THE BIRDS AND THE PHEASANT. I shot a partridge in the air, It fell in turnips, “Don,” knew where; For just as it dropped, with my right I stopped another in its flight. I killed a pheasant in the copse, It fell amongst the fir-tree tops; For though a pheasant’s flight is strong, A cock, hard hit, cannot fly long. Soon, soon afterwards, in a pie, I found the birds in jelly lie; And the pheasant, at a fortnight’s end, I found again in the _carte_ of a friend. _Punch_, October 12, 1867. ―――――――― BALLAD. THE EX-PREMIER. (_Mr. Gladstone_). I wrote a pamphlet t’other day; It fell still-born in the usual way; For the public knew ’twas the old, old tale, And they thought it just a wee bit stale. I wrote an article in a “mag,” And it made its circulation flag; For the readers knew ’twas my only work To speak about th’ unspeakable Turk! Not long after my spirits sunk, For I found the pamphlet lining a trunk; And the article (degradation utter) Was round a pat of the best salt butter. _Truth_. Christmas Number, 1877. ―――――――― THE ARROW AND THE HOUND. At Shanklin, in the Isle of Wight, I shot an arrow such a height, It fell to earth, I know not where, And, sooth to say, I do not care. A poem to a mag. I sent, Receiving no acknowledgment; The subject was, I know not what―― If e’er I knew I have forgot. A traveller the arrow found Half-buried in his faithful hound, And what he said in his distress I do not know――I dare not guess. And soon, when reading in the train, I found my poem once again; But on the fire that in it burned, A comic hydrant had been turned. What verse with arrow had to do I know not now――I never knew! But that such things should hap no more I called upon the editor. I aimed an arrow with such care, It hit I scarce remember where; A tear stood in his bright blue eye, He turned, and called me with a sigh―― But what, to tell you were not right; Besides, I have forgotten quite; But arrow, editor, and hound, Are famed to earth’s remotest bound. EXCELSIOR JUNIOR. _The Topical Times_, June 14, 1884. ―――――――― THE SOIRÉE. (After “_The Arsenal at Springfield_.”) This is the Soirée: from grate to entrance, Like milliners’ figures, stand the lovely girls; But from their silent lips no merry sentence Disturbs the smoothness of their shining curls. Ah! what will rise, how will they rally, When shall arrive the “gentlemen of ease!” What brilliant repartee, what witty sally, Will mingle with their pleasant symphonies!