lined,
With views severe and stuck-up formal mien,
Full of advice and smug hypocrisy.

And so he serves his turn. The sixth vote's given
Unto the mighty Tory landowner,
With a fine porty nose, and gout beside,

His ancient views-grown old-an age too late
For this sharp world; and his high handed mode
Turn 'gainst him all but sycophants, who'll pipe
And whistle at his bid. Last vote of all,
To end this string of partisans, is given
To worthless "Turncoats," mere title hunters,
Sans pride, sans shame, sans soul, sans principle.
W, VAL. ENGLISH.

ALL the world's insane,

And all the men and women fools of fancy;
They have their whims and monomanias,
And each man in his life hath many moods,
His lot being seven crazes. And first the infant,
Squealing and squalling for the distant moon :
And then the schoolboy, with his breaking voice
And cheap cigar, acquiring other lore

Than what is taught at school. And then the lover
With Richmond dinners, "fizz," and lobster salad,
To win Aspasia's favour. Then the soldier,
Full of himself, and glorious on parade,
Solemn and warlike in another's quarrel,
Seeking to gain a killing reputation

E'en from the sex's mouth. And then the justice,
One of the great infallible unpaid,

With books of law intact and leaves uncut,
Gath'ring wise utt'rance from the whisp'ring clerk,
And so displays his art. The sixth craze shifts
Into the fogy of the Tory club,

With well-dress'd jasey and with glass in eye,
The march of progress spreading far too wide
For his near views; or, haply, seen by choice
In some snug hostelry with port and pipe,
Where Tory talk abounds. Worst craze of all,
That seems the strangest in its mystery,
Is the ascetic zeal miscalled religion-
Saint This, Saint That, Saint T'other-Any one.
B. H. D.

-ALL the world's a ship,

And all the men and women merely sailors;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And each one in his ship plays many parts,
The number being seven stages. First, the cabin boy,
Groaning and puking in the stewards' arms;
And then the midshipman, with his cutlass
And shining, genial face, going, in doubt,
Unwillingly on board. And then the boatswain,
Swearing, by all that's hot, he'll use his rope's end
Upon some laggard's shoulders. Then the lieutenant,
Full of strange hopes and visions like the bard,
Eager for honour, longing for war and quarrel,
Seeking the bubble, merited advancement,
E'en in an iron clad. And then the captain,
In handsome uniform, with honour worn,
With bright, clear eyes, and mouth that's often shut,
Full of old yarns and deeds that tell of duty.
Then comes the proud and boastful admiral,
With spectacle on nose and sword by side,
His well-saved uniform a world to wide
For his shrunk form, and his big, manly voice
Turning again to peevish feebleness.
And so he struts his part. Last stage of all,
That ends this strange and restless history,
Comes the ex-admiral, prey to oblivion,

Sans fame, sans wealth, sans hope, sans everything.

TIB.

-THE world's a fashion-plate,

And all the men and women tailors' dummies,
Who note the march of time by changing clothes,
A masher once, a man's a masher always,
No matter what his age is. At first a baby
In a lace gown ogling his ancient nurse;

And then the public schoolboy, with his collar
Broad and snow-white, who gives his mind to ties,
And has no love for school-books. Then the dandy
Bored at eighteen, but hovering around

The sacred lamp of burlesque. Then the guardsman,
Thin-waisted, tall, and with well-waxed moustache,
Driver of drags and tandems, quick at polo,
Gaining a dreadful reputation,

Nightly at crowded balls, Then the swell middle-aged,
With fair white waistcoat of bow-window shape,
With shiny boots and well trimmed close-cut beard,
Full of himself, and tales of his own feats,
And how he play'd his part. The sixth age shows
The lean and shaky, wicked, gay old boy,

With gold pin and cane, with hat worn on one side;
His padded coat and tight strapped pantaloons
Hide his shrunk form, and his swaggering tone
Changed to a grumbling whine that everything
Is worse than it once was. While the last scene

Is tottered through by an old doting swell,
Who herds with boys, and tries to cheat death with
False teeth, false hair, false calves, false everything.

MEASURE FOR MEASURE.

ROUNDABOUT.

A Parody of the speech of Claudio in the first scene of the third act, commencing ::

Ay, but to die, and go we know not where;

To lie in cold obstruction and to rot;

This sensible warm motion to become a kneaded clod."

AYE, but to love, and not be loved again,

To nurse a hopeless passion, and to pine,

This body strong and healthy to become

A walking mummy-and the once cheerful mind

To feel keen torturing doubts, or to despair

And moping sit in melancholy mood,

To feel the gusts of love and wild desire,

And know friends, fortune, person, all combine

To blast our hopes-or to feel tortures keener still,

To see a rival snatch away the prize;
Heavens! 'tis too horrible-the keenest pangs
That e'er the body felt, stone or rheumatic,
Amputated limb, nay, even gout itself

Is perfect ease compared with hopeless love.

From Poems by Edward Rushton. London-T. Ostell, 1806.

In "tights" most gracefully designed
Will appear fair Rosalind.
Methinks a damsel to your mind
Will be Mary's Rosalind.

We hope she will not be maligned
When she playeth Rosalind,
But that critics will be kind

To that fair Yankee's Rosalind.

YOUNG ENGLAND'S VERSION OF HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY.

To SMOKE, or not to smoke, that is the question :
Whether a mild cigar assists digestion ;

Or, whether it begets a kind of quaintness,
Which some would say was nothing but a faintness;
To smoke-to drink and then to go to bed;

To find a pillow for an aching head;

To snore-perchance to dream! and half your senses scare With visionary demons or nightmare;

To wake, in perspiration nicely dished,

'Tis a consummation hardly to be wished;

For who would bear the kicks, cuffs, and abuse

Of this base world, when he might cook his goose
Upon his toasting fork? Or who would care
For half the motley groups which at him stare,
Some morning early, stuck before the bench,
When soda-water would his fever quench,
But that a little thing within doth call?
Thus porter doth make rum 'uns of us all!
And thus our resolution to keep sober

Is drown'd and soon forgot in good October.
But hush! my 'Phelia comes, the pretty dear!
Oh! think of me love-when you fetch your beer.

ANONYMOUS.

FURTHER PARODIES

ON

Bret Harte.

:0:

"As You LIKE IT," AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON. The following Parody appeared in Gaiety. August 29, 1885, in reference to Miss Mary Anderson's performance of the part of Rosalind, in the Shakespeare Memorial Theatre, Stratfordon-Avon.

IF your heart for joy hath pined,

Go and seek out Rosalind.

In W. S.'s town you'll find

Mary A. as Rosalind;

THAT GREENWICH M.P.

WHICH I wish to declare,

And my story is sad,

That for dealings unfair,

And for ways that are bad, The Greenwich M. P. is peculiarWhich the same is a terrible "Rad."

'Twas an October day,

But a week or two back,

When the mob yelled "Hurray"

On the heath that is Black,

As they gazed from afar upon WILLIAM, And harked to his voluble clack.

Which this W. G.,

You will all understand,

Is the Greenwich M. P.,

And his promise is bland;

But then, over his sinister shoulder,

He points with the thumb of his hand.

So free from all guile,

From intent to deceive,
He seem'd all the while,

You could hardly believe

How, when talking to people of Greenwich,

He chuckled and laughed in his sleeve.

He was greatly concern'd

For the Greenwichers' weal,
And he twisted and turn'd

With his words like an eel

Praised himself, and the Radical party;
It little himself a great deal.

Which is why I declare,

And my feelings are sad,

That for dealings unfair,

And for ways that are bad,

The Greenwich M. P. is peculiar

Which that same is a stone that is glad.

Judy, November 22, 1871.

Mister CHANG was his name,

All alive! O, alive!

From Fychow he came

In eighteen-sixty-five,

On the shillings of sight-loving public

For some time to gleefully thrive.

It was August, eighteen,

That he first came to town,

And by thousands was seen,

And won highest renown;

But so lofty was he, and so haughty,

On all of his friends he looked down.

When invited to sup

He'd not touch flesh of cows,

And he turned his nose up

At an English carouse,

For he swallowed at dinner and breakfast But bird's-nests and little bow-wows.

But he fretted and fumed

As the shillings got few,

And his features assumed

A cerulean hue,

And he looked like a piece of blue china

Of a size that you don't often view.

Judy, August 20, 1879.

·:0:

ON BRET HARTE.

(After Jim,")

Say there, then,
Some of you men

Might read Bret Harte,

Not p'raps all through
But one or two,

Just a part?

Try first that one
Heathen Chinee,
Then just for fun

Take two or three
More from his works-
Rhyme all in jerks
Where frequently
Strange language lurks.

Humbug? not much
That ain't his style,
Rather a touch

Of pathos, the while
Sympathy true.

Take Bret Harte's Jim,
Sure you know him,
Says "D-n your eyes,"
Frequently tries

In manner most strange
Both a scamp to appear
And an angel that sheer
Has dropped from the skies.

:0:

A CHRISTMAS PSALM OF LIFE.
TELL me not, thou soul that slumbers,
Christmas is an empty dream;
When these comic double numbers
With the flash of humour gleam.
Life is earnest, life is real,

In our Fleet Street and the Strand;
Many an honest heart and leal

Shall be moved by laughter's wand.
"Sweet enjoyment and no damper ”-
Motto fit for every grade,

[If my friends send me a hamper,

Let them mark it "Carriage paid."] Hearts which long with hope were beating Now shall flock to Drury Lane,

There to give a friendly greeting

To the clown and "pants" again.

So in other fields of glory

Comes the genial feud and strife,
Each man, be he Whig or Tory,
Finding happiness in life.

Lives like SLOPER'S should remind us
Life can still be made sublime,
Scattering all the trash behind us,
Pointing to a better time.

Sloper's Christmas Number, 1884.

A PSALM FOR THE TRADE. TELL us not in doleful numbers Trade is done for evermore, That supply, demand outnumbers, And the drummer's days are o'er.