He kept to the same statement still,

"Obstructives seven are we ; Our task to hinder every bill, And spoil whate'er may be.

"And often after sunset, sir,
Until the morning fair,
The weary House we keep astir,

And eat our breakfast there."

"We thought that Biggar and Parnell
Alone the House had driven ".
Again the self-same accents fell,
'Oh, master, we are seven !"

Funny Folks. July 21, 1877.

THEY ARE FIVE.

I MET a statesman old and worn,

He was threescore years and more,
And in his trembling hand were borne
Vague Resolutions three or four.

[This is the first verse of a parody dated May, 1877, which occurs in a small anonymous pamphlet, entitled, They are Five, published by David Bogue, London. The parody consists of twelve dull verses, and is quite out of date.]

"WE ARE SEVEN."

(The Birmingham Version.)
-A GRAND Old Man,
By self-conceit so eaten,
He cannot bring himself to feel
That he's completely beaten.

He met a Midland Radical,
From Birmingham came he,
And eye-glass, orchid, monogram
All showed 'twas Joseph C-

J. C.'d a perky, well-pleased air,
His frock" was buttoned tight,

The glance that through his eye-glass shot
Was jubilant and bright,

"Ah," said the G. O. M. to him,
"Your face I surely know.
Methinks you hie from Birmingham.
Say, how do things there go?"

"How many have elected been,
I've not had time to see?"

"How many? Seven in all," said Joe, And smiled at William G.

66

'But," he went on-and he to keep

His temper much did strive"You said that you were seven, but you Have only mentioned five."

Then straight did Joseph C. reply, "Seven Unionists are we,

For to the five you have to add,

My brother-in-law and me."

"But you're against me," Gladstone said, "I know your Caine-like tricks, So Birmingham has only sent

For me supporters six ?"

"What, do you mean you have not seen The polls?" J. C. replied,

"Why, G.O.M., from Brummagem Not one is on your side."

(Seven verses omitted.)

"Nay, nay," cried Gladstone, "I refuse To own that things are so ; "Birmingham went for me!" said Joe— "It did-nine months ago.'

James and Horace Smith, this imitation of Wordsworth being the work of James Smith.

The Edinburgh Review for November, 1812, contained an article (written by Jeffrey) on The Rejected Addresses, in which, referring to this particular poem, the reviewer remarks:-"The author does not attempt to copy any of the higher attributes of Mr. Wordsworth's poetry; but has succeeded perfectly in the imitation of his mawkish affectations of childish simplicity and nursery stammering. We hope it will make him ashamed of his 'Alice Fell,' and the greater part of his last volumes-of which it is by no means a parody, but a very fair, and indeed we think a flattering imitation."

THE BABY'S DEBUT.

"THY lisping prattle and thy mincing gait,
All thy false mimic fooleries I hate ;
For thou art Folly's counterfeit, and she
Who is right foolish hath the better plea;
Nature's true Idiot I prefer to thee."
CUMBERLAND.

[Spoken in the character of Nancy Lake, a girl eight years of age, who is drawn upon the stage in a child's chaise by Samuel Hughes, her uncle's porter.]

My brother Jack was nine in May,*
And I was eight on New-year's-day;
So in Kate Wilson's shop
Papa (he's my papa and Jack's)
Bought me, last week, a doll of wax,
And brother Jack a top.

No Drury-Lane for you to-day!"
And while papa said, "Pooh, she may !
Mamma said, "No, she sha'n't!"

Well, after many a sad reproach,
They got into a hackney coach,

And trotted down the street.

I saw them go one horse was blind,
The tails of both hung down behind,

Their shoes were on their feet.

The chaise in which poor brother Bill
Used to be drawn to Pentonville,
Stood in the lumber-room :
I wiped the dust from off the top,
While Molly mopp'd it with a mop,
And brushed it with a broom.

My uncle's porter, Samuel Hughes,
Came in at six to black the shoes,
(I always talk to Sam :)

So what does he, but takes, and drags
Me in the chaise along the flags,

And leaves me where I am.

My father's walls are made of brick, But not so tall and not so thick

As these; and, goodness me; My father's beams are made of wood, But never, never half so good

As those that now I see.

What a large floor! 'tis like a town!
The carpet, when they lay it down,

Won't hide it, I'll be bound.

And there's a row of lamps -my eye!
How they do blaze! I wonder why
They keep them on the ground.

At first I caught hold of the wing,
And kept away; but Mr. Thing-

um bob, the prompter man,

Gav. with his hand my chaise a shove,
And said, "Go on, my pretty love;
Speak to 'em, little Nan.

"You've only got to curtsey whisp-
er, hold your chin up, laugh, and lisp,

And then you're sure to take:

I've known the day when brats, not quite
Thirteen, got fifty pounds a night;

Then why not Nancy Lake?"

But while I'm speaking, where's papa?

And where's my aunt? and where's mamma?
Where's Jack? O, there they sit !
They smile, they nod; I'll go my ways,
And order round poor Billy's chaise,
To join them in the pit.

And now, good gentle folks, I go
To join mamma, and see the show;
So, bidding you adieu,

I curtsey, like a pretty miss,

And if you'll blow to me a kiss,

I'll blow a kiss to you.

Blows a kiss, and exit.

From Rejected Addresses, by Horace & James Smith. (London: John Miller. 1812.)

*This alludes to the young Betty mania.

SHE was a phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight
A lovely apparition, sent
To be a moment's ornament;
Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;
Like twilight's too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn

From May-time and the cheerful dawn;
A dancing shape, an image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and waylay.

I saw her upon nearer view,

A spirit, yet a woman too!

Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin liberty;

A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food;
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A being breathing thoughtful breath,
A traveller betwixt life and death;
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength and skill,
A perfect woman, nobly planned,
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a spirit still, and bright,
With something of an angel light.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

THE M.A. Degree,

It was a phantom of delight

When first it gleamed upon my sight,

A scholarly distinction, sent
To be a student's ornament;

I did not know nor did I care

What work there might be to prepare,
For all my mind to work was drawn
Then, in my academic dawn;

A dancing shape, an image gay
Before me then was my M. A.

I saw it upon nearer view,

A glory, yet a bother too!
For I perceived that I should be

Involved in much Philosophy

(A branch in which I could but meet

Works that were more obscure than sweet);

In Mathematics, scarcely good

For human nature's daily food;

And Classics-rendered in the styles

Of Kelly, Bohn, and Dr. Giles.

And now I own, with some small spleen,

A most confounded ass I've been; The glory seems an empty breath, And I am nearly bored to death With Reason, Consciousness, and Will, And other things beyond my skill, Discussed in books all darkly plann'd And more in number than the sand.Yet that M. A. still haunts my sight With something of its former light. From The University News Sheet. St. Andrews. March 24 1886.

N. B.