FOUND WANTING.
Appoint a Poet Laureate, some prate,
But that's impossible, and wise men know it,
Because, 'midst many a would-be Laureate,
We cannot find a—Poet!
Well, there is one; but him both Whig and Tory hate;
Whence he, although a Poet, is not Laureate!
And, after all, John Bull is little loth
To wait, until he finds one who is both.
For, after Tennyson, the choice, we see,
Doth lie 'twixt—Tweedledum and Tweedledee!
Because they are not good enough who crave it,
Whilst one or two more worthy will not have it.
Addition To Magistrate's Decision.—Professor to be henceforth entitled "Il Ré Galantuomo." Who? Ray! Hooray!
SCRAPS FROM CHAPS.—A Spirit Licence.—At the Limerick Quarter Sessions, a landlord at Loughgur sought a new licence for his inn.
The applicant stated that he intended to keep a boat there for the convenience of tourists.
His Honour—What are the features of antiquity there?
The Applicant—there are old castles and ruins.
Mr. Lowndes—And the White Knight of Desmond crosses the lake once every five or ten years.
His Honour—And he is only seen by your patrols. (Laughter.) If this licence were granted, I suppose the White Knight would cross the lake every night! (Laughter.)
Of course he would! A phantom in a boat, if properly advertised, would probably "draw" the Saxon tourist in his hundreds. Here is a chance for the Psychical Research Society.
WOODMAN, SPARE NOT THAT TREE!
(Song of the Suburban tree-slaughtering savage, whose axe and saw and cord are rapidly making umbrageous neighbourhoods hideous.)
Woodman, spare not that tree!
Leave not a single bough!
In youth it sheltered me,
So I'll destroy it now.
Tall trees infest the land,
Rurality is rot!
Nought but a stump shall stand
On this once shady spot.
An old umbrageous tree
Makes suburb less like town;
It spreads too far for me,
Up, axe, and hew it down!
Woodman, ply stroke on stroke,
Till prone on earth it lies;
(Oh! isn't it a joke?)
Once towering to the skies!
Woodman, and woodman's boy,
Bring axe, and saw, and spade,
Hack, lop and top, with joy;
Destruction is your trade!
It grew for many a year;
It's growth, fools say, is grand.
Eh? Spare its charms? No fear!
No bough of it shall stand!
When comes again the spring
No leafage forth 'twill send;
No bird thereon shall sing,
No breeze its branches bend.
Old tree, no more thou'lt wave
O'er this suburban spot!
If I my will might have,
The axe should fell the lot!
"Hoi Adelphoi" (the Messrs. Gatti), the Adelphians, or, as friend Wagg would necessarily call them, the "Fill-adelphi-uns," have a stirring Life-boat Scene in Messrs. Scott and Thomas's drama The Swordsman's Daughter. Where there are so many rapiers flashing—not one of them pointless—the piece might have suffered from cutting. As it is, the display of fence is most exciting. Mr. Terriss the swordsman, Miss Millward his daughter, are excellent; and this is true of the entire performance. As for Mr. Abingdon, he is becoming a greater villain in every play of his life. He'll end by being hung in the Royal Academy. Of course, first of all, he will have to be "taken from life" by the hand of some distinguished painter.
Pot-Luck.—A sportsman named Mr. Allan Gilmour, junior, has been credited with recently shooting "the first specimen of the solitary snipe" that had been seen in England. Writing to a Scotch paper, he says, "As snipe-shooting has been my favourite sport for the last twenty-eight years, during which time I have killed over 4,000 snipe without ever getting a shot at a 'solitary,' I am naturally very pleased."
For years he'd hunted all in vain,
But when the time was ripe,
His fortune changed—he really bagged
A solitary snipe.
There are who find their chiefest joy
A friend, a feast, a pipe;
But Mr. Gilmour's heaven is here—
A solitary snipe.
O Peter Magnus[A] Gilmour, we
Must tears of envy wipe
That you can count it bliss to pot
A solitary snipe!
