“Fifty times the rose has flower’d and faded,” Fifty times it would have bloomed without her―― Smelt as sweet without “the crown, the sceptre.” XI. Are there thunders moaning in the distance?―― ’Tis the German band of near relations; Trust the mother Queen to guide her people Where they’ll live in plenty without labour, And her Alberts, Victors, Georges, Henries, Families raise for Jubilees for ages. T. A. H. ―――― I. Fifty times the State has fooled and blundered, Fifty times the royal pension’s risen Since the Queen assumed the globe, the sceptre. XI. Are there children starving in our alleys? Are there famine-stricken homes in cities? Trust not Queen or Lords to feed the people; Till the nation rules no troubles vanish. When the Right is Victor, then the darkness Dawns into the liberty of the ages. ALFRED LOVETT. ―――― ON INTERNATIONAL COPYRIGHT. VI. Ye, who revel in authorship, Spare not now to be practical; Call your “chums” to discuss with you, Make their industry hopefuller, Give your works to the publisher. Let the printer be recompensed, Let the trader be profited, Let the scribe in his work rejoice At the prospect of copyright. X. You, the poet, th’ essayist, You, the faithful historian, You, the play manufacturer, You, the writer sensational, Patient newspaper editor, You, th’ obscure, the illustrious, Author, artist, and type-cutter―― All your aims be in harmony, All your efforts in unison, Till you succeed in obtaining International copyright. J. MARSHALL. ―――― MY LANDLADY. II. She disliked for a craftiness Rare in kitchen or scullery, Queen, and slave in a lodging-house, Crowned so long with a widow’s cap Never worn by an artfuller, Now, with sanctified countenance, Comes to fleece us and plunder us, Growling, “Here is your weekly bill. VI. “You, that wanton in affluence, Spare not now to be bountiful; Scan not what I regale you on, Swear no neighbourhood’s healthfuller, Leave your gold on your looking-glass, Let your beer and your tea be boned, Let the needy (that’s _me_) be fed, Let your landlady line her nest While she tinkers the weekly bill.” SHAWRNLAM. From _The Weekly Dispatch_. April 17, 1887. ――――:o:――――