'But a sly wink woke in the eye of the Town, And a frivolous fit got hold of the Pit, And KELLY a pitchfork, and VEZIN a roar, And the stock chaff followed the Curtain down; And the Critics they did--as they've done before-- They slaughtered _The Promise of May_, _of May_, They slaughtered _The Promise of May!_' "The Laureate cannot write a playable play. _The Falcon_ at the St. James's was saved by the acting; _Queen Mary_, nothing could save; _The Cup_ was the success of Miss ELLEN TERRY, Mr. IRVING, the scene-painter, and the stage management. "But _The Promise of May_ must be an Utter Frost, with, we are sorry to think, no Promise to Pay in it; and nothing, except the spasmodic curiosity of the Public to see what the Laureate can't do, can set this unfortunate Humpty-Dumpty up again." * * * * * THE LAUREATE'S LATEST. The "town" ran off to the Globe one night, For a play was played then from the Laureate's pen; But they soon said, "How dare he?" and kicked up a "row," And pooh-poohed the drama--and serve it right, For that it deserved it I think you'll allow. Yea, they jeered at "The Promise of May,"--of May-- Annoyed at "The Promise of May." But stay; we'd better, maybe, leave that song, Yea, leave its "hen," its "fox," its "cat," and "cheese"-- For where is he who can burlesque burlesque? And this strange playwright, mystic, wonderful, Loved stage plays with a love that was his doom! For lo! this "Promise" played by Bernardbeere Has gained, at least, this very doubtful fame-- Hereafter, through all ages--"'Twas no good!" The critics, o'er its threadbare plot, Ere long grew "crusty"--one and all. Said they, "'Twill fail; such awful rot Will on the public quickly pall. The leading character is strange, The rest are all a prosy batch, The audience they'll never catch-- The programme they must shortly change. "A. T.," they said, "'tis weak and dreary. A lot of bosh," they said. "It makes the audience aweary; Soon it will be dead!" Besides the forced and feeble plot, Full soon did men discover The scientific "snob" was not A pleasant sort of lover. Of speech he had an awful flow-- Which Tennyson thought clever-- And he soliloquised as though He meant to jaw for ever! And then unto the critics and reviewers, Irresponsible critics and reviewers, Thus, Alfred (not in metre of Catullus-- But more in "In Memoriam" sort of measure): "The critics prattle on amain-- That envious and grumbling race Declare my play is commonplace, And rather full of chaff than grain.