SONG OF THE ELECTION.

VOTE not, vote not for me, I pray,

There's fatal weakness in your vaunted powers, My foes will laugh, my friends will slink away Soon as they hear that you are one of ours. Vote not! Vote not!

Vote not for me! Oh, keep your word to Wild, 'Twill serve me better than if faith you broke,

I knew the value of your hate, and smiled,
But, oh! to have you for me is no joke!
Vote not! Vote not!

Vote not! Vote not! Oh, warning vainly given ;
Oh, why be generous at another's cost?
Against your vote alone I might have striven,
But when you used your influence all was lost.
He votes! all's lost!

From Poems of a Life, by Lord Sherbrooke (Robert Lowe.)

:0'

SOME DAY.

(Music by Milton Wellings.)

A PARODY.

We know not when the day shall be ; We know not how the cost to meet ; What sites to choose, should all agree; Or will our plans work when complete. It may not be till years have passed,

Till crowded hordes plague sweeps away.

Debate is long-but, poor, at last

Our wordy wars may end-Someday.

Someday, Someday, Someday we shall house you, Though we know not when or how; though we know not when or how ;

Tories first, Tories first-first have said they'd house you; Think of this, Vote for us now, good artisans, Vote for us

now.

We cared not once your woes to hear,

Nor how you died, nor how you live ;
But now election time grows near,

Your votes to us we'd have you give ;
And when we're in, Someday, Someday,
Streets wider grown, well built, you'll see ;
And ev'ry man, new quartered, may

Have first-rate rooms, almost rent free.

Someday, Someday, Someday we shall house you,

Though we know not when or how; though we know not when or how;

Tories first, Tories first-first have said they'd house you; Think of this, Vote for us now, good artisans, Vote for us REPEALER.

now.

Set to Music by Claribel.

YEARS of chequered life together,
Days of fair and stormy weather,
Hours of toil and weary pain,
Moments of eternal gain-

All are gone we know not how
And have left us strangers now!
Words that flowed to lighten care,
Thoughts which others could not share
Hopes too bright for mortal eyes,
Prayers for wisdom from the skies,-
All have ceased-we know not how
And have left us strangers now!
Will it evermore be thus ?
Shall the past be lost to us
Can the souls united here
Never once again be near?
Must we to the sentence bow

"Strangers ever-Strangers now!

Thorns amid the roses press

Earth is but a wilderness;

Flitting o'er a fallen race

Love can find no resting place.

Where his flowers immortal grow

Shall we strangers be as now?

Once a Week. 1869.

:0:

"THE BEATING OF MY OWN WIFE."

(Air—“The beating of my own heart," by Lord Houghton),

I'D melted all my wages,

Ere of beer I had my fill,

For a bob I asked the Missus
-There's a way where there's a will.
She refused, I took the poker,

The neighbours never stirred,
For the beating of my own wife
Was the only sound they heard.
A sneak blowed to the Crushers,
I was lugged afore the Beak-
But I know'd that it was nothing:
The old gal had her squeak:
They fined me forty shillings,
I paid it like a bird,
And the beating of my own wife,
Perhaps, that night was heard.
But rights is rights no longer;
CROSS Swears he'll eat his hat,
Or jolly dogs, as wops their gals,
Shall suffer from the Cat.
If that brutal measure passes,

Take WILLIAM SIKES, his word,
That the beating of his own wife
Will not again be heard.

Punch. November 21, 1874.

LOVE AND SCIENCE.

[The Sphygmophon is an apparatus connected with the telephone, by the help of which the movements of the pulse and heart may be rendered audible.]

I WANDERED by the brookside,
I wandered by the mill;

The Sphygmophon was fixed there,

Its wires ran past the hill.

I heeded not the grasshopper,
Nor chirp of any bird,

For the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.

To test this apparatus,
One end I closely press'd,
The other, at a distance,

I hoped was next his chest.

I listened for his footfall,

I listened for his word,

Still the bumping of my own heart Was all the sound I heard.

He came not, no, he came not-
The night came on alone;

And thinking he had tricked me,
I loosed the Sphygmophon.
The evening air passed by my cheek,
The leaves above were stirr'd,
When the thumping of his own heart
Was all the sound I heard.

With joy I grasped the magnet,
When some one stood behind,
His hand was on my shoulder
(But that I did not mind).
Each spoke then-nearer-nearer,
We shouted every word;

But the booming of our own hearts
Was all the sound we heard.

Funny Folks. March 29, 1879.

MY KING.

(After "My Queen." Music by Blumenthal.)
WHEN and how shall I meet him, if ever?
What are the words he first will say?
How will the barriers now that sever
Our kindred spirits be rolled away?
This self-same daylight on him is shining,
Shining somewhere the while I sing-
The only one who, my will resigning,
Could I acknowledge my King, my King!
Whether his hair be golden or raven,

Whether his eye be dark or blue,

I know not now, but 'twould be engraven
Some day hence as the loveliest hue.
Many a face I have liked for a minute,
Been charmed by a voice with a pleasant ring
But ever and aye there was something in it,
Something that could not be his, my King!

I will not dream of him, handsome and strong,
My ideal love may be weak and slight;
It matters not to what class he belong,

He would be noble enough in my sight.
He may not be brilliantly gifted, my lord,
Or he may be learned in everything,
But if ever he comes he will touch the chord
Whose melody waits for the hand of its King!

But he must be courteous towards the lowly,
To the weak and sorrowful, loving too;
He must be courageous, refined, holy,

By nature exalted, and firm, and true.
To such I might fearlessly give the keeping
Of love that would never out-grow its spring:
There would be few tears of a woman's weeping

If they love such men as my King, my King!
London Society.

"My Queen," which appeared originally in London Society some time before the above imitation, consisted of four verses, but as arranged by Blumenthal the second verse is omitted:

Whether her hair be golden or raven,
Whether her eyes be hazel or blue,

I know not now but 'twill be engraven,
On that white day as my perfect hue.
Many a girl I have loved for a minute,
Worshipped many a face I have seen;
But ever and aye there was something in it,
Something that could not be hers, My Queen.

MY SCHEME.

(As sung with great success by the L-d Ch-nc-ll-r).

WHY and when were we driven to moot it?
Was it knocked off in an afternoon?
Will the Roman-Catholic Bishops hoot it?
Have we set it afloat too late?-too soon?
Did we try it because we feared a flounder?
No matter. Since still we reign supreme,
Admitting that nothing simpler, sounder,

Have we ever turned out than, "My Scheme, my Scheme !"

Punch. July, 12, 1879.

And I still keep listening for the words you never more may speak!

'Tis but a step down yonder lane, and the little church stands near,

The church where we were wed, Mary-I see the spire from here:

But the grave-yard lies between, Mary, and my step might break your rest;

For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep, with your baby on your breast.

I'm very lonely now, Mary, for the poor make no new friends;

But oh, they love the better far, the few Our Father sends ! And you were all 1 had, Mary, my blessing and my pride:

There's nothing left to care for now, since my poor Mary

died!

THE TENANT'S FAREWELL.
(A Lay of the 24th of December.)

I'M flitting in the style, Mary,
Which each half year we've tried,
At Michaelmas and Lady-day,
Since first you were my bride.
The quarters follow quickly on,

And the rents mount up so high;

But there's brass upon my cheek, Mary,
And there's no green in my eye.

The place is greatly changed, Mary,
We've boned the fixtures all;

We've torn the locks from off each door,
The bell-pulls from each wall.

And we'll miss our soft warm beds to-night,
To-morrow's quarter day;

And the landlord's waiting for the rent
I never mean to pay.

I'm very busy now, Mary,

The while yon cart attends,

For I'm packing up our furniture,

And all our odds and ends :

For these goods are all we have, Mary
Our household's joy and pride;

And there's nothing left to seize on now,
We've packed them all inside.

We're bidding now a long farewell,

My Mary, to our den;

And we'll not forget next Quarter-day

To do the same again.

Folks say it is but fair to pay

One's landlord, I don't care;

For I ne'er intend to do so,
Were it fifty times as fair.

Diogenes. 1853.

THE LAY OF THE HENPECKED.

By Lady Sufferin.

I'm sitting in a style, Mary,

Which doesn't coincide

With what I've been accustomed to

Since you became my bride;

The men are singing comic songs,

The lark gets loud and high,

For I've ask'd-since you're from home, MaryA party on the sly.

The place is rather changed, Mary,

Of smoke it slightly smells,

And the table and the floor are strewn
With heaps of oyster shells;

And the men have marked your damask chairs
With many a muddy streak,

And they've drawn burnt cork moustaches n
Your mother's portrait's cheek.

I'm very jolly now, Mary,

'Midst old and valued friends,

(Though they've in the carpet burnt some holes With their Havannahs' ends).

CHANGED FOR THE WORST.

I'm sitting at my window, Jack,
Where we've sat side by side,
Many a bright ev'ning long ago,

In life's thoughtless, gay spring tide, When we thought more of pleasure, Jack, Than three per cents or four:

Ah, those were pleasant days, my boy-
But days we'll see no more!

This place is greatly changed, Jack,
The fields are all "clean gone,"

The shady lanes through which we strolled
Have all been built upon :

"

Duke,"

My house is flanked by a "Dun Cow,"
A "Green Man," and a
A chandler's shop is opposite-
The owner's name is Snook!

"Solitude" is now "Victoria-street,"
"The Hermitage". Albert-square,"
"The Fairies' Haunt" a Music Hall,
In which I've got a share.

A cab-stand's near "Our Lady's Well,"
A workhouse in "Love Lane,"

A church and schools in "Lovers' Walk "
From near which starts the train !

We're treated to all "London cries

From morn till dewy eve,

And strong-lunged preachers in the streets

Beseech us to "believe;

We're taxed for water, streets, and gas,
And "Bobbies" by the score-
Ah, everything is changed, Jack,
From the happy days of yore!

But, worse than all, the weather, Jack,
Has quite "gone to the dogs "-
In May we'd sleet, in June we've frost,
In July we'll have fogs;

I cannot leave the house, Jack,
But I shiver with the cold-

Ah, the weather's not the same, boy,
As in the days of old!

And I am greatly changed, Jack,
I do not walk so straight

As when each day beheld us

At pic-nic, race, or fête;

My hair has grown quite thin, Jack,
My lungs are far from right,

I've rheumatism, lumbago, gout,
I cannot sleep at night.

I think if I'd a wife, Jack,

She'd make me soon all right,
By watching o'er my comfort, boy,
Both morn, and eve, and night:
I'll take one,-if I find a girl

Of beauty, youth, and wealth,

Who wants a husband sound at heart,
Though not quite sound in health!

The Hornet. June 21, 1871.

THE CHURCHYARD STILE.
(An Imitation).

I LEFT thee young and gay, Mary,
When last the thorn was white;

I went upon my way, Mary,

And all the world seemed bright;

For though my love had ne'er been told,

Yet, yet I saw thy form

Beside me in the midnight watch;
Above me, in the storm.

And many a blissful dream I had,
That brought thy gentle smile,

Just as it came when last we leaned
Upon the Churchyard Stile.

I'm here to seek thee now, Mary,

As all I love the best;

To fondly tell thee how, Mary,

I've hid thee in my breast.

I came to yield thee up my heart,
With hope, and truth, and joy,

And crown with Manhood's honest faith
The feelings of the Boy.

I breathed thy name, but every pulse
Grew still and cold the while

For I was told thou wert asleep
Just by the Churchyard Stile.

THE LOW-BACKED CAR.

WHEN first I saw sweet Peggy,
'Twas on a market day,

A low-back'd car she drove, and sat
Upon a truss of hay;

But when that hay was blooming grass,
And deck'd with flowers of spring,
No flow'r was there that could compare
With the blooming girl I sing.
As she sat in the low-back'd car-
The man at the turnpike bar
Never asked for the toll,

But just rubb'd his old poll,
And looked after the low-back'd car.

THE LOW-NECK'D DRESS. WHEN first I saw Miss Clara,

A west-end ball 'twas at,

A low-neck'd dress she wore, and near
The open door she sat ;

But when that door was thriving oak,
Exposed to tempests keen
And biting air

So much, 'twas ne'er

As the blooming girl I mean,

As she sat in her low-neck'd dress,
Becoming I must confess;

For of all the men round,

Not one could be found,

But looked after the low-neck'd dress.

The polka's tumult over,

The fondest of mammas

Her daughter calls, and hints at shawls;
But scornful "hums" and "ha's"

From Clara (artiul goddess!)

The kind proposal meet-
Quite faint she feels-

She fairly reels

She never could bear the heat!

So she sits in her low-neck'd dress;

But the heat would have troubled her less,

For long weeks will have roll'd

Ere she's rid of her cold,

That she caught from the Low-neck'd dress,

I'd rather see those shoulders

'Neath dowdy cloak of fur,

Or pilot coat, and round that throat

A ploughman's comforter;

For I'd know that tender bosom
Was safe from climate's ill,

And the heart so sweet

Would much longer beat

Than I now feel sure it will

While she clings to her low-neck'd dress

I've proposed, and she answer'd “

Next week it's to be,

But make sure I shall see
That it's not in a low-neck'd dress.

Diogenes. October, 1853.

'yes."

ELIZA COOK.

THE DINING CAR. WHEN first I used the railway, 'Twas in Mugby Junction days,