! Jrom 6Mre to 6ag ifi^ «^^ . w^ UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA AT LOS ANGELES 'VKOM GRAVE TO GAV /" A VOLUME OF SELECTIONS FROM THE COMPLETE POEMS OF II. CHOLMONDELEY-PENNELL .1 utf»>r of ' Puck on Pegasus ' ' Pegasus Rt-saelt was presented to lleenan as a testimony of English ad- minition of his j^allant fit;lit. THE PETIT ION. THE PETITION. (PROBABLE EFFECT OF HIGHER EDUCATION ON THE SHOE-BLACK BRIGADE.) An ! pause a while, kind gentleman, Nor turn thy face away ; There is a boon that I must ask, A prayer that I would pray. Thou hast a gentle wife at home ? A son— perchance like me — And children fair with golden hair To cling around thy knee ? Then by their love I pray thee, And by their merry tone ; By home, and all its tender joys, Which I have never known, — I>y all the smiles that hail thee now ; By every former sigh ; By every pang that thou hast felt When lone, perchance, as I, — THE PETITION. By youth and all its blossoms bright, By manhood's ripened fruits, By Faith and Hope and Charity — You'll let me clean your boots ! SONG OF LOWER-WATER. 113 SONG OF LOWER-WATER. WHEN the summer Moon was sleeping On the Sands of Lower- Water- By the Lowest Water Margin — At the Mark of Dead Low Water, — Came a lithe and lovely maiden, Crinolina, Wand'ring Whiteness, Gazing on the ebbing water — Gazing on the gleaming river — With her azure eyes and tender, — On the river glancing forward. Till the laughing Wave sprang upward, From his throne in Lower- Water, — Upward from his reedy hollow, With the lily in his bosom, With his crown of water-lilies — Curling ev'ry dimpled ripple As he leapt into the starlight. As he clasped her charmed reflection Glowing to his crystal bosom — As he whisper'd, ' Wand'ring Whiteness, Rest upon my crystal bosom ! Join this little water party.' . . . Yet she spoke not, only munnured : — I 114 SO\G OF LOU'ER-U'A TER. Down into the water stept she, Lowest Water — Dead Low Water — Down into the wavering river, Like a red deer in the sunset — Like a ripe leaf in the autumn : From her lips, as rose-buds snow-filled. Came a soft and dreamy music, Softer than the breath of summer. Softer than the murm'ring river. Than the cooing of Cushawa, — Sighs that melted as the snows melt, Silently and sweetly melted ; Sounds that mingled with the crisping Foam upon the billow resting : Still she spoke not, only murmured. From the forest shade primeval, Piggey-Wiggey looked out at her ; He the most Successful vSqueaker — He the very Youthful Porker — He the Everlasting Grunter — • Gazed upon her there, and wondered ! With his nose out, Rokey-pokey — And his tail up, Curley-wurley — Wondered what could be the matter. SONG OF LOIVER-IVATER. 115 Wondered what the girl was up to — What the deuce her little game was. . . . And she floated down the river, Like a water- 'witch 'd Ophelia. . . . For her crinoline sustained her. 13 n6 HOIV IVE GOT TO THE BRIGHTON REVlEif^. HOW WE GOT TO THE BRIGHTON REVIEW. O' |H ! Brighton's the place For a beautiful face, And a figure that daintily made is ; And as far as I know There's none other can show At the right time of year — say November or so — Such lots of bewitching young ladies. Such blows on the Down ! Such lounges thro' Town ! Such a crush at Parade and Pavilion ! Such beaches below (Where people don't go), Such bathing ! Such dressing, — past Madame Tussaud ! No wonder it catches the million ! For bustle and breeze And a sniff of salt seas. Oh, Brighton's the place ! not a doubt of it ; — But instead of post-chaise Or padded coupes. HOIV IVE COT TO THE BRIGHTON' REVIEU^. 1J7 If you had to get there a Vexcursionnaise— 1 think you'd be glad to keep out of it ! (Chorus of Passengers.) With their slap dash, crack crash. And here and there a glorious smash, And a hjoidred killed and wounded, — Ifs little our jolly Directors care For a passenger' s neck if he pays his fare, ' Away you go at a florin the pair. The signal whistle has sounded ! ' Off at last ! An hour past The time, and carriages light-full ; Why this should be We don't quite see, But of course it's all a part of the spree And it's really most delightful ! (Chorus.) Crash, crack, Brighton and back. All the way for a shilling, — ii8 HOW WE GOT TO THE BRIGHTON REVIEW. Tlid' the speed be slow, We^re likely to go A lortg jou7-ney before lae get back d'you knozu. The pace is so wonderfully '■ killing'' I Ho ! ' slow ' d'you find ? Then off, like the wind — With a jerk that to any unprejudiced mind Feels strongly as if it had come from behind- Away like mad we clatter ; Bang — slap, — bang — rap, — ' Can't somebody manage to see what has hap- There goes Jones's head ! — no, it's only his cap- Jones, my boy, who's your hatter ? Slow it is, is it ? jump jolt, Slithering wheel and starling bolt, Racketing, reeling, and rocking, — Now we're going it ! — jolt jump, Whack thwack, thump l)ump, — It's a mercy we're all stuck fast in a lump, The permanent way is shocking ! (Chorus.) Jump, jolt, Engines that holt, Brighton and hack for a shilling — HO IV WE GOT TO THE BRIGHTON REVIEW. 119 Jolt jump — but ive've children and wives., Thump bump— who value our lives. And you won't catch one here again who survives The patent process of killing ; (Chorus of Directors.) With our slap dash, crack crash. And here and there a glorious smash. And a hundred killed and wounded! — It's little we jolly Directors care For a passenger's limbs if he pays his fare. So away you go at a florin the pair. The signal whistle has sounded! WANTED-AN IDEA. WANTED— AN IDEA. "X/OU want an idea? then I've got it ! — -"• Prepared to impart on the spot : You'll probably think The idea's for a Rink Or a Bank or Bazaar ? — but it's not. Not at all ! I disclaim all designs Philanthropic, past, future, or present : So of course you'll suppose It's a Poem or Prose, Or a Sermon or Song? — but it isn't. Then you'd guess it was something in Art Or in Science — that should be, or shouldn't — 'Twould be something that's new. Or at least something true — Something somehow, you know? — but it wouldn't ! No, no! F.R.S. and R.A., This idea isn't what you call ' savz.Vi.\. ' — Not Tyndall or ' Phiz '— My idea of it is That I've got an idea that — you haven'' t. QUACK! QUACK!! QUACK HI QUACK ! QUACK ! ! QUACK ! ! ! First Patient. Oil, doctor dear, make haste ! Give me something nice to taste- I'm bent like a ball With what you may call A headache in the waist. First Quack. I'll give you a box of Pills — They cure all earthly ills — Take ten at a time You'll find it sublime — (If it doesn't cure it kills.) Second Patient. Oh, doctor, I shall die ! I've just poked uul my eye — It's black as a nigger And five times bigger Than the biggest gooseberry pie ! QUACK! QUACK!! QUACK!!! Second Quack. I give you a splendid Lotion {^^^lat it does I haven't a notion), Keep mopping it fast, You'll find out at last The plan of perpetual motion. Third Patient. Help, doctor dear, I beg ! I want screwing up a ' peg ' — From the top of St. Paul I happened to fall And fractured my dexter leg ! Third Quack. I'll give you an Ointment of power — You'll rub it in for an hour — (If you fancy it, t7vo — It's amusing for you And won't hurt — it's tallow and flour). Chorus of Quacks and Patients. This world's all take and give, One dies that t'other may live, And fools for knaves Drop into their graves As sand drops through a sieve ! AN UNINVITED GUEST. 123 AN UNINVITED GUEST. 1"^IIE supper and the song had died When to my couch I crept ; I flung the muslin curtains wide And took a ' first-class place inside ' — It might have seemed I slept. Yet scarce the drowsy god had woo'd My pillow to befriend, WTien fancy, how extremely rude ? A fellow evidently screw'd Got in, the other end I The bolster from my side he took To make his own complete, Then sat, and gazed with scornful look,- With wrath my very pulses shook And quivered to my feet. I kicked of course — long time in doubt The war waged to and fro ; At last I kicked the rascal out And woke — to find explosive gout Developed in my toe. 124 AH, WHO? AH, WHO? "^T THO comes so damp by grass and grave * « At ghastly twilight hour, And bubbles forth his pois'nous breath On ev'ry shudd'ring flow'r ? Who dogs the houseless wanderer Upon the wintry wold ; And kisses — with his frothy lips — The clammy brow and cold ? Who, hideous, trails a slimy form. Betwixt the moonlight pale. And the pale, fearful, sleeping face ? Our little friend — the Snail. THE WORLD'S MINE OYSTER. las 'THE WORLD'S MINE OYSTER.' ' nnilE world's mine oyster ! ' but, alas ! -*- No other oyster's in my reach ; Oh, friends, how does it come to pass That you've arrived at threepence each ? Time was — away, bewildering thought ! The fancy sets my pulses thrilling — A dozen * natives ' might be bought, Wiih bread and butter, for a shilling . . But these are glories of the past. We hardly wonder where they've got to ; A generation's coming fast Won't even ' recollect the grotto,' — And when that old New Zealand swell Arrives on London bridge to pose, He'll find the final oyster-shell Suspended from Britannia's nose. 126 MUSICAL UNDERTONES. MUSICAL UNDERTONES. HERR BELLOWS, won't you sing ? (Or rather won't you roar? — ) I should like so to accompany you — (As far as the street door) . . . Miss Squeals will take her part In that charming duet by Meyer, With Signor Buffo ? (that's two at a go, I wish I could do them in ' choir ! ') Lord Whooper sings, I know ? (Too well ! and always flat) — What an exquisite air — (for a dirge on the stair Assisted by the cat !) . . . Shan't we hear your voice, madame ? (Bo thanked ! she's a cold in the head—) Pray pity our loss — (what a fool I was ! She's going to ' play instead ') . . . ' Encore ? ' (oh, I can't stand this — They're going it, ' hammer and tongs ' — Confound ihcm all ! I'll get out in the hall And leather away at the gongs !) ON GHOSTS. ,27 ON GHOSTS. T '.M not much set on ghosts— altho' no doubt -'- Psycliologists may feel a predilection For such ' leave-ticket ' gentry, loose about In history and fiction ; — Familiar spirits, loved but never lost ! Like that vex'd shade in Corsica's twin Brothers, Or in Macbeth, Don Juan, Hamlet, Faust, And half a hundred others : Of which, N,B., not half are ghosts at all. But nondescripts defying diagnosis, Tho' Mrs. Crowe herself the list should call Of each metempsychosis. Faust's Mephistopheles, who filch'd his soul, Was just a ' psychic ' with a kleptomania, (In this resembling Obcron— who stole The changeling of Tilania — ) Ondine's a ' Nymph,' who wanted to be kissed And didn't, both at once— case not uncommon, — And, barring ' tragics,' it must be confessed A rather nice young woman : 123 ON GHOSTS. Ariel's a puzzle, or has always been To me — altho' the part plays neatly, very, — But then it's only fair to add I've seen It acted by Kate Terry : [' Delicate Ariel ! ' had I Prosp'ro's skill I would have work'd some charm to break my vow— Yet keep it — and your sweet self singing still ' Under the hanging blossom on the bough ' !] Avenel's WTiite Lady of the Fountain, vex'd To see her girdle less'ning in dimension ! Proving herself at least a ghost unsex'd — No sprite of Eve's invention : Witches ar'n't ghosts, or ghosts still in the flesh, Altho' they ride on broomsticks over ditches ; And this being thus, the point that's raised afresh Is to tell v/hich is witches ? A Sylphide's v/hat — I know not — not a-niiss — Nor fragile Peri from a rose-leaf sipping, Mermaids and Naiads wear a charming dress But run too much to ' dripping.' Then there's the Dry-ad, just by way of change. Brownie and Banshee, Troll — but he's a woodfellow- Fays, Elves, and Sprites who toadstool rings arrange And Puck or Robin Goodfcllow ; — ON GHOSTS. 129 Kelpie and Kobold, Wraith, and Spook, and Fix, Hobgoblin, Imp, and things of smaller matter Not worth invoking — Bogie, Gnome, and Nix, ' Hyperion to a Satyr.' . . , And still they come ! they come before I call — Indeed, I'd no idea so vast their bulk was. ' I'll see no more ! ' give me, if ghosts at all, Ghosts solid, as ' Fitzfulk ' was. POSTSCRrPT TO GHOSTS. POSTSCRIPT TO GHOSTS. IT seems that after all some friends have got Left in the lurch, to favour rhyme or brevity — The apparitions mean to make it hot For treating them with levity. A Siren hints I must have lost my eyes, A Plarpy kindly lets me know I'm ' wanted,' A Houri threatens me with Paradise, A Hag with being haunted. If this were all I might p'raps ' chance the ducks,' But there's a Vampyre making frightful faces ; A Ghoul has routed all my guardian Pucks And offers its embraces. . . . So there, — now, let's make peace ! — Put, when all's done. These kind won't ' act ' with Edmund Phelps or Fechter, At least your genuine Ghost had got some fun. The real Shakspcarian Spectre. rOSTSCKIPT TO GHOSTS. 131 The King of Denmark was a gallant soul Fresh nin from Styx, and lively as a samlet, (Twas Hamlet's uncle murder'd the ' old mole,' And Fechter murder'd Hamlet — ) And honest too, or honcster than most, Who what he owed his brother came and paid him ; As for Macbeth— but stay, he's not a ghost. Or Irving would have laid him ! . r . And so adieu, sweet friends — going, going, gone ! I have enshrined you in a splendid ditty. And won't be haunted more by any one. . . . Unless they're young and pretty. K Z DERBY DAY. o DERBY DAY. li ! who will over the Downs with me ? Over Epsom Downs, and away — The Sun has got a tear in his eye, And the movr.ing mists are light and high ; — We shall have a splendid day. And splendid it is, by all that's hot !— A regular blaze on the hill ; And the turf rebounds from the light-shod heel And the tapering spokes of the delicate wheel With a springy-velvety sort of a feel That fairly invites 'a spill.' Splendid, I say, but we mustn't stop, Tire folks are beginning to run : Is yonder a cloud that covers the course ? No, it's fifty thousand— man and horse — Come out to see the fun. • I • • ■ • So— just in time for the trial spin ; The jocks are cantering out, — We shall have the leaders round in a crack, DERBY DAY. 133 And a hundred voices are shouting 'back,' But nobody stirs a foot ! There isn't a soul will budge So much as an inch from his place, Tho' the hue of the Master's scarlet coat Is a joke compared to his face. . . . ' To the ropes ! to the ropes ! ' — Now stick to your hold, — A breezy flutter of crimson and gold, And the crowd are swept aside, — You can see the caps as they fall and rise Like a swarm of variegated flies Coming glittering up the ride ; ' To the ropes, for your life ! . . . Here they come . there they go — ' The exquisite graceful things ! In the very sport of their strength and pride : I la ! that's the Favourite — look at his stride. It suggests the idea of wings : And the glossy neck is arched and firm In spite of the flying pace ; The jockey sticks to his back like glue. And his hand is quick and his eye is tnie. And whatever skill and pluck can do They will do to get the race. The colt with the bright broad chest, Will run to win to-day — 134 DERBY DA \ '. There's fame and fortune in every bound And a hundred and fifty thousand pound Staked on the gallant Bay ! ' They're off!' ... . And away at the very first start, ' Hats down ! hats down in front ! ' Down there, you sir in the wide-awake ! The tightened barriers quiver and shake, But they bravely bear the brunt. A hush, like death, is over the crowd- D'you hear that distant cry ? . . Then hark how it gathers, far and near, One rolling, ringing, rattling cheer As the race goes dashing by, And away with the hats and caps in the air, And the horses seem to fiy ! . . . Forward ! forward ! at railway speed, There's one that has fairly taken the lead In a style that can scarce miscarry ; Over and on, like a flash of light. And now his colours arc coming in sight, Favourite ! Favourite !— scarlet and while — IIc'll win, by the Lord Harry ! ! DERBY DAY. 135 If he can but clear the Corner, I say, The Derby is lost and won — It's a fearful shave, but he'll do the trick. Now ! Now ! — well-ridden — he's passing it quick. - He^s round ! . . . No, he isn't ; he's broken his neck, And the jockey his collar-bone : And the whirlwind race is over his head, \Vithout slopping to ask if he's living or dead, — Was there ever such rudeness known ? He fell like a trump in the foremost place — He died with the rushing wind on his face — At the wildest bound of his glorious pace — In the mad exulting revel ; He left his shoes to his son and heir, His hocks to a champagne dealer at Ware, A lock of his hair To the Lady- Mare, And his hoofs and tail— -to the devil. 136 TRIALS OF A DYSPEPTIC. TRIALS OF A DYSPEPTIC. ' T UNCH, sir ? yes-ser, pickled salmon, J — ' Cutlets, Kidneys, Greens, and ' Gammon ! Have you got no wholesome meat, sir ? Flesh or fowl that one can eat, sir ? ' Eat, sir ? yes-ser, on the dresser Pork, sir ' — Pork, sir, I detest, sir — ' Lobsters ? ' Are to me unblest, sir — ' Duck and Peas ? ' I can't digest, sir — ' Puff, sir ? ' Stuff, sir ! ' Fish, sir ? ' Pish, sir ! ' Sausage ? ' Sooner eat the dish, sir — ' Shrimps, sir ? prawns, sir ? crawfish ? winkle ? ' Scallops ready in a twinkle ? ' Wilks and cockles, crabs to follow ! ' Heav'ns, nothing I can swallow ! . . . WAITAR ! 'yes-sar: Bread for twenty — I shall starve in midst of plenty ! O.y THE RINK. 137 ON THE RINK. Ce n'esi qite k premier pas qui codte. YES, it's awfully nice, and all that sort of thing. But please take me back to a seat, — Your intentions are excellent, Guy, I am sure, IJut oh ! may you never be forced to endure The anguish I feel in my feet ! These straps are too tight— or the wheels don't go right — And my ankles are cut like a knife, — Young Larkins pursues me wherever I go. And ' cannons ' — it must be on purpose, I know, For he never collides with his wife ! Bumped battered and bniised, Jcicked cuflFed and ill-used, I'm a ' figure for fun ' (or for ' Punch ') — So now that you've taken my skates off, dear Guy, And I feel less immediately likely to die. We'll adjourn- a« revoir, after lunch ! ECHOES FROM THE SAME. ECHOES FROM THE SAME. First Echo. Agitato. "\7"0U see me just now on my knees -■- And my elbows, and that's because I arose in my strength — To re-measure my length On the spot where I previously was. Second Echo. Flatanato. If I don't rise to take off my hat, I beg you won't think me a clown,— On occasions like these One ' stands at one's ease ' Most easily lying down. Third Echo. Soffogato. It's pleasant to tumble at times- - (The times when one's ready to drop),- He felt this as well, The elderly swell Who's floored me and sits on the top. . ECHOES FROM THE SAME. 139 P^OURTH Echo. Curvcuiato. I am stooping my balance to gain ; Anon I shall backward descend ; And that's what I call My Roman fall And alternate Grecian bend. Sundry Echoes. Dislocato. What Splice-bone says is true — The ' exercise ' is good — But he might have added Get your legs padded, And elbows made of wood. T40 REJECTED ADDRESSES. REJECTED ADDRESSES. SIR Toby was a portly party ; Sir Toby took his turtle hearty ; Sir Toby lived to dine : Chdieait margot was his fort ; Bacchus would have backt his port ; He was an Alderman in short Of the very first water — and wine. An Alderman of the first degree, But neither wife nor son had he : He had a daughter fair, — And often said her father, ' Cis, ' You shall be dubbed "my Lady," Miss, ' When I am dubbed Lord Mayor. ' The day I don the gown and chain, ' In Hymen's modern Fetter-lane, ' You wed Sir Gobble Grist ; ' And whilst I strut, and star it by ' St. George's in the East, you'll try ' St. George's in the West.' Oh, vision of paternal pride ! Twice blessed Groom to such a Bride ! REJECTED ADDRESSES. 14, 1 Thrice happy Lady Cis ! Vet sparks won't always strike the match, And miss may chance to lose her ' catch,' Or he may catch — a miss ! Such things do happen, here and there, When knights are old, and nymphs are fair, And who can say they don't ? When Gouty takes the gilded pill, And Dives stands and says '/tw'//,' And Beauty says ' / WON'T ! ' Sweet Beauty ! Sweeter thus by far — Young Goddess of the silver star, Divinity capricious ! — WTio vs-ould not barter wealth and wig. And pomp and pride and otium dig. For Youth — when ' plums ' weren't worth a fig, And Venus smiled propitious ? Alas 1 that beaus will lose their spring. And wayward belles refuse to 'ring,' Unstruck by Cupid's dart ! Alas that— must the truth be told— Yet oft'ner has the archer sold The ' white and red,' to touch the ' gold,' And Diamonds trumped the Heart ! 142 REJECTED ADDRESSES. That luckless heart ! too soon misplaced ! — Why is it that parental taste On sagest calculation based So rarely pleases Miss ? Let those who can the riddle read ; For me, I've no idea indeed, No more, perhaps, had Cis. It might have been she found Sir G. Less tender than a swain should be, — Young — sprightly — witty — gay ? — It might have been she thought his hat Or head too round or square or flat Or empty — who can say ? I know not ! But the Parson waited, The Bridegroom swore, the Groomsmen rated. Till two o'clock or near ; — Then home again in rage and wrath. Whilst pretty Cis was rattling North With Jones the Volunteer. ANTI-ANTIQUARIAX. 143 ANTI-ANTIQUARIAN. DO I dote upon ' desolate towers ? ' I really can't say that I do ; They afford no protection from showers, But copious cobwebs and dew. These courts (do you ever play tennis ?) Are Norman ? — No, Saxon, I'm sure : That arch Saracenic ? — at Venice And Cairo I've seen some before. Let them sleep wiih their founders below them- Your antediluvian stones Won't stop an east wind howling thro' ihcm That's chilling one into the bones. .My taste doesn't run upon gables Nor buttresses old as the flood ; I'd rather put faith in ' Last Fables ' Than the dates of Professor Macmud. ' Stone Facts ' I believe to be fiction — ' Rock Records ' afford me no joy, — No, I haven't the least predilection For desolate towers, old boy. 144 HA UNTED. HAUNTED. T~^ID you never hear a rustling ^^ In the corner of your room ; When the faint fantastic fire-light Served but to reveal the gloom ? Did you never feel the clammy Terror, starting from each pore, At a shocking Sort of knocking On your chamber door ? Did you never fancy something Horrid, underneath the bed ? Or a ghastly skeletonian, In the garret overhead ? Or a sudden life-like movement, Of the ' Vandyke,' grim and tall ? Or that ruddy Mark, a bloody Stain upon the wall ? Did you never see a fearful Figure, by the rushlight low ? HA UNTED. 145 Crouching, creeping, crawling nearer- Putting out its fingers — so ! Whilst its lurid eyes glared on you From the darkness where it sat — And you could not. Or you would not, See it was the cat? 140 THE BLOATED BIGGABOON. THE BLOATED BIGGABOON. THE bloated Biggaboon, Was so haughty, he would not repose In a house, or a hall, or ces choses, But he slept his high sleep in his clothes — 'Neath the moon. The bloated Biggaboon Pour'd contempt upon waistcoat and skirt, Holding swallow-tails even as dirt — So he puff'd himself out in his shirt, Like a b'loon. IN MEDIMVOS. 147 r IN MEDI/EVOS. F you love to wear An unlimited extent of hair Push'd frantically back behind a pair Of ears, that all asinine comparison defy — And peripatate by star light To gaze upon some far light Till you've caught an aggravated catarrh right In the pupil of your frenzy rolling eye, — Or if you're given to the style Of that mad fellow Tom Carlyle, And fancy all the while, you're taking ' an earnest view ' of things, — Making Rousseau a hero, IMahomet any better than Nero, And Cromwell an angel in ev'rything except the wings ; Or if you weep sonnets, Over Time, and on its Everlasting works of ' art ' and ' genius ' (cobweb wreathed !) And fly off into rapture At some villanous old picture Not an atom like nature Nor any human creature, that ever breathed, — 143 IN MEDIMVOS. Some Amazonian Vixen Of indescribable complexion And hideous all conception to surpass ; And actually prefer this abhorrence To a lovely portrait by Sir Thomas Lawrence- Why then, dear reader^you must be an Ass ! NAUGHTY TWO-SHOES. 149 NAUGHTY TWO-SHOES. AT SKIPPINGTON. PRETTY naughty Two-shoes Bought a pair of blue shoes, Bought a pair of silken hose all striped with white and red ; Bought a skipping rope for skipping — \\'hen they threatened her with whipping Skipt them straightway into kissing her instead. Skipt them into such ecstatics That they thronged from base to attics Peeping out from garret-window, pane, and door ; Skipt the bumpkins out of wits, Skipt their sweethearts into fits, Skipt them higher than was ever seen before. Basta ! cried the lame schoolmaster - But she only skipt the faster ; With her beautiful kaleidoscopic feet ; ISO NAUGHTY TWO-SHOES. From the squire to the clown Skipt the village upside down, — And I doubt if it has ever righted yet ! THE 'MATRIMONIAL NEWS.' THE 'MATRIMONIAL NEWS.' A YEAR ago with pockets full My steps would often range, To do a modest ' bear ' or ' bull,' From Grub Street to th' Exchange ; Sometimes my glance was golden-hued — Sometimes I'd got the blues, — But smile or frown Could not put down The * Matrimonial News.' ' I say, sir ! Marry ? Want a wife ? '— « The Devil '— ' Here you are ! ' ' Just only buy the 'News and try ' ' Avaunt ! '— ' ^ penny I .' ' . . ' BAH ! ! ! ' And now, you know, I'm really wed, — Perhaps I took the hint ? — At all events I'm fairly rid Of that obnoxious print ; For since the hour I gave the ring All note the brats refuse, No youthful tout now spreads me out The ' Matrimonial News.' 152 THE 'MATRIMONIAL NEWS.' It can't be in my cut of coats, — I'm not increasing fat, — I still wear Hoby-Humby's boots And Lincoln-Bennet's hat, And thro' a single eye-glass squint The most benignant views ; — But frown or smile I can't beguile The ' Matrimonial News ! ' TOO BAD, YOU KNOW. 153 TOO BAD, YOU KNOW. IT was the huge metropolis With fog was like to choke ; It was the gentle cabby-horse His ancient knees that broke ; — And, oh, it was the cabby-man That swore with all his might, And did request he might be blowed Particularly tight. If any swell should make him stir Another step that night ! Then up and spake that bold cabman, Unto his inside Fare, — ' I say, you Sir, — come out of that ! — ' I say, you Sir, in there — ' Six precious aggrawatin miles * I've druv to this here gate, ' And that poor injered hanimal ' Is in a fainting state ; 154 TOO BAD, YOU KNOW. ' There ain't a thimblefull of light, ' The fog's as black as pitch, — ' I'm flummox'd 'tween them posteses ' And that most ''ateful ditch. ' So bundle out ! my 'oss is beat ; ' I'm sick of this 'ere job ; — ' I say, you Sir in there, — d'you hea^-'^ • ■ • • • ' He's bolted—strike me bob ! ' NEXT MORNING. 155 NEXT MORNING. IF some one's head's not very bright, At least the owner bears no malice. Who was it pulled my nose last night, And begged an interview at Calais ? The quarrel was not much, I think. For such a deadly arbitration, — Some joke about the ' missing link ' And all the rest inebriation. In vino Veritas ! which means A man's a very ass in liquor ; The ' thief that slowly steals our brains ' Makes nothing but the temper quicker. Ne.xt morning brings a train of woes, But finds the passions much sedater — Who was it, now, that pulled my nose ?— I'd belter ring and ask the waiter. 156 VENI, VI DI, VIC I. VENI, VIDI, VICI. (FIRST LETTER FROM COTTONSHIRE. ) A N unfledged heiress in her 'teens, ■^ *- And worth a Plum they say ; With charms to move an anchorite — The Count made running at first sight, But didn't seem to ' stay : ' / mean to-night to wire in. No ' roping ' dodges— run to win — You know my slashing way ; The veiii, vidi, vici style, Short, sharp, decisive, eh ? I'll send you up the ' stuff to square That Epsom score I owe — Once get the Heiress well in hand, Old Cent, per cent, is sure to stand Another thou' or so ; For when all's said and done, you see, There's nothing like the R. M. D. That makes the mare to go . . . VENI, VI DI, VIC I. 157 So now to cage iliis golden clove, And lime these unflcdg'd wings with love- Voick, forward ! Tally-ho ! (second letter.) It's all U. P., old man,— 'unfledged !' (Could laugh if 'tweren't for spite) — Unfledged as falcon when he springs ! She'll teach them all to ' lime their wings ' And try their claws, the kite ! She's up to every move that's out, Knows when to sigh and smile and pout And ' plays' you, as you'd play a trout — The more fool I to bite ! . . . At first she seemed to like the ' pace ' And answer'd to the bit, Blushed when I praised her twinkling feet. Whilst all her eyes grew dark and sweet — Green eyes with mischief lit, — ' I'm like a grape from the rich South, (They said) to drop into your mouth — Why don't you open it ? ' . . . I clasped her jewelled hand in mine And through the gallop flew. isS VENI, VI DI, VIC I. Her slender waist my arm compressed, Her whispered words almost caressed, — ' Another turn or two ! ' — And the lights flashed and music crashed— (Here the scene changed, you know). I led her drooping to a seat Beside the ferny fount, — I murmured, Hearts are more than gold ! She smiled, ' So I've been often told,' Then hear me swear by all I hold — ' No, please, I think I won't ! ' Ah, les yeux verts, les yeux d^enfer! — (One effort more, my boy, to win) You do not care for me a pin ! She laugh'd— ' Of course I don't ! ' Then gently yawning . . . ' Thanks — ta-ta ! And left me speechless, plante Id. . . . {F.S.) The minx has hooked the Count. THE RATTLESNAKES' CONGRESS. 159 THE RATTLE-SNAKES' CONGRESS. O WAKEN snakes ! ' a herald cried, ' Attend to what I say ; The bearer of a proclamation To all the elders of the nation, Oyez ! oyez ! ! oyez ! ! ! ' ' To all long-sufTring Rattle-snakes Whom indignation pales, That wc alone of serpent kind An instrument of music find Appended to our tails.' ' Thrice hateful " bones ! " attracting all That snakey paths molest ; That warn mankind to clear the course And often waken up perforce Ourselves from peaceful rest.' ' You see for want of sleep by day We all look wan and white, — Condemn'd by every thoughtful snake The whole arrangement's a mistake And odious in our sight. ' THE RATTLE-SNAKES' CONGRESS. ' Wherefore ... a Parliament is fixed In crotahts, straightway, To legislate upon the point How to curtail this caudal joint Oyez ! Oyez ! ! Oyez ! ! ! ' ' The day was set, the Congress met ' Prepared for wordy battle ; Alas ! detractors have averr'd That not a sound was ever heard — Save one stupendous rattle ! CHINESE PUZZLES. CHINESE PUZZLES. THE WEDDING GIFT. T^ ROM many a dark delicious ripple -^ The Moonbeams drank ethereal tipple, Whilst over Eastern grove and dell The perfumed breeze of evening fell, And the young Bulbul warbling gave Her music to the answ'ring wave. But not alone the Bulbul's note Bade Echo strike her silver lute, Nor fell the music of her dream Alone on waving wood and stream, For thro' the twilight blossoms stray'd Enamour'd youth, and faery maid, And mingled with her warblings lone A voice of sweet and playful tone. ' Nay, tell mc not of love that lights * The diamond's midnight mine, — ' The cold sea-gleaming of the pearl ' Is only half divine ; M CHINESE PUZZLES. ' No thought have I for gold or gem, ' No 'hast of high emprize ; ' No giant Tartars to be slain, ' In homage to my eyes.' Oh, take my life ! her lover cried — Nor break my dream of bliss ; Take house, or head, or lands, or fame — Take ev'iy thing but this, — To gaze upon your silken braids Unenvied be my part ; I could not steal one golden tress. To bind it round my heart. The lady laughed a careless laugh, — ' While downward flows the river, ' The lover who bids for Zadie's heart ' And hand must make up his mind to part ' With THE Gift — or part for ever ! ' Excruciating girl ! why i)ierce A heart that beats for thee ! How can you want a Lock for which You still must want the Key ? Just think, if I should wear a wig, How would you like me, Zadie ? THE WEDDING GIFT. 163 I'm sure you'll give it up, my pig, Do — there's a gentle ladye ! The Maiden laugh'd a silv'ry laugh, — ' The white stars set and shiver ; ' The lover who bids for Zadie's heart ' And hand must make up his mind to part ' With THE Gift— or part for ever ! ' H 3 i64 ETCETERA. ETCETERA. THE stars were out on the lake, The silk sail stirr'd the skiff, And faint on the billow, and fresh on the breeze, The summer came up thro' the cinnamon trees With an odoriferous sniff ; There was song in the scented air, And a light in the list'ning leaves, The light of the myriad myrtle fly, — When young Fo-Fum and little Fe-Fi Came forth to gaze upon the sky— >S:c ! Oh ! little Fe-Fi was fair, V\'ith the wreath in her raven hair ! With white of lily and crimson of rose. From her almond eyes, and celestial nose. To the tips of her imperceptible toes, &c. Fo-Fum stood tall, I wis, (May his shadow never be less !) A highly irresistible male, The ladies turn'd pale At the length of his nail And the twirl of his unapproachable tail, (.\.c. ETCETERA. 165 Now listen, Moon-mine, my Star ! My Life ! my little Fe-Fi, — For over the blossom and under the bough There's a soft little word that is whispering now ^^^lich I think you can guess if you try ! In the bosom of faithful Fum, There's an anti-celebic hum, — • A little wee word Fe-Fi can spell, Concluding with ' E,' and beginning with ' L ' &c. " Oh ! dear, now what can it be ? That little wee word Fo-Fum ? That funny wee word that sounds so absurd With an ' ^ ' and an ' / ' and a ' Imrn ' .? A something that ends with an E ? . . . It must be my cousin, So-Sle ; Or pretty Zuzoo Who admired your queue ? I shall never guess what it can be I can see That is spelt with an L and an E ? " Then listen. Moon-mine, my Life, ^ly innocent little Fe-Fi ; It isn't So-Sle, tho' she ends with an E, And pretty Zuzoo Who approved of my queue, lias no L in her name that I see ; i65 ETCETERA. In the bosom of faithful Fum, It's a monosyllabic hmn ; A sweet little word for sweet lips to try, That's half-and-half moonlight, and earth-light and sky, If little Fe-Fi Will open her mouth with the least little sigh She must speak it — unless she was dumb ! " Indeed ! then perhaps she is dumb . . . I vow I detest you Fo-Fum ! . . . Why don't you . . . how dat-e you, I mean, sir . . . ah me ! I shall never guess what it can be I can see That is spelt with an L and an E ! I never shall guess, if I die — Fo-Fum, sir, I'm going to cry ! — Oh dear, how my heart is beginning to beat ! . . . Why there's silly Fo-Fum on his knees at my feet," &c. Deponent knoweth not, History showeth not, If the lady read the riddle ; And whether she found It hard to expound — As the story ends in the middle. ETCETERA. 167 Was gallant Fo-Fum Constrained to succumb To the thrall of delicious fetters ? — Or pretty Fe-Fi Induced to supply The text of the missing letters ? Oh, no one can tell ! But this extract looks well, FauU dc mietix (that's ' for want of a betterer ') — ' Received : by Hang- Hi, ' From Fo-Fum, for Fe-Fi, ' A thousand dollars,' &c ! i68 WHAT THE PRINCE OF I DREAMT. IVHA T THE PRINCE OF I DREAMT. T DREAMT it ! such a funny thing - -^ And now it's taken wing ; I s'pose no man before or since Dreamt such a funny thing ? It had a Dragon ; with a tail ; A tail both long and slim, And ev'ry day he wagg'd at it — How good it was of him ! And so to him the tailest Of all three-tailed Bashaws, Suggested that for reasons The waggling should jDause : And held his tail — which, parting, Reversed that Bashaw, which Reversed that Dragon, who reversed Himself into a ditch. • ••■•■ It had a monkey — in a trap — Suspended by the tail : Oh ! but that monkey look'd distress'd, And his countenance was pale. WHAT THE PRI.WCE OF I DREAMT. 169 And he had danced and dangled there ; Till he grew very mad : For his tail it was a handsome tail And the trap had pinched it — bad. The trapper sat below, and grinn'd ; His victim's wrath wax'd hot : He bit his tail in two — and fell — And killM him on the spot. It had a pig — a stately pig ; With curly tail and quaint : And the Great Mogul had hold of that Till he was like to faint. So twenty thousand Chinamen, With three tails each at least. Came up to help the Great Mogul, And took him round the waist. And so, the tail slipp'd through his hands ; And so it came to pass, That twenty thousand Chinamen Sat down upon the grass. It had a Khan — a Tartar Khan — With tail superb, I wis ; And that fell graceful down a back Which was considered his. WHAT THE PRINCE OF I DREAMT. Wherefor all sorts of boys that were Accursed, swung by it ; Till he grew savage in his mind And vex'd, above a bit : And so, he swept his tail, as one Awak'ning from a dream ; And those abominable ones Flew off into the stream. Likewise they hobbled up and down. Like many apples there ; Till they subsided — and became Amongst the things that were. And so it had a moral too, That would be bad to lose ; ' Whoever takes a Tail in hand Should mind his p's and queues.' . . I dreamt it !— such a funny thing ! And now it's taken wing ; I s'pose no man before or since Dreamt such a funny thing ? FINIS. Sf>ottis7uoode ^3^ Co. , Printers, Nciv-street Square, London. PUCK ON PEG-ASUS. TWELFTH THOUSAND. Price 2S. U. Illustrated hy Sir Noel Paton, Millais, Leech, Tenniel, Doyle, &'c. Press Criticisms on former Editions. ' Splendid verse. . . . The sixth edition— on the merits of the book it ought to be the sixtieth. . . . Those who do not already know the wonderful swing of Mr. Cholmondeley-Pennell's lines should make their acquaintance at once.'— Stanoakd. 'Extravagant mirth expressing itself in easy running verses, the music of which is as sweet as these rhymes are ingenious and unex- pected. . . . The rhythm and rugged swing of the " Night Mail North " will give our readers a taste of Mr. Tennell's higher qualities.' MoiiNiNG Post. ' There is no doubt that Mr. Cholmondeley-Pennell's " Puck on Pegasus," which has reached a sixth edition, merits the honour and success of that unquestionable proof of popuhirity. The book has been reviewed over and over again.' — Daily Telegraph. 'The epigrammatic drollery of Mr. Cholmondeley-Pennell's "Puck on Pegasus" is well known.' — Ti.mes. 'A beautiful and amusing book. . . . Mr. Pennell always shows himself a master of the art of versification.' — Scotsman. ' The saddling of Pegasus, with Puck for rider, was almost an event both in the world of literature and in that of pictorial illus- tration. The book was full of talent, full of life. It ran over with the most genial fun, the heartiest humour ; and in felicitous com- bination with these you had -what, indeed, true humour and good fun can neverdispense with— masculine thought, vigorous sentiment, genuine pathos. The verse was vivacious without being trivial, sportive and sparklinjj without being frivolous. In "Puck on Pegasus" there was literary work which, of its kind, has perhaps never been .surpassed ; brilliant sketching of not unimportant aspects of life, piquant but unenvenomed .satire, rhymed sen.se that reminded you of Thackeray, strokes of tenderness that reminded you of Hood.' Sl'ECTATOR. 'Clever and amusing, vigorous and healthy. There is plenty of poetry in railways and .steam engines, and now that other mines of inspiration are growing exhausted, we cannot set- why a new ^haft should not be run in this direction.' — Saturday Review. ' " Puck on Pegasus " is full of those eccentricities which make one laugh with oneself, or in sf>ite of oneself, according as one takes it up in a grave or gay humour.' — Frasek's Magazine. ' This is a sixth edition, but it might honestly be a sixteenth. . . Mr. Pennell often plays with his power, but there is the right stulT in almost every line he pens.' — The Field. ' Let Mr. Pennell trust to the original strength that is in him, and he may bestride his Pegasus without fear.' — Ex.\miner. A t all Libraries aiid Booksellers. Nc7u in preparation, a Revised Edition, price 4J. dd. MODERN BABYLOW; CRESCENT?, AND OTHER LYRICS. Opinions of the Press. ' Language alike strong and musical. . . . Earnestness and fine appreciation of the grander qualities of nature, more especially of human nature, are on this occasion the chief characteristics of Mr. Pennell's muse. ..." Crescent " is a passionate protest against the complaint ever on the lips of idlers, but scouted by all honest workers, that the Age of Poetry is past. . . . the nervous and deep-rolling lines of " Crescent " would of themselves be a sufficient answer.' — Athen.-eum. ' Mr. Pennell is a stalwart champion of his age, and in reading his ringing lines we feel that most assuredly there is a charm for the poet in even the most material of modern life. . . . The following comes from a master-hand. . . .' — John Bull. ' Real and undoubted poetic talent.' — Scotsm.a.n. ' " Modern Babylon " contains some sixteen poems, well calcu- lated to show the versatility of the author's muse. . . . Mr. Pennell grasps his subject with the vigour of a man of genius, and he invariably works on the right side of the question. He is whole- some, earnest, thoughtful— a worshipper not only of the beautiful but the good. ... In such poems as " Holyhead to Dublin" there is rush and swing in the verse, which make it audible as the pace of a horse or the clank of a steam-vessel. . . . Side by side with this strength we find grace and elegance and airy fancies. ' It is very exceptional to find a gentleman like Mr. Cholmondeley- Pennell capable of charming us with such verse as this, and yet so practically gifted that Baily's Magazine can .say of him, " He is not only well known as a Senior Angler, but as one of the straightest riders and best shots in England."' Morning Post. 'The opening poem, "Modern Babylon," is worthy of the philo- sophy of threescore years of earthly sojourn. " The Two Cham- pions" gives an exquisite poetic setting to a beautiful idea. " Fire " is a clear and incisive bit of word-painting. . . . There is not, in fact, a single piece in this volume which does not evidence knowledge of the springs of human nature, deep culture and study, allied to invariable purity of thought and expression. . . .' Westminster Gazette. ' One or two of the poems in " Puck on Pegasus" — "The Night Mail North" and "The Derby Day" — displayed unusual vigour and vivid descriptive power. . . . The reader seemed hurried along and amazed by the swiftness and brightness of the verses ; and it was felt that so much dash and skilfulness in rhyme heralded a new poet, who would be likely to become the Laureate of the active wonders of the present age. It was thought, however, by many of INIr. Pennell's friends that he could not write serious poetry ; and we suppose he has issued the present volume to undeceive them. . . . The passage we quote below could only emanate fioin a real poet. . . .'^PuiiLic Opinion. A t all Libraries and Booksellers. !' PEGASUS RE-SADDLED. Press Criticisms on First Edition. ' Mercuri.il with the spirit of frolic and fun, firtile of fancy, and ifled with the rare merit of perfect rhythm and rhyme, the muse of Ir. Cholmondelcy-Pennsll is always versatile and vivacious. Wc are inundated with poems of extreme lugubriousness of theme, and so-called comic ones, which are positively a discredit to our genera- tion. But, fortunately for our sanity, wc have among us several pleasant writers, the disciples and followers of that lively school of verse of whi"h one of the best masters w.is Praed. . . . That the author of " Pegasus Re-Saddled " may fairly take rank with Locker and .\ustin Dobson, a few quotations will readily prove. " Faitc h Peindre" is the opening poem, and Mr. Peniiell being one of those fortunate writers from whose pleasant pages you may read at random, not by selection, we quote it entire ; — " Made to be painted— a Millais might give A fortune to study that exquisite face. The face is a fortune, a Lawrence might live Anew in each line of that figure's still grace. . . The pose is perfection, a model each limb. From the delicate foot to the ckissical head ; But the almond blue eyes with their smiling look dim, And lips to be /ovfti want a trifie more red. Statuesque ? no, a Psyche, let's say, in repose — A Psyche whose Cupid beseeches in vain ; We sigh as the nightingale sighs to the rose, That declines (it's averr'd) to give sighs back again. If the wind shook the rose? — then a shower would fall Of sweet-scented petals to gather who list ; If a sigh shook my Psyche?— she'd yawn, tl-.at is all, She's made to be panited, and not to be kist." ' This is poetry of the butterfly order, airy, buoyant, fragile as porcelain and fragrant as violets. It stirs no deep emotion, but is pleasant and wholesome as the smell of hay or the ripple of cool, clear waters. Peg.isus is restrained by a light hand, and shows off his paces in a lamb-like temper. "The Secret of Safety" reveals the doctrine of the male-trifler and the coquette in its native deformity : — " You ask me to declare the spell By which I sleep unhaunted slumbers ; ' Still fancy free, the secret tell?' The secret is, fair Floribel, That ' safety lies in numbers.' It is not that my he.irt is tough, I dare not make su'-h false confession, Or that it's formed of such soft stuff. It is not durable enough To take a firm impression : ( 4 ) But Beauty's like the bloom that flies, And Love's a butterfly that hasteth ; From lip to lip the trifler hies, And sweet by sweet the garden tries. But each one only tasteth. If long I loiter'd here, I know I might not sleep unhaunted slumbers — At least 'twere rash to try, fair Flo' — So now I'm going to the Row, Where ' safety lies in numbers.'" This is not only " excellent fooling," but the spirit of flirtation is here as wise as Minerva, and gives an excellent recipe to avoid heart- ache. "Pretty Puss," whose face and figure Du Maurier renders so admirably in form and expression, is evidently a vixen— a shrew requiring the caprice of a Petruchio to tame her. " Pretty Puss's" Lothario is in perplexity, and by no means complimentary — " . . I wish I were back in the cab ; There's something remarkably cat-like in JIab. If stroked the right way you get plenty of purr, But claws, I've a fancy, lie hid in the fur." . . . " A Little Beauty " is a pretty picture of an imperious girl, christened by the charming name of Maud, an enchantress, red- lipped, soft-eyed, with cheeks like a peach — " Round and ripe and fruity." To quote the author in praise of the artist — "The pose is perfection." ' "Anti-Antiquarian" will recall to the reader days of anticipated delight in dilapidated castles green with ivy and mosses, and fragrant with wall-flowers, the day's result being a sore throat, a sprained ankle, and a toothache worthy of the anathema of Burns ; — " Do I dote upon 'desolate towers'? I really can't say that I do ; . . . . They afford no protection from showers. But copious cob-webs and dew." The concluding poem is as good as the first, so that we may truly pronounce the book to be good from first to last.' — JiIorning Post. ' Mr. Cholmondeley-Pennell has re-saddled his " Pegasus" none too soon. One has heard of his doings at Hurlin^ham and Cairo since he gave the world his last book of verse : and his pen has not been idle with respect to those matters of sport on which he writes with equal cleverness and authority. But his muse has for too lon^ a time been either silent, or tuneful only in places where her strains cannot be heard. . . . He is also a minslrcl whose popularity is attested by the number of his editions. Mr. Frederick Locker's "London Lyrics" has not had a larger sale than Mr. Pennell's " Puck on Pegasus " ; and though the success of the last-named book of vers de socictd may be in some degree due to the excellence and variety of its illustrations, the literary merits of the book would ( 5 ) have rendered it famous even if they had been unaltendcd with the attractions of artistic einlitilishnicnt. ' As much may be said of the present volume, which, whilst it sustains Mr. Penncll's reputation for literary adroitness and subtlety, resembles its precursor in being a book of ornament as well a.s a book of humorous verse. We cannot remember the book th.v affords ten finer specimens of Mr. Du Maurier's skill. The draughts- man's " Little Bo-Peep" is, perhaps, the loveliest of all the lovely children his pencil has called into existence ; and his " Slaud," with her saucy little face, as she stands with her elbow resting on a mantelpiece, and her eyes scrutinising the reader's countenance, is as piquant and winsome a damsel as we have ever beheld. Admi- rably characteristic, also, is the beauty of the frontispiece, of whom the author sa>-s : — " Statuesque? no, a Psyche, let's say, in repose— A Psyciie whose Cupid beseeches in vain^ We sigh as the nightingale sighs to the rose, That declines (it's averred) to give sighs back again . . . If the wind shook the rose?— then a shower would fall Of sweet-scented petals to gather who list — If a sigh shook my Psyche /-she'd yawn, that is all, She's ' made to be painted,' and not to be kissed." K.vquisitely comical, also, are some of Mr. Pennell's " Rinking Keminiscenccs," which afford the following examples of his ability to commemorate embarrassing positions : — " FIRST ECHO. Vou see me just now on my knees And my elbows,— and that's because I arose in my strength To remeasure my length On the spot where I previously was. SECOND ECHO. If I don't ri^e to t.ake off my hat, I beg you won't think me a clown, On occasions like these One stands at one's ease Most easily, lying down. THIRD ECHO. It's pleasant to tumble at times— (The times when one's ready to drop). He felt this as well, The elderly swell Who's floored me and sits on the top. FOURTH ECHO. I am stooping, my balance to gain : .\non I shall backward descend : .■\nd that's what I call My Roman fall And alternate Grecian bend. ( 6) SUNDRY ECHOES. What Splice-bone says is true — The ' exercise ' is good : But he might have added, Get your legs padded, And elbows made of wood." If we have said enough to intimate that the work abounds with good things, and with reasons why it should be found on drawing-room tables, we have done all that the exigencies of space permit us to do for Mr. Pennell's new book of frolic and fine drawing.'— Globe. 'In the light and genial pages of "Pegasus Re-Saddled," by Mr. H. Cholmondeley-Pennell, we find ourselves in the presence of a nev.- and charming " Little Bo-Peep "—lost at a midnight ball but found again, and sketched by Du Maurier's graceful pencil ; or the reader can turn to "A Curl in a Letter," " Hunting a Slipper," take a turn with " Ghosts by a Materialist," or go through " Lady Bell's Catechism," or join in any other of the fifty little dainty excursions so pleasantly offered. Something of the admirable swing of verse, graceful drollery, and vigorous and healthy fun that marked " Puck " in his first flight on " Pegasus," are also to be found here.' Standard. ' I'ers de societe are becoming very much the fashion. We have now a fresh collection of light and lively poems from the pen of Mr. H. Cholmondeley-Pennell, whose "Puck on Pegasus," published some years ago, gave evidence of considerable facility in this class of composition. The title of his new volume is "Pegasus Re- Saddled," with ten illustrations by Mr. Du Maurier. Something of sameness attaches to all verses of this character, and in reading Mr. Pennell's we are occasionally under a momentary impression that we are in company with the muse of Mr. Frederick Locker. Mr. Pennell, however, has his own reputation to sustain, and the latest flight of his Pegasus will probably sustain it.'— Daily News. 'A charming volume of vers de societe, well worthy of its pre- decessor, and very beautifully illustrated by Mr. John Maurier, who is particularly successful in his half-shy, half-coquettish treatment of " Little Bo-Peep," described in the following lines : " Little Bo-Peep has lost her sheep, And some one or other's lost little Bo-Beep ! Or she'd never be wandering at twelve o'clock, With a golden crook and a velvet frock, In a diamond necklace, in such a rout. In diamond buckles, and hii^h-hcel'd slioes (And a dainty wee foot in them too, if you choose. And an ankle a sculptor might rave about. . . .), But I think she's a little witch, you know. With her broomstick-crook and her high-heel'd shoe ; And the mischievous fun that flashes through Tlie wreaths of her amber hair— don't you ? ( 7 ) No wonder the flock follows Do-Peep, Such a shepherd would turn all the world into sheep, To trot at her heels and look up in the face Of their pastor for— coodness knows what— say for gi-ace? Her face that recalls in its reds and its blues And its setting of gold ' Esmeralda ' by Grease. There's Little Bo-Peep, dress, diamonds, and all, As I met her last night at a fancy ball." Nor has Mr. Cholmondelcy-Pcnnell's peculiar humour deserted him, as we could quote several poems to prove — " Faite i Peindre," '_' A Case of .Spoons," &c., &c., and a little poem we must give entire. . . . .["An Uninvited Guest "J. We can only refer our readers to the touching little poem sent to the late Mr. Charles Buxton, M.P., with the horse "White-Mist," on the author giving up hunting owing to an accident in the hunting- field.'— Liverpool Albion. ' The author of " Puck on Pegasus " (now in its seventh edition) has again made his appearance with a companion volume, which is in all respects worthy of its popular predecessor. Light, graceful, and sparkling in character, while abounding in playful humour, it contains, besides, an amount of melody, and an occasional depth of tender feeling which shows the .luthor's capabilities of achieving still higher triumphs in the field of poesy. The bulk of the volume .... contains the crime 7W up instead Round her saucy little head — Round her cheeks of white and red — Maud's a little beauty ! Maud has got a roguish eye, Maud has got a tender sigh, Laughters soft and flutey^ ' Cherries ripe ' her lips, I swear. Did you ever know a pair Say so plainly ' If you dare ! ' Maud, the little beauty ! Yet her lip you cannot reach, Nor her cheek that's like a peach. Round and ripe and fruity ; You can only look and sigh, — I can only love, and try To discern the reason why Maud's my little beauty." Tiie book abounds in such excellent taorceaux ; and we may confidently predict for it as extensive a popularity as its predecessor.' Edinburgh Coukant. A t all LihrarUs and Booksellers. % t 1 i ,^^CSO(/THrRM«r„, ^^ 000 371 This booK is DUE on the last date stamped below 9* inw o JAN 23 JP^H 2119m m •.m-2,'31 3 1 I nil III! Illll I 58 00656 6672 i^' 'ifillspl'