With fingers never at rest, With cuticle measly red, A heat-oppress'd victim capered about, Itching from ankles to head. Scratch, scratch, scratch, At a rate few North-Britons could beat, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch (Would that its tone could _cure_ the itch!) Thus sang he of "The Prickly Heat." _The Calcutta Englishman_, 1859. * * * * * There was another parody of Hood's _Song of the Shirt_, written by Mr. Clement Scott, entitled _The Song of the Clerk_. The Editor of this collection would be glad to know when, and in what work it appeared. * * * * * ABOUT THE WEATHER. (_A Fragment_). I remember, I remember, Ere my childhood flitted by, It was cold then in December, And was warmer in July. In the winter there were freezings-- In the summer there were thaws; But the weather isn't now at all Like what it used to was! _The Man in the Moon_, Vol. 5. * * * * * THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM. 'Twas in the prime of summer time, An evening calm and cool, And four-and-twenty happy boys Came bounding out of school: There were some that ran and some that leapt, Like troutlets in a pool. * * * * * That very night, while gentle sleep The urchin eyelids kiss'd, Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn, Through the cold and heavy mist; And Eugene Aram walk'd between, With gyves upon his wrist. THOMAS HOOD. * * * * * THE FALL OF THE EMINENT I. 'Twas in the prime of autumn time, An evening calm and cool, And full two thousand cockneys went To see him play the fool;-- And the critics filled the stalls as thick As the balls in a billiard pool. Away they sped when the play was done, Scarce knowing what to say; So they passed the butter boat around In the simple, usual way. Smoothly ran their glowing prose In the daily press next day. The Eminent I. they raved about Till their gush to columns ran; Condoning a _fiasco_ great, As friendly critics can; And _he_ still strutted on the stage, An over-rated man. He wore pink tights--his vest apart, To clutch his manly chest; And he went at the knees in his old, old way, Whilst his brow he madly prest. So he whisper'd and roared, and gasp'd and groan'd, As with dyspepsia possest. Act after act he ranted through, And he strode for many a mile, Till some were fain to leave the house, Too weary even to smile; For acting the murderer's part so oft Had somewhat marred his style.