THOSE bicycles, those bicycles!
How merry a tale their image tells,
Of youth and health, and that fleet time
When last I heard their whistle's chime.

Those boyous hours are passed away;
And many a heart that then was gay,
Out of or in town darkly dwells,
And rides not now those bicycles.

Again 'twill be-they are not gone;
That gleeful wheel will still roll on,
While I help bards to wire their shells
And sing your praise, fleet bicycles.

From Lyra Bicyclica, by J. G. Dalton. Boston, U.S., 1880.

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STRONG AND SURE.

STRONG and sure were the skates she wore,
And a neat little hat on her head she bore;
But, oh her grace, so wondrous that,

Beyond her skates, or her dainty hat.

"Lady! dost thou not fear to rink,

So hard is the ground should'st thou chance to sink?
Are Plimpton's skates of so great renown
As not to be tempted to let you down?"

"Nay, nay! I feel not the least alarm,

No skate of Plimpton's will bring me to harm :
Though at night I love dancing on polish'd floor,
By day I love skating and rinking more.

On she went, and her magic skill

Guided her safely without a spill;

And happy are they who trust their fates

To Plimpton's rollers and Plimpton's skates.

From Idyls of the Rink, by A. W. Mackenzie. Second Edition. 1877.

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ON AN UNANSWERED Letter.

I KNEW by the dirt that so greasefully lined

All its corners and sides, that an answer was due ; And I said if a sheet in my desk I can find, My pen that is ready shall fill it for you.

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THE TEMPLE BAR MEMORIAL OBSTRUCTION. WHERE stood the Bar, we're building love, A something all stone, and some gilding, love,

Ah! the best of all ways

Can be stopped up by drays,

When we steal a few feet from the road, my love. Punch. October 9, 1880.

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OH, there is not in nature

A bliss so complete

As the first glass of toddy

Strong, smoking, and sweet.

(At a meeting of the United Kingdom Alliance, Sir Wilfred Lawson said the publicans were like a great army armed with bottles.)

THE publican on his raid has gone.

All over the land you'll find him;
A bottle of Bass he has girded on,
And a barrel is slung behind him.
"Oh, drink divine," said Boniface,
"What though teetotallers make thee
A thing of scorn and of black disgrace,
I never will forsake thee!"

He did not fall, for Common Sense
Soon brought the enemy under,
And the bottle of Bass we Britons dense
Refused to smash asunder.

Sir Wilfred-well, he looked quite demure,

For, fallen out of favour, he

Was shown that we Britons will not endure
Stern prohibition's slavery.

THE ROW.

I KNEW by the noise that I heard all around

WELSH SONGS.

In the street where I was, that a row it was near;
And I said, "If there's fun this good night to be found,
As I love it so dearly, I shall sure find it here."
Every tongue seem'd employ'd, and the row did increase,
Whilst the Charleys their rattles so cheerily spring.

I hopp'd into the crowd, the news for to catch,
But scarcely had open'd my mouth to inquire,
When a rascally thief made off with my watch,

Tript my heels, and so laid me flat down in the mire.
The watchmen surrounded, and bore me away,
And in limbo was kept till the dawn of next day.
To the justice they took me, to tell my sad tale,
Who ask'd me what in defence I'd to say,

I told him that rogues in the crowd did assail,
Used my person quite ill, and my watch bore away.
He looking quite grim, bade me good hours keep,
Pay a shilling—and go to my home with all speed.

The New Whig Guide (London: W. Wright. 1819), contains several parodies of the songs of Thomas Moore and of Lord Byron, but being all on political topics they are now out of date, almost unintelligible, and not generally interesting. They are styled English Melodies, the first lines are as follows:

"Oh! the time is past when quarter-day my cares would chase."

(Moore's Love's Young Dream)

"Old Tierney came down like a wolf on the fold." (Byron's Destruction of Sennacherib.)

"Believe me, when all those ridiculous airs."

(Moore's Believe me, if all those endearing young charms.)
"Son of the faithless! melancholy rat!"
(Byron's Sun of the Sleepless)

"Fare ye well-and if for Easter."
(Byron's Fare you well—and if for ever.)

In the early days of the century Moore and Byron were the Society poets, their verses were on everyone's lips, and naturally parodies of them abounded. In addition to the translations of Moore's melodies already given, several other Greek, Latin, and French versions will be found in the collected works of Francis S. Mahony.

TAFFY WAS A WELSHMAN.
"TAFFY was a Welshman, Taffy was a thief;
Taffy came to my house and stole a shin of beef,
I went to Taffy's house, Taffy was not at home;
Taffy came to my house, and stole a marrow bone.

I went to Taffy's house, Taffy was not in ;
Taffy came to my house and stole a silver pin;
I went to Taffy's house, Taffy was in bed,
I took up a poker and flung it at his head."

Taffy is a corruption of Taffid, the Welsh form of David. This very old nursery rhyme owes its origin to the continual raids and cattle-lifting expeditions which took place on the Welsh borders in the middle ages, but it has long since lost all serious meaning with those who repeat it. Twenty years ago the late Mr. Shirley Brooks completely re-modelled the poem very much in Taffy's favour.

TAFFY is a Welshman:
Taffy's not a thief;
Taffy's mutton's very good,
Not so good his beef:
I went to Taffy's house,
Several things I saw,
Cleanliness and godliness,
Obedience to the law.
If Taffy rides to my house,
Or unto Pat's doth swim,

I think my Taffy will remark
That we might learn of him.
He does not drink, my Tafty,
(Not leastwise as a rule);
He goes to chapel regular,

And sends his boys to school;
He dresses well on Sunday,
His family the like;
He's not too fond of over-work,
But seldom cares to strike;
He never lurks behind a hedge
To pay his rent with slugs.
Up craggy hills of steep incline
His garden mould he lugs;
And there he grows his garden,

His cabbages and leeks;

His kids get green meat in their mouths, And roses in their cheeks.

Taffy is a Welshman,

And glories in the name,
To laugh at which enjoyment
Appears to me a shame.

You compliment the Scotchman
Who talks of Bruce and Burns;
You tolerate the Irishman

Who vaunts ancestral Kerns;
You're nuts on your own pedigree,
Won't call it English, fair,
But prate of "Anglo-Saxons,"
Till Reviewers nearly swear.
Why shouldn't gallant Taffy
Have his relics and his bones,
Llewelyns and Cadwallos,
And Griffyevanjones?
To say nothing of the question
Whether Taffy's mother-tongue
Wasn't quite a fine old language

When all of ours were young. He says he has good poets, Leave him his own opinion: You like obscure old ballads, And Taffy likes Englynion. Pray are not "moel," "afon,"

And "Morwyns" (pretty rogues),

At least as good as "birks" and "braes,"
"Mavourneens," "Arrah Pogues!
By all Nantfrancon's Beavers,
Of the pre-historic age;

By Aberglaslyn's hoary bridge,
And the Swallow's roaring rage;
By the trout of Capel Curig,

By Carnarvon's Eagled Tower,
The smile of placid Tan-y-bwlch,

And the frown of Penmaenmawr ;

By yon lonely Puffin Island,

And the monster head of Orme,
The Castle of the Beauteous Marsh,
Llanberis, Pass of Storm;

By the magic bridge of Bangor,
Hung awful in the sky,
By the grave at sweet Beddgelert,
Where the Martyr-hound doth lie;
By the lightnings that on Snowdon
Glint, the jewels of his crown,
Stand up, brave Taffy, for thy right,
And never be put down.
If all Victoria's subjects

Were half as good as thou,
Victoria's subjects would kick up
Uncommon little row.

And Punch, Incarnate Justice,

Intends henceforth to lick

All who shall scorn or sneer at you,

You jolly little Brick!

SHIRLEY BROOKS.

The Welsh were naturally much pleased with this version, and speedily translated it into their own language:

CYMRO ydyw Taffy,

Lladratta byth ni wna; Mae mutton Taffy'n gampus, Nid yw ei biff mor dda. Mi eis i fwthyn Taffy,

I wel'd ei ddull o fyw

Mae'n lân a duwiol yn ei dy,
I'r gyfraith ufudd yw,
Os merchyg Taffy yma,
At Pat os nawf y lli,
Mi dybiwn y dyweda ef

Fod ganddo wers i ni :
Nid ydyw Taffy'n yfed.

Fel rheol, wrth ei chwant,

I'r capel cerdd yn gysson iawn,
I'r ysgol gyr ei blant ;
Ymwisga 'n hardd y Sabbath,
A'i deulu yr un modd ;

Ni fyn ei ladd â gormod gwaith,

A strike ni fyn o'i fodd ;
Ni lecha byth tu ol i'r gwrych,
I dalu ei rent â phlwm;

Mae'n llusgo pridd a gwrtaith

I fyny'r llechwedd llwm;

Ac yno tyf ei foron,

A'i genin yn ei ardd.

Rhydd wyrddfwyd yn ngeneuau 'i blant,

A gwrid i'w gruddiau hardd.

Cymro ydyw Taffy,

A dyna'i fynych fost,

Ymddengys gwawdio'r fath fwynhâd,

I mi'n gywilydd tost:

Ai nid yw "moel, ac "afon," "Morwynion" (hudol rôgs),

Yn llawn mor dda a "birks," a "braes,"
"Mavourneens,' Arrah pôgs?
Yn enw efeingc gwylltion
Nantffrancon oes a fu,
Y bont ar Aberglaslyn,
A'r Wennol groch ei rhu,
Brithylliaid Capel Curig,
Twr Eryr Arton hen.
Yn enw gwg y Penmaen mawr,
A Than y Bwlch a'i wên;
Yn enw Ynys Seiriol,

A'r Gogarth erch ei drwyn;
Y Castell ar y Morfa Hardd,
Bwlch oer Llanberis fwyn;
Yn enw Crog-bont Menai,

Sy'n hongian yn y nen;
Yn enw bedd dy Ferthyr gi
A'r garnedd uwch ei ben,
Yn enw mellt yr Wydfa,

Sy'n euro ei goron fawr.
Sa 'i fyny, Taffy, myn dy hawl,
Na'th fwrier byth i lawr,
Pe byddai deiliaid Buddug
Yn hanner mor ddi fai,

Fe fyddai terfysg yn eu plith
Yn llawer iawn yn llai ;

Mae Punch, y Barnwr Cyfiawn,
Am roddi curfa ci

I bawb ro'nt ddirmyg it' rhagllaw

Hen fachgen iawn wyt ti.

This translation is taken from a most entertaining as well as useful work, entitled The Gossiping Guide to Wales, written by the late Mr. J. Askew Roberts, and published by Woodall, Minshall & Co., Oswestry 1886.

BOUNCER was a welsher,
Bouncer was a thief,

I won a bet of Bouncer,
And came to awful grief.
When I went to Bouncer,

He said he hadn't bet it,
Put his thumb up to his nose,
And wished that I might get it.

Of the favourite Welsh songs, such as Jenny Jones, Ah hyd y nos, and The Maid of Llangollen, only a few parodies are to be found, and they are scarcely worth reprinting.

TERM COMMENCES.

ON by the love of costs we're goaded-
"Term" begins then mischief's boded,
For we've hearts as hard as steel
What care we for wrong or right,
When we hold a client tight,

Or the least compunction feel!
Like serpents now, we're slyly creeping,
Then on our prey like tigers leaping.
In a twinkling we garotte him-
No escape when so we've got him.
While on him there is a stopper,
We clean him out of every copper.
Stick unto him till we bag

All he has to the last mag;

His body then, by way of ransom,

We seize and squeeze out something handsome.

Like skittles, debtors we keep flooring

In our charges fast keep pouring;
Actions ne'er by us are stayed.

Ours is a safe and thriving trade;
To the Law Courts let's away,
Expenses call and we obey.

LIBERAL MARCHING SONG. BROTHERS, up, to win new glory, That shall brighten future story, Sweeping off abuses hoary,

Shaping righteous laws;

To the Ballot early go, men ;

That we mean to conquer, show, men ; Well, we vote to win, we know, men

For the good old cause.

For ourselves we're fighting,

The people nobly righting;

Quick, come all, at Freedom's call,

To do her will delighting.

On, your Blue to victory bearing: Nought for all their vauntings caring: For the Right all dangers daring

Better lives and laws.

W. C. BENNETT.

OLD ENGLISH SONGS.

SHALL I LIKE A HERMIT DWELL? (Attributed to Sir Walter Raleigh.) SHALL I like a hermit dwell,

On a rock or in a cell,

Calling home the smallest part
That is missing of my heart,
To bestow it where I may
Meet a rival every day?

If she undervalue me,

What care I how fair she be?

Were her tresses angel-gold*
If a stranger may be bold
Unrebuked, unafraid

To convert them to a braid;
And with little more ado
Work them into bracelets, too;

If the mine be grown so free
What care I how rich it be

Were her hands as rich a prize
As her hairs or precious eyes;
If she lay them out to take
Kisses for good manners' sake;
And let every lover skip
From her hand unto her lip;

If she be not chaste to me

What care I how chaste she be ?

No; she must be perfect snow,
In effect as well as show,
Warming but as snow-balls do,
Not like fire, by burning too;
But when she by change hath got
To her heart a second lot;

Then if others share with me,
Farewell her, whate'er she be !

The burden of this song probably suggested the far more beautiful poem by George Wither, which follows:SHALL I, WAsting in Despair.

(George Wither, born 1588, died 1667.

SHALL I, wasting in despair,

Die because a woman's fair?

Or make pale my cheeks with care,

'Cause another's rosy are?

Be she fairer than the day,

Or the flow'ry meads in May,
If she be not so to me,

What care I how fair she be ?

Should my heart be grieved or pined
'Cause I see a woman kind
Or a well disposed nature
Joined with a lovely feature?
Be she meeker, kinder, than
Turtle-dove or pelican,

If she be not so to me,
What care I how kind she be ?
Shall a woman's virtues move
Me to perish for her love?
Or, her well-deservings known,
Make me quite forget my own

* Angel-gold was of a finer kind than crown gold.

Be she with that goodness blest
Which may gain her name of best,

If she be not such to me,

What care I how good she be?

'Cause her fortune seems too high,
Shall I play the fool and die?
Those that bear a noble mind,
Where they want of riches find,
Think what with them they would do
That without them dare to woo ;

And, unless that mind I see,
What care I how great she be?

Great, or good, or kind, or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair.
If she love me, this believe,
I will die ere she shall grieve:
If she slight me when I woo,

I can scorn and let her go:

For, if she be not for me,

What care I for whom she be?

From "The Mistress of Philarete,” published in 1622.

SONG. MR. GLADSTONE.

SHALL my heart be filled with care

'Cause the Whigs are so unfair?

Or, their services to keep,

Shall I sacrifice my sleep?
Or, lest they offence may take,
My great measures weaker make?

If they are not true to me,

What care I what Whigs they be.

'Cause they show such self-conceit,
Shall I risk severe defeat?

Or, in their good books to stay,
Scare good Radicals away?
Tho' their talent be as great
As they never fail to state,

Yet, if they are not with me,
What care I what Whigs they be?
They have duped me far too long,
Threatening they were very strong,
Now I know they are at best
Fossils of no powers possest,
And methinks they soon will find
I am neither weak nor blind.

If their heats beat not for me,
What care I what Whigs they be?

They have thwarted me enough,
Tried to hinder and rebuff;

Why should I reward them, then,
To the loss of better men;
Better far to let them go,
And become an open foe!

If they will not work with me,
They may Tories be for me!

Truth. Christmas number 1882.

MATILDA.

SHALL I fret and fume and swear,
Because Matilda dyes her hair?
Or make pale my cheeks with care,
That hers so very rosy are?

Though her raven locks to-day
Turn as yellow as the hay,

If she be but true to me,

What care I how blonde she be !

Shall a woman's weakness move
Me such weakness to reprove?
Or her little failings known
Make me careless of my own?
Though her bills be longer than
Bill of duck or pelican,

If they be not paid by me,
What care I how long they be?

If her youth be left behind,
Shall I play the fool and mind?
She must be, the women say,
Forty-five if she's a day-
But I swear she looks no more,
At the most, than forty-four:

If she's young enough for me,
What care I how old she be?
Be she painted, fast, or old-
Be she flirt, or rake, or scold—
She has cash enough to make
Me submissive for her sake:
If she loose her money, though,

I can scorn and let her go;

If in poverty she be,

She may go to Bath for me!

From The White Pilgrim, and other Poems. By Herman Charles Merivale. London, Chapman & Hall, 1883.

(By the Author's kind permission.)

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THE COCKNEY SHEPHEARD TO HIS LOVE. (ARCADIA.-Switchback railway now running through groves of trees, and above a veritable Fairyland of flowers, foliage, and illuminations, to strains of military music.)

COME, switch with me, my cockney Love,
And we will all the pleasures prove

Of hills, vales, groves, and flowery lands,
And strains of military bands.

And we will, sitting on the car,

Where other nymphs and shepheards are,
Shoot up and down, in rise and fall,
With catch (of breath) for madrigal.

My manly arm about thy waist,
For belt and clasp, Love, interlaced;
Thy skirt beflowered, and thy head-gear
The latest thing from Swan and Edgar.

My checks, my tie, my gilded studs,

Will vanquish all the rival "bloods.'
So, if such pleasures may thee move,
Come, switch with me, my cockney Love.