I'm always making graceful curves, As everyone alleges. And while I've nerve, I'll never swerve, From in and outside edges. And after me I draw them all, At skating I'm so clever, For men may come, and men may fall, But I rink on for ever. * * * * * I now come to a clever and most amusing little work entitled _Puck on Pegasus_, by H. Cholmondeley-Pennell, which was published about sixteen years ago by the late Mr. John Camden Hotten. In the original edition this work was a small quarto, with numerous illustrations and a characteristic frontispiece designed and etched by dear old George Cruikshank. It has since run through numerous editions, and is now included in the series known as _The Mayfair Library_, published by Chatto and Windus. It contains the following parodies:--"Song of In-the-Water," after _Longfellow;_ "The Du Chaillu Controversy," after _The Bon Gaultier Ballads;_ "The Fight for the Championship," after _Lord Macaulay;_ "How the Daughters come down at Dunoon," after _Robert Southey;_ "Wus, ever wus," after _Tom Moore;_ "Exexolor!" after _Longfellow's_ Excelsior; "Charge of the Light (Irish) Brigade," after _Tennyson_. The incidents referred to in the last-mentioned parody have now somewhat faded from the public memory. It is sufficient to say that the warlike behaviour of the one brigade was quite as great a contrast to the action of the other, as the parody here given presents to the original poem:-- CHARGE OF THE LIGHT (IRISH) BRIGADE. (_Not by A----d T----n_). Southward Ho--Here we go! O'er the wave onward Out from the Harbour of Cork Sailed the Six Hundred! Sailed like Crusaders thence, Burning for Peter's pence,-- Burning for fight and fame-- Burning to show their zeal-- Into the gates of Rome, Into the jaws of Hell, (It's all the same)! Marched the Six Hundred! "Barracks, and tables laid! Food for the Pope's Brigade;" But ev'ry Celt afraid, Gazed on the grub dismay'd-- Twigged he had blundered;-- "Who can eat rancid grease? Call _this_ a room a-piece?"[2] "Silence! unseemly din, Prick them with bayonets in." Blessèd Six Hundred! Waves every battle blade-- "Forward the Pope's brigade!" Was there a man obeyed? No--where they stood they stayed, Though Lamoricière pray'd, Threatened, and thundered-- "Charge!" Down their sabres then Clashed, as they turn'd--and ran-- Sab'ring the empty air, Each of one taking care, Here, there, and ev'rywhere Scattered and sundered.