Wild jingo cry!――“We mightiest upon earth, Our naval power supreme on every sea.” Poor England! What are all these howlings worth And what avails thy poet’s fame to thee?―― A drivelling Laureate! You――you――possessed with such a dervish heat, Spinning and raving to your own disgrace! While all men laugh, the wild mob’s million feet Shall kick you from your place. Ah, then――too late, too late! E. S. WATSON. _The Christian Leader_, April 30, 1885. ――――:o:―――― TENNYSON. (On his reported Lunacy.) You――you――if you have failed to understand That England thought you knew the poet’s trick, On you now comes the laughter of the land For that mysterious kick Which falls too late――too late. Poet of perfect diction highly wrought, Poet whom England loved in every sea, Poor Baron, what shall million kicks be drought, And what avails the ancient fame of thee Whom once we called “the Great?” You――you――who had the ear of all the world, _If_ you can compass only pathos, see! When all men laugh, a million lips are curled, To send a jeer at thee, Our laughed-at Laureate! _The Liverpool Mercury._ ――――:o:―――― TENNYSON TACKLED. I. THE FLIGHT! _Companion Poem to_ “The Fleet.” _A Rejoinder._ You――you――_if_ you have failed to understand How ships are built on paper at Whitehall, Have picked up from the _Pall Mall_, second-hand, Facts which but after all Make circulation great. Your Isle――where you possess the snuggest berth, The tangled lanes, clear stretches of the sea―― Might feed your Muse; of matter you’ve no dearth, So why this unprovoked attack on me,―― This――regular slate? You――you――who, I admit, _can_ write, _If_ you have talked of “kicking” to my face:―― Well, pr’aps I ought to seek the Isle of Wight, And kick you at your place; And may――though late, though late. II. THE BARD. Another Companion Poem. A Reply. Yum-yum,[29]――_if_ I have failed to understand The tons, and guns, and “ends,” whereof they brawl, At me, at least, can no man paint the hand, For hypothetical Purely, is all I state. Yum-yum――_if_ any man has starved the Fleet, _If_ any man has his head punched for this, Kicked by a million boots along the street, That sight I would not miss, Nay, nor arrive too late! And what, _if_ flying collars and a face Familiar once in Highland tour with me, I saw thus pelted in the market-place? Well, well, so might it be; And, _if_ deserved, First-rate! _Punch_, May 2, 1885.