"But the one we're recommending
Is that special ward-eighteen.
Kindly cut your little finger,
And select your little bed-
Then, before a week is over,
You will certainly be dead."

"If you fracture say your elbow,
And come here to get it dress't-
Well, your arm is amputated
And you find eternal rest;
For your blood is surely poisoned,
And so deadly is the taint

That you're here, perchance, one morning,
And, to-morrow, here you ain't.

"When some nasty broken chilblains
Give you trouble with your toes,
Oh! we take your leg, and presto!
In a moment off it goes.

It is getting on quite nicely,
Is that amputated pin,
When, as certain as the sunrise,
Erysipelas sets in.

"Then walk into our death-trap-
Harry, Tommy Johnny, Bob-
We have instruments in plenty
And are always on the job;
'Tis the very surest death-trap

That the world has ever seen,
Make your wills and have a shake-down
In our special ward-eighteen."

The Sydney Bulletin. August 7, 1886.

HARCOURT AND CHAMBERLAIN.

"WILL you walk into our parlour?" said the Spider to the Fly;

"Tis the cosiest little parlour, friend, that ever you did spy.

The way into this parlour is quite wide, as you're aware, And, oh! we'll do such wondrous things when once we get you there!

Then, won't you, won't you, won't you, won't you,
Pretty little fly?"

Now, as I've heard, this little fly was young, but wary, too, And so he thought, I'll mind my eye-the thing may be a do !

So " 'No, no!" said that little fly; "kind Sir, that cannot be,

I've heard what's in your parlour, and I do not wish to

see.

Another long political parody in The London Figaro, August 7, 1886, commenced:

"Will you come into our Chamber? "said the Marquis to "Grand Cross"

Tis a finely gilded chamber" (so went on the Tory Boss.)

Another appeared in Punch, June 30, 1888, soon after Mr. W. E. Gladstone had given his vote in favour of Watkin's scheme for the Channel Tunnel. Two verses may be quoted ::

THE WATKIN SPIDER AND THE GLADSTONE FLY.

"Will you walk into my Tunnel ?" said the Spider to the Fly,,

"Tis the handiest little Tunnel that ever you did spy. You've only got to pop your head inside and peep, no more,

And you'll see a many curious things you never saw before. Will you, will you, will you, will you, walk in, Grand Old Fly?

Said the Spider to the Fly, "It's most absurd, upon my soul,

To see so big a nation scared about so small a hole.

The Banquet served, the brilliant throng
Proceed their seats to take;

The plate was grand, yet every eye
Was fixed upon the Cake!

The thistle, rose, and shamrock twined
The Prince's arms and crest;

The Prussian Eagle, raised on high,

To please the Royal Guest.

In matchless beauty stood the cake,
The glory of the day;

And now each lady hoped to take
A little bit away.

Prince Albert raised a knife and fork,
Victoria looked a frown!
So, with a disappointed air,
He laid the weapons down.

She rose-and the distinguished guests
Their last obeisance make!

All murmuring, as they left the room,
"She never cut the Cake!

The Queen and Prince, like other folks,
Their party gone away,
Sat for five minutes, chatting o'er
The pleasures of the day.
"When I've enjoyed a fete so much
I really cannot tell;
From early morn till now midnight,
All things went off so well!"
Nay, dear Victoria, pardon me,
You make a slight mistake;
For every thing did not go off.

(He glanced towards the cake.)
"Consider our expenses, love;
Outgoings are so great,
Receiving foreign Potentates
With all this form and state.

Our family increases fast,

And cakes are very dear;

The Prussian Eagle laid aside,

We'll keep it for next year!"

This ballad shows that the Queen had a reputation for parsimony as long ago as 1842, the moral it enforces is similar to that contained in the old Nursery Rhyme the ballad parodies, concerning the famous plum Pudding of King Arthur:

"The King and Queen ate of the same,
And all the Court beside;

And what they could not eat that night,
The Queen next morning fried."

The above ballad was, of course, only a burlesque, and had no claim to longevity, but of all the serious adulatory poems written about the Queen, and her family, during the last fifty years how many have survived? With the exception of some few lines in Tennyson's Dedications and Odes, the present generation knows nothing of them.

Where is Leigh Hunt's poem on the birth of the Princess Royal? Where is Professor Aytoun's Ode on the Marriage of the Prince of Wales? Where, oh, where is Mr. Lewis Morris's Ode for the Opening of the Imperial Institute? Forgotten, all forgotten, and nearly as obsolete as the Birthday Odes of the Poets-Laureate Eusden, Warton, and Pye.

Who reads or remembers Martin F. Tupper's Welcome to the Princess Alexandra ?

"And thus they warbled, in the style of Tupper,
Whose ode to our Princess is thought a fine
Sample of metre Alexandra-ine-

A poet arithmetical in fame,

Who lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came :

THE JOY BIRDS' ODE.

100,000 welcomes !*
100,000 welcomes !!

And 100,000 more!!!
Oh! happy birds of Eden,
Sing like the Star of Sweden,
Yes, yes, like Nilsson sing, birds,
And make the island ring, birds,

As no land rang before;
And let the welkin roar,

To welkin her to shore;
Let miles of echo shout it,
And sparkling fountains spout it,
Let leagues of lightning flash it,
And tons of thunder crash it;

Let pouring rainfalls hail ber name,
And fiery earthquakes sound her fame,
Till sky, and sea, and shore
Join in a vast encore,
100,000 welcomes,

And 100,000 more!

In justice to Mr. Tupper it must be admitted that these are not exactly his lines, but only a very fair parody of them taken from The Lays of the Saintly, by Mr. Walter Parke. (London, Vizetelly, 1882.)

-:0:

DR. FELL.

I Do not like thee, Dr. Fell, The reason why I cannot tell; But this alone, I know full well,

I do not like thee, Dr. Fell.

This little nursery rhyme claims ancient lineage. In Thomas Forde's "Virtus Rediviva," 1661, in a collection of familiar letters, is the following passage :

"There are some natures so Hetrogenious, that the

To enable the reader to realise more vividly the impressive solemnity of this ode, the number of welcomes has been put in Arabic numerals.

The following is Clément Marot's version as given in Chapsal's Modèles de Littérature Française,' ii. p. 26 :

Jan, je ne t'aime point, beau sire:
Ne sais quelle mouche me point,
Ni pourquoi c'est je ne puis dire
Sinon que je ne t'aime point.

Another version, by Roger de Bussy, Comte de Rabutin (ob. 1693), ran as follows:

Je ne vous aime pas, Hylas,
Je n'en saurois dire la cause;
Je sais seulement une chose ;
C'est que je ne vous aime pas.

JOHN DRYDEN.

BORN August 9, 1631. | DIED May 1, 1700.

(Was Poet Laureate from 1670 till the accession of William III. in 1688, when he was superceded by a Protestant poet, Thomas Shadwell.)

In the year 1683, a musical society was formed in London for the celebration of St. Cecilia's Day, and from that time a festival was held annually on November the 22nd in Stationers' Hall, and an Ode, composed for the occasion, was sung. These festivals continued, with a few interruptions, down to the year 1744, and some were held at even a later date; but these celebrations must not be confounded with the performances given by the "Cecilian" Society, which was established in 1785.

A collection of the Odes, written for the Festival of St. Cecilia's Day, was first formed by Mr. William Henry Husk, Librarian of the Sacred Harmonic Society, and published by Bell and Daldy in 1857, in "An Account of the Musical Celebrations on St. Cecilia's Day. To which is appended a Collection of Odes on St. Cecilia's Day." It is unnecessary to enumerate them all here, but as Odes written by Nahum Tate, John Dryden, Thomas Shadwell, Samuel Wesley, Joseph Addison, William Congreve, Alexander Pope, and the burlesque Ode by Bonnell Thornton are included, the volume has considerable literary interest.

John Dryden wrote a song for the Festival of November, 1687, but his great Ode," Alexander's Feast; or, the Power of Music," was written and performed in 1697. For this poem it is said Dryden received forty pounds, its success was so great that it was frequently performed at later festivals, and in 1736 "Alexander's Feast" was set to music by Handel. The poem has been frequently paro

Timotheus placed on high,

Amid the tuneful choir,

With flying fingers touched the lyre;
With trembling notes ascend the sky,
And heavenly joys inspire.

The Song began from Jove,
Who left his blissful seat above
Such is the power of mighty love:

A dragon's fiery form belied the god;
Sublime on radiant spheres he rode,
When he to fair Olympia press'd,

And while he sought her snowy Breast,
Then round her slender waist he curl'd,

Aud stamp'd an image of himself, a sovereign of the world.

The listening crowd admire the lofty sound;

"A present deity!" they shout around;

"A present deity !" the vaulted roofs rebound.
Chorus.

With ravish'd ears
The monarch hears,
Assumes the God,
Affects to nod,

And seems to shake the spheres.

The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung,
Of Bacchus, ever fair and ever young!-
The jolly god in triumph comes !
Sound the trumpets! beat the drums!
Flush'd with a purple grace,

He shows his honest face,

Now give the hautboys breath! he comes! he comes! Bacchus ever fair and young,

Drinking joys did first ordain :

Chorus.

Bacchus' blessings are a treasure;
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure:
Rich the treasure,

Sweet the pleasure,

Sweet is pleasure, after pain!

Sooth'd with the sound, the king grew vain ;

Fought all his battles o'er again;

And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain !

The master saw the madness rise;

His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes; And while he heaven and earth defiedChanged his hand, and check'd his pride. He chose a mournful Muse,

Soft Pity to infuse :

He sang Darius great and good!
By too severe a fate,

Fallen fallen! fallen! fallen!
Fallen from his high estate

And weltering in his blood!

Deserted at his utmost need

By those his former bounty fed,

On the bare earth exposed he lies,
With not a friend to close his eyes!
With downcast look the joyless victor sate.
Chorus.

Revolving, in his alter'd soul,

The various turns of fate below; And now, and then, a sigh he stole, And tears began to flow !

The mighty master smil'd to see
That love was in the next degree:
"Twas but a kindred sound to move :
For pity melts the mind to love.
Softly sweet, in Lydian measures.
Soon he sooth'd his soul to pleasures
War, he sung, is toil and trouble:
Honor but an empty bubble;

Never ending, still beginning,
Fighting still, and still destroying,
If the world be worth thy winning,
Think, oh think it worth enjoying!
Lovely Thais sits beside thee,

Take the good the gods provide thee!
The many rend the skies with loud applause,
So Love was crown'd; but Music won the cause.

The bard of Ferney, plac'd on high

Amid the tuneful quire,

With flying fingers touch'd the wooden lyre :
The notes, tho' lame, ascend as high
As civic joys require.

The song began from G-K's toil,
Who left his Litchfield's native soil,
(Such were his hopes of golden spoil)
King Richard's crooked form bely'd the man:
Sublime on high-heel'd shoes he trod,

When first he courted Lady Anne

In Goodman's Fields, till then an unfrequented road.
As Hastings next round Pritchard's waist he curl'd,
Or shew'd, in Drugger's rags, an idiot to the world.
The list'ning crowd admire the lofty sound,

A present Shakespeare, loud they shout around:
A present Shakespeare, loud the rafter'd halls rebound.