Seated for years at the organ, Just trying the stops and keys, And wondering how the pedals Might be got to work with ease: By ear, with my notes in my pocket, Performing――as few men can, I struck such a chord that the organ Burst out “You’re a Grand Old Man.” It flooded the daily papers, Like the name of a comic song, And I felt several inches taller As I quietly bowled along. I think that it nettled NORTHCOTE, Polite as he can be in strife, Though it seemed a sensible echo From the din of my public life. But it brought down chaff by the cartload, That possibly may increase;―― For till CHURCHILL’S in with his Party, I never shall know any peace. But I take the whole thing calmly, For the cord has a swell that’s fine; And I’m glad the popular organ Has a touch that answers mine. And whether I stick to the Commons,―― And I certainly will if I can,―― Or go to the Peers,――no matter, I shall still hear “_that Grand, Old Man!_” _Punch._ March 10, 1883. ―――― THE LOST DRINK. Seated one day at a _café_, I was thirsty and hot as the sphinx, And my tongue went babbling idly Over the names of drinks. I knew not what I was saying, Nor what I had uttered then; But the _garçon_ brought me a mixture Like a gift of the gods to men. Its colour was crimson _foncé_ Like the tip of a toper’s nose, And it tickled my fever’d palate With a touch of infinite “goes.” It trickled down my gullet Like oil down a red-hot pipe; It seemed the harmonious echo From some supernal swipe. It linked _vin rouge_ and choice _liqueur_ Into one perfect drop, And guggled away down my gullet As if it were loth to stop. I have sought――but I seek it vainly―― That one lost drink divine, Which was mixed by that _garçon du café_ With curaçoa and red wine. It may be that some chance _garçon_ May bring me that drink again; It may be that some day in Paris I may utter its name. But then I never could find that _café_, And lost to mortal ken Is that supernal _boisson_ Like a gift of the gods to men! _Judy._ October 27, 1886. IN THE GLOAMING. ―――― A PARODY OF LADY ARTHUR HILL’S SONG. In the gloaming, oh, my Proctor, When your ways are mean and low, And the sons of Alma Mater Loudly come and softly go; When you prowl around my college, With your Bull-dogs in a row, Will you watch for me and catch me As you did one term ago?