Oh, foolish swain, Think you, because On grassy plain I mind each clause Of sovereign Lawn-tennis laws,―― In brightest gleam That fancy owns, Think you, I dream My cranial bones With rules can teem Like those of Jones? Oh, Mr. Jones, Type of Lawn-tennis Draco, This head of mine Is not as thine, Although it sometimes ache, Oh! II. When heaven glows With heat intense, And grass ne’er grows In any sense, We ply the hose At great expense! When eager calls And fervent prayers For brand-new balls Are heard from players, The onus falls On F. H. Ayres. Oh, Mr. Ayres, Vendor of balls sewn-under, How are they made, Or sold, or paid For, at such price, I wonder? III. Fame’s made or marr’d At Wimbledon, And matches hard Are deftly won, And scored on card, Ere set of sun: But no young gent Scores with such art A tournament In every part As heaven-sent Young Mr. Schacht. Oh, Mr. Schacht, Type of Lawn-tennis umpire, Perched up on high, In summer sky, No grasshopper could jump higher! IV. The lists are set, The ties are drawn, And anxious yet, Ere morning dawn, We pray, no wet May spoil our lawn. The play begins, Without a flaw, The fastest spins We ever saw; The fav’rite wins,―― ’Tis still Renshaw! Oh, Will Renshaw, Type of Lawn-tennis champions, None e’er so quick The world to lick From Land’s End to the Grampians! From _Tennis Cuts and Quips_. (London: Field & Tuer, 1884.) ――――:o:―――― PRINCESS IDA. ―――― THE DISAGREEABLE MAN. _As Sung by Mr. Henry George, the “Land Nationalization” Comique._ If you give me your attention, I will tell you what I am: I’m a genuine philanthropist――all other sorts are sham. Each stupid freak of Fortune and each soc-i-al defect By my lectures and my volumes I endeavour to correct; To all their little grievances I ope the people’s eyes, And pretty plans to crucify the landlords I devise. I love my fellow creatures――I do all the good I can―― Yet Property declares that I’m a disagreeable man! And I can’t think why!