Oft, when a careless child, (_Summut about 17,_) Beneath its shades I heard, (_Guildhall, of course,_) The woodnotes sweet and wild, (_But rather expensive,_) Of many a foreign bird. (_From the Italian Opera._) My Mother kissed me _there_, (_In the Chamberlain’s Office, when I took up my Freedom._) My Father pressed my _hand_ (_With a sovereign in it, the fust I ever had:_) I ask then, with a _tear_, (_Of course, that’s all my eye,_) To let the old _Oak_ stand! (_Too obvious to require explanation._) I’ve crossed the foaming wave; (_Dover to Calais――oh, Steward!_) I’ve braved the cannon-shot! (_Figuratively, at the Tower;_) While I’ve a hand to save, (_That is, till I’ve lost ’em both,_) Thy _Ax_ shall harm it not! _(Ax of Parlement, as before._) _Punch._ February 11, 1882. ―――― “SPENCER, SPARE THAT TREE!” [“It is beyond all measure the finest tree in London, and being of a kind that defies London smoke, it actually seems to enjoy and thrive upon it. It is sad to think that we have Vandals paid by the public to do such irreparable, wanton mischief.”――_Mr. Nasmyth on the cutting down of the old South Kensington plane tree._] SPENCER, spare that tree! Touch not a single bough! For years you’ve let it be:―― Why set upon it _now_? I know not whose the hand That placed it on that spot; But, SPENCER, let it stand, Or else you’ll get it hot! The old familiar plane That decks this end of town:―― Why, those are scarcely sane Who want to cut it down. South Kensington secures Its end with many a joke; But if you must have yours,―― O SPENCER, spare _this_ stroke! When, in my childhood’s joy, T’wards Fulham’s fields I strayed; CHARLES MATTHEWS still a boy, Grew young beneath its shade. And later, it was here, Ere Brompton saw its close,―― Forgive this foolish tear, The dear old _boilers_ rose! So, if you’ve work in view, Cut down――I’ll not repine―― A salary or two, But _not_ this tree of mine! And though in wild dismay Your underlings complain,―― O SPENCER, cut away, But _don’t cut down my plane!_ _Punch._ July 23, 1881. ―――― “CHILDERS, SPARE THAT COIN.” [The Chancellor of the Exchequer proposed to abolish the old half-sovereign and issue a new one, which should be worth only nine shillings in gold.] Childers, spare that coin, Historically grand, Thou wouldst its tenth purloin, But, prithee, stay thy hand. It aye has held for me A pure ten-shilling joy. So, Childers, let it be, Nor mix it with alloy.