Any decent folks had blushed To assist at such a scene―― But, sudden, firemen rushed Where before they should have been, And “Fire! fire!” the Wizard cried, and the fun Stopped upon pallid lips, For the ceiling and the slips Glowed like a mountain’s tips In the sun. The Main! the Main! the Main! But beams came tumbling whack, And a shower of fiery rain Falls on the frightened pack, And each hurries from the menaced doom, And gents with terror pale Pay no heed to woman’s wail, And the flames at once prevail And consume. Down went Covent Garden then, Vain was the engine’s wave, Vainly the gallant men Struggled the wealth to save―― The clock twice saved away indeed they bring, But the Muse’s ancient seat Is a ruin most complete; Ashes, where song’s _élite_ Used to sing. And London’s blame was chief For the stupid heads of those Who have doubtless come to grief Through the Wizard’s vulgar shows. A play-house is intended for a play; If you let it for a night To a Quack, you but invite A fate that serves you right, You may say. Now joy old opera raise For the tidings of the night, Once more thy gas shall blaze, Once more thy songs delight, And though losing our fine house is a bore, Let us think of those who weep Their tools――by no means cheap―― A charred and melted heap On its floor. SHIRLEY BROOKS. ――――:o:―――― THE LAST GROWLER. (After Thomas Campbell’s _Last Man_――also after the Official Report that there are one hundred and fifty seven fewer Four-wheeled Cabs in London now than last year.) Four million souls without a Fly! Shall we _then_ realise Our lack of common comforts, born From lack of enterprise? I saw a vision in my sleep That caused me from my bed to leap, And skip around the room; I saw the Final Growler go Unhonoured, hideous, mean and slow, To its appointed doom! The gas-lamps had a sickly glare, And not a heart did bleed As passed that bony hulk along. Drawn by its bony steed; The Hansom Cabmen winked and leered, The very Crossing-Sweeper jeered, The street-boys raised a yell: And bliss o’er troubled spirits slid To see that Four-wheeled Monster bid To fares a long farewell! Yet, martyr-like, the Driver sat; He knew the end was near Of over-charge and under-pay, And did not shed a tear; Saying――“Too long I have delayed; My Cab is old, my Horse decayed, ’Tis mercy bids me bolt; For fifty years of mortal breath, We’ve jolted Passengers to death, And shall no longer jolt.