Sick of the powder smell, Down on their knees they fell, Howling for hearth and home-- Cursing the Pope of Rome-- Whilst afar shot and shell Volleyed and thundered; Captured, alive and well, Ev'ry Hibernian swell, Came back the tale to tell; Back from the states of Rome-- Back from the gates of Hell-- Safe and sound every man-- Jack of Six Hundred! When shall their story fade? Oh the mistake they made! Nobody wondered, Pity the fools they made-- Pity the Pope's Brigade-- NOBBLED Six Hundred! Like the accomplished authors of _The Bon Gaultier Ballads_, Mr. Cholmondeley-Pennell is almost too much a Poet to be thoroughly successful as a mere Parodist. His muse often carries him away, and what begins in mere _badinage_, and playful imitation, runs into graceful sentiment and poetical imagery, until the author pulls her up short, and compels her to turn aside again into the well-worn "footprints in the sand of time." It would be difficult to find a better example both of the merits, and, so far as _mere parody_ is concerned, of the defects of Mr. Cholmondeley-Pennell's style than in the following lines, which he has kindly permitted me to insert in this collection.--They parody the _Morte D'Arthur:_-- LINES SENT TO THE LATE CHARLES BUXTON, M.P., WITH MY FAVOURITE HUNTER, WHITE-MIST. The sequel of to-day dissevers all This fellowship of straight riders, and hard men To hounds--the flyers of the hunt. I think That we shall never more in days to come Hold cheery talk of hounds and horses (each Praising his own the most) shall steal away Through brake and coppice-wood, or side by side Breast the sharp bullfinch and deep-holding dyke, Sweep through the uplands, skim the vale below, And leave the land behind us like a dream. I tear me from this passion that I loved-- Though Paget sware that I should ride again-- But yet I think I shall not; I have done: My hunt is hunted: I have skimmed the cream, The blossom of the seasons, and no more For me shall gallant Scott have cause for wrath, Or injured farmer mourn his wasted crops. Now, therefore, take my horse, which was my pride (For still thou know'st he bore me like a man--), And wheel him not, nor plunge him in the mere, But set him straight and give his head the rein, And he shall bear thee lightly to the front, Swifter than wind, and stout as truest steel, And none shall rob thee of thy pride of place. * * * * * IN THE SCHOOLS AT OXFORD. to an examiner. (_Suggested by the Laureate's conundrum "In The Garden at Swaintson."_)