Take that pop from my belt! Hi, thar――gimme yer han’―― Or I’ll kill myself――Lizzie! she’s left me―― _Gone off with a purtier man!_ Thar, I’ll quit――the ole gal An’ the kids! run away! I be derned! Howsomever, come in, pard―― The griddle-cake’s thar, anyway. ―――――――― TO “AULD WILLIE.” (_After Bret Harte’s “The Return of Belisarius.”_) So again you’ve been at it, old fellow, The old game of four years ago; You’ve given the Tories a drubbing; You’ve had, so it seems, quite a go. By Jove! and you _were_ down upon them, Denouncing, and all that, you know; But what about Egypt, old fellow, And those vows of yours four years ago? Ah! it’s far, far from jolly, old fellow, To think it is four years ago, And scarcely a measure effected, Attempted, and all that, you know! You denounce Lords and Tories with vigour; But for all your palaver, I trow, Matters are about much of a muchness To-day, they were four years ago! AVONICUS. _The Weekly Dispatch_, September 14, 1884. (Parody Competition). Bret Harte’s prose writings have been frequently parodied, and several examples will be given when the subject of prose parodies is reached. One of the best of these occurs on page 156 of _The Shotover Papers_ for November, 1874; it is entitled “His Finger.” [Illustration] Thomas Hood. (_Continued from Part_ 12 ) THE NIGHT “COMP.” With fingers weary and worn, Eyelids heavy and red, A “comp.” stood at his frame all night, Picking up “stamps” for bread. Full-point, comma, and rule, Colon, and quad, and space, “Setting” a line, “pie-ing” a line, Dozing awhile at his “case.” “Leader,” and “latest,” and “ads.” “Nonp.” and “brevier” and all that; Matter all solid, never a “break;” Oh! for a trifle of “fat!” Moon peeping in through the pane; Gas, with its dull yellow glare; Nought to be heard, save the solemn “click, click,” And the Editor’s foot on the stair. One o’clock! two o’clock chimed! “Proofs,” coming up again, “read;” Three o’clock! four o’clock! daylight is here; Trudge away homeward to bed. ANONYMOUS. ―――――――― THE SONG OF THE DIRT. (_Covent Garden Market, August_, 1884) With boots all dirty and worn, And trousers heavy with mud, A Londoner trudged on a market day With a footfall’s dreary thud―― Splash, splash, splash! While cabbage-leaves spatter and spirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch He sang “_The Song of the Dirt_.”