TO THE QUEEN OF MAYS.
Give me an elfin, frolic MAY,
No Queen with hoarse cadenzas,
Who pipes a frozen roundelay
Of spiteful influenzas.
My MAY shall air no voices crude.
No chained and chilly dances—
With wordless harmonies endued
And pirouetting fancies.
She'll draw us round no Northern Poles
With crowns of mimic roses.
That mock our sad sepulchral souls
And counterfeit our noses.
But white as hawthorn blossom, free
As air to shed her pleasures,
My mute, melodious MAY shall be
The soul of wayward measures.
To put it plainly, while the ban
Of Spring on us and gales is,
I'll bask and smile and worship JEANNE
Within the Prince of Wales's.
CONSERVATIVE COMMENT ON A RECENT ELECTION (after Mr. Middlewick).—"Humph! Inferior Dosset!"
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