The rival chiefs, a worthy pair,
Now toss the coin high in air,
And he whom fortune doth befriend
Makes choice of goal to guard and fend;
The while his foe 'mid joyous cry
First drives the aëry ball on high.
Now listen to the merry din,
And see the much-loved sport begin.
The ball swift travels through the air,
Now here, now there, and everywhere,
Now sailing on with lofty bound,
Now creeping slowly o'er the ground.
The players now, an eager crew,
The well encased ball pursue,
Rush on and kick it as they go,
With the light but well-shod toe.
Now see a youth fly o'er the ground,
And deftly catch it on the bound;
Tight in his grasp he holds his prize,
To evade the foe as on he flies.
Then loud is heard the welcome cry
"A scrummage, to the rescue hie !"
And, with a roar of wild delight,
Rush all to 6.
scrummage," strangely hight.
And now indeed a wondrous scene
Is acted on the village green;
For all who play, save three or four,
Rush madly on, at least a score

Of heads and shoulders quickly meet,
And twice as many eager feet.
Now many a toe meets many a shin
And leaves its mark on manly skin,
And elbows, seeking cosy cribs,
Find lodgment in opposing ribs ;

And all seem to yon blue-eyed lass
A seething, surging, kicking mass.

And now, while still they push and shout,
The well-kicked ball creeps slowly out.
A nimble-footed youth espies
And after it like lightning flies,
And, ere his foes see through the trick,
Essays a deftly-aimèd kick.
"Home," cries the keeper of the goal,
Too late from scrummage rush the shoal,
The ball skims o'er the opposing hosts,
And gently drops between the posts.
Now change they sides. and soon again
The ball is speeding o'er the plain,
While after it each eager wight
Scampers in transports of delight.
Until at length he respite seeks,
With wearied limbs but rosy cheeks.
His mud-bespattered garments shows
How oft on Earth he's laid him low;
But still this brings him no remorie,
He feels the hot blood through hm course,
And knows that in his much-loved game,

He's found both pleasure, health, and fame.

Pastime, September 7, 1883.

AN EPITAPH.

On the admirable Dramatic Poet, William Shakespeare.

WHAT needs my Shakespeare for his honour'd bones,
The labour of an age in pilèd stones?

Or that his hallowed relics should be hid
Under a starry pointing pyramid?

Dear son of memory, great heir of fame,

What needs't thou such weak witness of thy name? Thou, in our wonder and astonishment,

Hast built thyself a livelong monument.

For whilst, to the shame of slow-endeavouring art,

The easy numbers flow; and that each heart
Hath, from the leaves of thy unvalued book,
Those Delphic lines with deep impression took,
Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving,

Dost make us marble with too much conceiving;

And, so sepulchred, in such pomp dost lie,

That Kings, for such a tomb, would wish to die.

JOHN MILTON.

AN EPITAPH (CONSIDERABLY) AFTER MILTON.

On that admirable, but lately maligned Dramatic Poet, the divine

WILLIAMS.

"WHAT needs my SHAKSPEARE for his honoured bones," The veneration of SMITH, BROWN, and JONES?

Or that his hallowed genius should be hid

From dunces by pedantic Form bestrid?
"Dear son of memory, great heir of fame,"
What matter if PONSARD asperse thy name?
That is no wonder, no astonishment :
All are not pedants on the Continent,
For whilst Teutonic poetry and art

Esteem thy numbers, and the German heart
Prizes the leaves of thine unvalued book,
What, if thou by a booby art mistook?
Thou, a dull coxcomb of his rules bereaving,
Hast stupified him by too much conceiving.
Calling thee obsolete bonhomme !—the fly
Has buzzed about thy glory-let him die.

This parody appeared in Punch, December 27, 1856, and another, very much resembling it appeared in the same paper in 1863 :—

MR. MILTON MODERNISED.

WHAT needs my Shakespeare for his honoured bones,
The sovereigns of Brown, Robinson and Jones?
Or that his hallowed relics should be hid

Under a Hepworth-Dixon pyramid ?

Dear son of memory-great heir of fame,
Why all these little names tacked to thy name?
Thou may'st feel wonder and astonishment
At all this row about thy monument,
While to the shame of our dramatic art,
Thy plays of our stage banquet make no part.
Methinks, t'were well, blushing, to bring to book,
Praises so Empty, though so big they look,
And with our stage ungraced of thy conceiving,
Own ourselves arrant humbugs, self-deceiving;
Meanwhile do thou in quiet Stratford lie,
Heedless of all this buzzing of small fry.

-:0:

A READING MAN.

"One whose mind is devoted to nothing else but the study of Mathematics; one who, though naturally, perhaps, of a peacable, quiet temper, and disposition, so congenial to study, yet whose highest ambition is to be accounted the greatest WRANGLER in the university!"

Hence, loathed MATHEMATICS!

Of lecturer and blackest tutor born,
In lecture-room forlorn,

Mongst horrid quizzes, bloods, and bucks unholy;
Find out some uncouth cell,

Where pallid study spreads his midnight wings,
And dismal ditties sings;

There, mid'st unhallow'd souls, with sapless brain,
Compose thy sober train,

And in the mind of READING Quizzes dwell

From Gradus ad Cantabrigiam, by a Brace of Cantabs, London, John Hearne, 1824.

- :0:

A SEASIDE SONNET.

After Milton-Oysters.

How jaunty the jelly-fish frolic and roar,
How wildly the winkles express their delight,
Though ROBINSON CRUSOE would frown in affright.

On the footprints, by ocean all foam fizzled o'er,

Of an amber-shod maiden who looks to the Nore,
And heeds not her havoc-for heaving in sight
Is a barque, and on board her beloved,-but "tight "
As never was British beloved before.'

Alas! for that maiden awaiting her mate

She knew not the ways of the sons of the wave, When she bade him go ride at a rollicking rate O'er the billow that bounds; and she knows not her brave Hath struggled with "swipes" and sea sickness and fate, Till gone with his "grub" is the joy that she gave. Judy, September 8, 1880.

"Orator" Henley, and Rock, a noted quack doctor, were well known men, Dr. John Hill was a surgeon, a botanist, an unprincipled satirical writer, an actor, and finally a dramatic author, in which latter character his want of success caused Garrick to remark :

"For physic and farces, his equal there scarce is : His farces are physic, his physic a farce is." Hill was knighted through the favour of Lord Bute, and died in 1775.

0.

On page 156, Parodies, the Shakespearian forgeries of W. H. Ireland were referred to, they gave rise to many bitter caricatures and satires. Amongst others appeared the following parody, by some ascribed to William Mason, by others to Steevens.

"FOUR forgers*, born in one prolific age,
Much critical acumen did engage :

The first was soon by Doughty Douglas scar'd,

Tho' Johnson would have screen'd him had he dar'd,
The next had all the cunning of a Scot,

The third, invention, genius-nay, what not?
Fraud now exhausted, only could dispense

To her fourth Son their threefold impudence."

It is said that Ireland was so enraged at this publication that he broke the shop windows where it was exposed for sale.

In the days of Daniel O'Connell beards were not usually worn, and in the House of Commons, Col. Sibthorp, M.P. for Lincoln, was the only member who wore one. O'Connell, wishing to retort to some attacks made on him by Colonel Sibthorp, Col. Verner, M.P. for Armagh County, and Col. Gore, M.P. for Sligo county, composed the following parody:

THREE colonels in three distant counties born,
Armagh, Sligo, and Lincoln did adorn;
The first in direct bigotry surpass'd,

The next in impudence, in both the last.
The force of nature could no farther go,

To beard the third she shaved the other two."

This version is taken from "Notes and Queries " of February 24, 1883, but the Athenæum, in quoting the lines, said they referred to Cols. Verner, Percival, and Sibthorp, thus omitting Col. Gore; whilst another paper named three totally

different constituencies:

The Editor of Truth selected Dryden's Epigram as the model for a parody competition, and the replies were published in that paper on March 27, 1884. They were very numerous, the following have been selected from amongst them, as being the best parodies, on the most interesting topics:

THREE brightest blessings of this thirsty race,
(Whence sprung and when I don't propose to trace);
Pale brandy, potent spirit of the night,

Brisk soda, welcome when the morn is bright;
To make the third combine the other two,

The force of Nature can no further go.

SEXTON.

THREE wishes granted to a jolly tar, Who east, and west, and south had travelled far. First, " grog enough to float a fleet!" The next Was, "all the baccy in the world!" Perplext, Imagination could no further go; "More grog and baccy!" was the final throw.

GUINEA PIG.

In 1879 the Editor of The World commenced a series of Prize Parody Competitions, the sixth of which had for its subject "Mr. Charles Warner in Drink," and the poem chosen as the model was Matthew Arnold's Sonnet on George Cruikshank's picture, "The Bottle."

The first and second prizes were awarded to V.A.C.A. and FESS-GULES, and two other parodies were also printed.

Matthew Arnold's original sonnet is here given, followed by the parodies, which appeared in The World, August 20, 1879.

To GEORGE CRUIKSHANK.

On seeing, in the Country, his Picture of "The Bottle."
ARTIST, whose hand, with horror winged hath torn
From the rank life of towns this leaf! and flung
The prodigy of full-blown crime among
Valleys and men to middle fortune born,
Not innocent, indeed, yet not forlorn-
Say, what shall calm us, when such guests intrude,
Like comets on the heavenly solitude?

Shall breathless glades, cheered by shy Dian's horn,
Cold-bubbling springs, or caves! Not so! The soul
Breasts her own griefs; and, urged too fiercely, says:
'Why tremble? True, the nobleness of man
May be by man effaced; man can control
To pain, to death, the bent of his own days.
Know thou the worst! So much, not more, he can.
MATTHEW ARNOLD.