The flush of exertion broke out on my face, And the skin-wearing car handle gave me great pain, And I vowed in my heart this should be my last race, And thrice ere the finish I vowed it again. Put it on――well-rowed all――now you’re gaining――full oft I heard on the bank from many a tongue, And the cheers of our comrades that went up aloft From many a loud-shouting ear-splitting lung. Then we spurted like mad, and gained more and more, Till the two boats were scarcely six inches apart, Our coxswain alternately cheered us and swore, To let off the steam from his fast-beating heart. Easy all! ’Tis a bump! ’Tis a bump, I’ll be sworn! I was glad, for my back had begun to give way. Our cheers on the wings of the evening were borne, And our boat became head of the river that day. From _Lays of Modern Oxford_, by Adon. Chapman and Hall, London, 1874. ―――― THE TORY PREMIER’S DREAM. Our leaders sang truce――for the session had lowered, And a cloud had come o’er the political sky; And the Parliament sank on the ground over-powered, The Liberals to shout, and the Tories to cry. After feeding that night on my pork chop so raw With the vote-guarding “faggot” still haunting my brain, At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw, And thrice e’er the cock crew I dreamed it again. Methought from the Polling-booth’s dreadful array Triumphant I rose, for of votes I’d no lack. ’Twas delightful to hear all constituents say. “We idolize Jingo, and welcome you back!” I flew to the policy traversed so oft, The secrecy whence my “surprises” have sprung; My motto, “Imperium,” floated aloft, And I laughed in my sleeve at the softness of Bung. Then pledged we the Water Bill; fondly we swore From our spirited policy never to part; The stockjobbers blessed me a thousand times o’er, And the public it cursed in its hardness of heart. Stay, stay with us――rest till an Empire is born; And fain was the Novelist-Statesman to stay; But Gladstone returned with the dawning of morn, And all my majority melted away. _Funny Folks_, April 17, 1880. ―――― THE FATAL GALLOPADE. A Parody upon the style of Thomas Campbell, Author of “Theodric,” etc.