A BALLAD TO QUEEN ELIZABETH. King Philip had vaunted his claims; He had sworn for a year he would sack us; With an army of heathenish names He was coming to fagot and stack us; Like the thieves of the sea he would track us, And shatter our ships on the main ; But we had bold Neptune to back us, And where are the galleons of Spain? His carackes were christened of dames To the kirtles whereof he would tack us; He had thought like an egg-shell to crack us; And Drake to his Devon again, And Hawkins bowl rubbers to Bacchus,For where are the galleons of Spain? Let his Majesty hang to St. James The axe that he whetted to hack us; He must play at some lustier games Or at sea he can hope to out-thwack us; To tug at his bullet and chain; Alas that his Greatness should lack us!But where are the galleons of Spain? Envoy. GLORIANA !-the Don may attack us Whenever his stomach be fain; He must reach us before he can rack us, And where are the galleons of Spain? AUSTIN DOBSON. ON A FAN THAT BELONGED TO THE Chicken-skin, delicate, white, Loves in a riot of light, Roses and vaporous blue; Hark to the dainty frou-frou! Picture above if you can, Eyes that could melt as the dew, This was the Pompadour's fan ! See how they rise at the sight, Thronging the Eil de Bauf through, Courtiers as butterflies bright, Beauties that Fragonard drew, Talon-rouge, falbala, queue, Cardinal, Duke,—to a man, Ah! but things more than polite Things that great ministers do; Envoy. Where are the secrets it knew? AUSTIN DOBSON. THE BALLAD OF IMITATION. "C'est imiter quelqu'un que de planter des choux.” If they hint, O Musician, the piece that you played Make answer-Beethoven could scarcely do more— That the man who plants cabbages imitates, too! 66 If they tell you, Sir Artist, your light and youf shade And you too, my Poet, be never dismayed If they whisper your Epic-"Sir Eperon d' Or "— Is nothing but Tennyson thinly arrayed In a tissue that's taken from Morris's store; That no one, in fact, but a child could ignore That you "lift" or "accommodate" all that you do; Take heart-though your Pegasus' withers be sore→→ For the man who plants cabbages imitates, too! POSTSCRIPTUM.-And you, whom we all so adore, Dear Critics, whose verdicts are always so new !— One word in your ear. There were Critics before. And the man who plants cabbages imitates, too! AUSTIN DOBSON. THE BALLADE of prosE AND RHYME. (Ballade à double refrain.) When the roads are heavy with mire and rut, In November fogs, in December snows, When the North Wind howls, and the doors are shut, There is place and enough for the pains of prose ;— But whenever a scent from the whitethorn blows. And the jasmine-stars to the casement climb, And a Rosalind face at the lattice shows, Then hey!-for the ripple of laughing rhyme ! When the brain gets dry as an empty nut, When the reason stands on its squarest toes, When the mind (like a beard) has a formal cut," There is place and enough for the pains of prose ;But whenever the May blood stirs and glows, And the young year draws to the " golden prime," And Sir Romeo sticks in his ear a rose, Then hey!-for the ripple of laughing rhyme! In a theme where the thoughts have a pedant strut There is place and enough for the pains of prose ;- And the light hours dance to the trysting-time, And the secret is told "that no one knows," Then hey!-for the ripple of laughing rhyme ! Envoy. In the work-a-day world,-for its needs and woes, THE BALLAD OF DEAD CITIES. Where are the cities of the plain? And where the shrines of rapt Bethel? And Calah built of Tubal-Cain? And Shinar whence King Amraphel Came out in arms, and fought, and fell, Decoyed into the pits of slime By Siddim, and sent sheer to hell Where now is Karnak, that great fane Whose graven scriptures still we spell? Where are the cities of old time? And where is white Shusan, again, Where Vashi's beauty bore the bell, And all the Jewish oil and grain Were brought to Mithridath to sell, Because another town sublime Decoyed him with her oracle? Where are the cities of old time? Envoi. Prince, with a dolorous, ceaseless knell, The waters of oblivion swell : Where are the cities of old time? EDMUND GOSSE. |