There was a competition for Parodies on “Excelsior” in _Truth_, fourteen parodies appeared on November 11, 1880, and the following week nine more were published, each consisting of five verses. The parody with the refrain, “That Thirty-four,” which was selected as the prize winner, has already appeared in Part VI. of _Parodies_. A few of the others may be given here; the first evidently refers to Mr. Disraeli’s entry into political life, when he was not favorably received:―― The shades of night were falling fast, When, through the House of Commons, passed A youth, with curls not over nice, Who bore as motto and device―― Excelsior! His brow was dark, his eye beneath Flashed from its eyelid’s dusky sheath, And, with a nasal music, rung The accents of his Hebrew tongue―― Excelsior! “Thou offshoot of a withered branch! Beware the scornful avalanche, Which shall o’erwhelm thy speech to-night!” A voice replied, in shame and spite, Excelsior! “Stay,” said the maiden Muse, “and rest Thy weary head upon this breast;” He either wept or winked his eye, And said with simulated sigh, Excelsior! Now in life’s twilight, old and grey, He seems to hear his rival say, From his high place, serene and far, “Ha, Lucifer! thou fallen star,” Excelsior! GOSSAMER. ―――――――― THE WORKHOUSE. The shades of night were falling fast As through a London alley passed A woman, wan, with hands of ice, The workhouse sought, from cold and vice―― Moritura! In happy homes she saw the light Of household fires gleam warm and bright; Above, the planets glittering shone, From her pale lips escaped a groan―― Moritura! “Try not to pass,” the porter said; Dark lowers his visage overhead―― “No order; rules I must abide;” And weak that weary voice replied, Moritura! “O stay,” a sister said, “and rest Thy weary head upon my breast.” A tear stood in her dull grey eye, And still she answered with a sigh, Moritura! There, in the daybreak, cold and gray, Lifeless, on workhouse steps she lay; And from the sky, serene and far, A voice fell, like a falling star, Est Mortua! BOB. ―――――――― THE GRIFFIN. The tawny folds of London fog Fell round the lamp-lit Court of Gog. Clarions and toasts were loud within; A weird cry mingled with the din―― “One blunder more!”