The yacht replied with haughty mien, “Stop, by the order of the Queen, Who, braving equinoctial gales, Now in this sinking vessel sails.” “Alas!” the _Cuckoo’s_ captain cried, “To save my Queen would be my pride” (Here he saluted with his sword), “But tell her I’ve the mails aboard.” “Ha!” cried the Queen, “for this I will Cut off his head on Tower Hill, The knave shall see the House of Guelph Respected still can make itself.” She sent a man to ev’ry gun, And, just to stop the captain’s fun, Into his ship a broadside poured, Although he had the mails aboard. The _Cuckoo’s_ captain cried, “The deuce!” And straight ran up a flag of truce; And then he sent a boat to save His sovereign from a watery grave. The Queen stepped nimbly on the deck, And left the royal yacht a wreck; But flung, though mercy he implored, The _Cuckoo’s_ captain overboard. When he recovered from the shock, He lay upon a lonely rock; And there ships’ captains as they pass Survey him sternly through the glass, And by Victoria’s orders scoff At all his cries of “Take me off!” And say, “By us your fate’s deplored, _But we can’t stop--we’ve mails aboard_.” At The Photographer’s. (A BALLAD OF BROADMOOR.) They coaxed me up a hundred stairs, They lured me to their den, For me they laid their artful snares-- Those photographing men. They dragged me to a room of glass Beneath a blazing sun, I thought I should have died. Alas! I’m nearly fourteen stone! They saw their victim pant and blow, They heard him cry, “I melt!” But ne’er a one for all my woe One grain of pity felt. They seized my head and screwed it round, And fixed it in a vice, And simpered when they had me bound, “That pose is very nice! “Look up--look up, and wear a smile; Look pleasant, if you please. You must keep still a little while; Just straighten up your knees.” ’Tis thus they jeer and jibe at me As, faint and hot, I try An inch before my nose to see With sunstroke in my eye. I think of all the bitter wrongs My later life has known; I writhe beneath Fate’s cruel thongs, I knit my brow and groan. And still with many a smile and smirk The artist trips about, And gives my chin a little jerk And sticks my elbows out. Ye gods, am I a grinning ape To pose and posture thus? Am I a man in human shape Or turkey that they truss? My head is free; with fiendish mirth I raise a vengeful hand, And dash the camera to earth, And fell the iron stand.