And my stately vases go To your uncle's, I ween, to be cashed; But it's O for the light of my broken lamp, And the tick of my clock that is smashed. Break, break, break! At the foot of thy stairs in glee; But the coin I have spent in glass that is smashed Will never come back to me. From the "_Shotover Papers_," Oxford, 1875. * * * * * THE BATHER'S DIRGE. _By Tennyson Minor._ Break, break, break, On thy cold hard stones, O Sea! And I hope that my tongue won't utter The curses that rise in me. O well for the fisherman's boy, If he likes to be soused with the spray! O well for the sailor lad, As he paddles about in the bay! And the ships swim happily on To their haven under the hill: But O for a clutch at that vanish'd hand, And a kick--for I'm catching a chill! Break, break, break, At my poor bare feet, O Sea! _But the artful scamp who has collar'd my clothes Will never come back to me._ From _Funny Folks_, 1879. * * * * * The two following are taken from _Punch:_-- THE MUSICAL PITCH. Break, break, break, O voice!--let me urge thy plea!-- O lower the Pitch, lest utter Despair be the end of me! 'Tis well for the fiddles to squeak, The bassoon to grunt in its play: 'Twere well had I lungs of brass, Or that nothing but strings gave way! Break, break, break, O voice! I must urge thy plea, For the tender skin of my larynx is torn, And I fail in my upper G! * * * * * TENNYSON AT BILLINGSGATE IN 1882. (Apropos of the _Ring_ of Wholesale Fish Dealers.) Take! Take! Take! Oh grabber of swag from the sea, And I shouldn't quite like to utter The thoughts that occur to me! Oh, ill for the fisherman poor That he toils for a trifle all day, And ill for the much-diddled public That has through the nose to pay. And the swelling monopolist drives To his villa at Haverstock Hill, But it's O for the number of poor men's lives Food-stinted to plump his till! Take! Take! Take! Oh grabber of swag from the sea, _But you'll render a reckoning one of these days To the public and Mr. P._ * * * * * In June, 1882, the Editor of _The Weekly Dispatch_ awarded a prize of Two Guineas to M. Percivale, for a parody on _Locksley Hall_. The somewhat uncomplimentary allusions to a young Æsthetic poet are too obvious to require any elucidation. Cousins, leave me here a little, in lawn tennis you excel; Leave me here, you only bore me, I shall come at "luncheon bell!" 'Tis the place (but rather older)--I was in my eighteenth year, When I first met utter Oscar, and I thought him such a dear!