And yet the May-day games, mother, were not a great success; And I, for I was Queen, alack!--got in the greatest mess; The mud was over all our boots--it hail'd, too, as it chanced, And I fell in a puddle, mother, while I with Robin danced. (_Five verses omitted_). "So, on the whole, I cannot say I'm glad--no more can you, You call'd me early on the first, though then I begg'd you to; In truth, could I have known, it would have been so cold and wet, I'd have told the lads and lasses, mother, another Queen to get. "But, there, it is too late to fret--the thing is over now, But not again will your poor child thus play the fool, I vow; Another year, if spring is late, I'll stay in bed all day, Rather than get up early, mother, and be the Queen o' the May." _Truth_, May 22, 1879. * * * * * You ask me why, tho' ill at ease, Within this region I subsist, Whose spirits falter in the mist, And languish for the purple seas? * * * * * TENNYSON. * * * * * THE NEW UMBRELLA. You ask me why, though ill at ease, And chilled with rain, my gentle Stella, I stand beneath the dripping trees, With shivering hands and shaking knees, But do not use my umbrella. The reason I can soon explain, Succinctly, simply, and precisely: If once I used it in the rain, I could not fold it up again, Or roll it up so smooth and nicely. No, precious slender staff! no hand of mine, With ruthless hate or foolish gaming, Shall mar thy symmetry divine-- The curved diagonal of line That circles round thy wooden stamen. The skill that wrapped thee up so tight And fastened up the ring and button Is rarer far than second-sight, The art of catching fish at night, Or carving any joint of mutton. * * * * * (Two verses omitted). _The Cambridge Meteor_, June 13, 1882. * * * * * "OF old sat Freedom on the heights, The Thunders breaking at her feet: Above her shook the starry lights: She heard the torrents meet." * * * * * TENNYSON. * * * * * PAM UPON THE HEIGHTS. [Lord Palmerston was appointed Lord Warden of the Cinque Ports, March, 1861]. NOT old, stood Pam upon the Heights, The Commons roaring at his feet, And Beadledom, with antique rites, Did him the homage meet. _Punch_, in his place did much rejoice, Not for the title then assigned, But glad to hear the brave old boy's Name shouted on the wind. Admiring much his British pluck, His ready tongue, his cheery jest, His never downing on his luck, But hoping for the best.