* * * * * THE BUGLE SONG. [At the commencement of the Wagnerian performances at Bayreuth, the chief _motivo_ in the opera was given out by several bugles, after which the curtain rose.] The bugle calls in Bayreuth's halls Some notes of Wagner's mythic story; The tenor shakes, the heroine quakes, And the wild Teuton leaps in glory. Blow, bugles, blow, set the wild echoes flying, Echoes of Melody, ye answer, "Dying, dying." O hark! O hear! how thin and clear, With no perspiring players showing; O sweet and far from bar to bar The horns and trumpets faintly blowing. Blow--let us hear composers' ghosts replying; Blow, Wagner, blow, while Melody is dying. "Sweet tunes," they cry, "you shall not die, Nor fade from hill, and field, and river, But sweetly roll from soul to soul, And gladden music lovers ever." Blow, bugles, blow, set the wild echoes flying, But Melody still answers--"Never dying." From _Funny Folks_. * * * * * SONG OF THE IRWELL. I flow by tainted noisome spots, A dark and deadly river; Foul gases my forget-me-nots, Which haunt the air for ever. I grow, I glide, I slip, I slide, I mock your poor endeavour; For men may write, and men may talk, But I reek on for ever. I reek with all my might and main, Of plague and death the brewer; With here and there a nasty drain, And here and there a sewer. By fetid bank, impure and rank, I swirl a loathsome river; For men may write, and men may talk, But I'll reek on for ever. I grew, I glode, I slipped, I slode, My pride I left behind me; I left it in my pure abode-- Now take me as you find me. For black as ink, from many a sink, I roll a poisonous river; And men may write, and men may talk, But I'll reek on for ever. And thus my vengeance, still I seek Foul drain, and not a river; My breath is strong, though I am weak, Death floats on me for ever. You still may fight, or may unite To use your joint endeavour; But I'll be "boss," in spite of Cross, And poison you for ever. _The City Lantern_, Manchester, 1874. * * * * * THE BAGGAGE MAN. WITH many a curve the trunks I pitch, With many a shout and sally; At station, siding, crossing, switch, On mountain-grade or valley. I heave, I push, I sling, I toss, With vigorous endeavour, And men may smile and men grow cross, But I sling my trunks forever! Ever! ever! I bust the trunks for ever.