Have dined, and now, at 9 P.M., have again settled down to it over a pipe and a glass of grog. Am in a more hopeless muddle than ever. Trying to bring in everybody in a kind of wind-up appeal. But look at this,―― _You, the snubbed, the unfortunate You, the Lord-Undertaker, You, the Lord-Omnibus-Conductor,_ That doesn’t seem to run very well, but it’s the kind of idea I want to work in. Don’t seem able to manage it. _You, the Lady-Amateur Actor?_ No, _that_ won’t do! Shall never get it done to-night. * * * * * 10 P.M.――After awful hammering, managed to knock off two more lines. Head spinning, but must stick to it. Feel I’ve never turned out such stuff in my life before. Hopeless! * * * * * 10.30 P.M.――Two more lines screwed out. But _what_ lines! Won’t scan, and as to rhyme,――ha! ha!――catch me rhyming to-night! * * * * * 11 P.M.――Have come to a dead stand-still. Equal to it. Have had recourse to _the wet towel_. Refreshes me. Ha! I see light. Happy thought! As I can’t do it in verse, why not write it all in prose, and then cut it up into poetry afterwards? Sure to get cut up when it appears. Why not do it myself first? I will. Anyhow, here goes. * * * * * MIDNIGHT.――Done it! Labelled it _Carmen Sæculare_. Looks all right, but quite the toughest piece of work I’ve ever had to turn out. Posted it to Macmillan. Hope he’ll like it. _Punch._ April 9, 1887. ANOTHER JUBILEE ODE. I. Fifty times the lines have slipped and halted; Fifty times some golden lines have fallen Since this man――the poet――became the Laureate. II. He, renowned for a wordiness, Rare in fable or history, Poet――and Rhymster of England, Crowned at last by strawberry leaf, Never worn by a wordier. Now with numbers unmusical, Comes at last to the psalm-front, Singing the year of Jubilee. * * * * * VI. You whose bank balance is right side Spare not of cheques the distributing. Ask your labourers to dine with you, Make cleanlier their cottages, Double infirmary subscriptions, Let the ragged all be clothed, Let the hungry have bellies full, Let those one-legged have a wooden one At this year of the Jubilee. * * * * * Fifty years of ever-growing taxes; Fifty years of ever world-mending Fifty years of ever muddling Ireland. * * * * *