[According to _England_, some of the Radicals were very annoyed that Mr. Gladstone should have written a letter of congratulation to Prince Albert Victor Edward on the attainment of his majority.] Oh! don’t you remember Sweet William, Ben Bolt, Sweet William wot chops treeses down? How you wept with delight wen you gave him your wote And said he’d soon down with the Crown. Like an old churchyard of no walley, Ben Bolt, Or a hactor hobscure and halone, He have positive shown in a letter so gay That he still have regard for the Throne. Oh! don’t you remember Sweet William, Ben Bolt? His tongue it would never keep still; And its sweet-flavoured clack had a fatherly smack To the click of the Radical mill. Them wentursome words wos but words, Ben Bolt And I looks for their meaning around; For them lines to a Prince, they only ewince That he’s artful and werry profound! Oh! don’t you remember the school, Ben Bolt, With its master, the Brummagem screw? And the screeches we screeched, and the speeches we speeched?―― A howling Republican crew! I’m not quite so green as the grass, Ben Bolt, For that letter have made me feel dry: And if you can bolt all this flummery, Ben, YOU’RE A DONKEY, BEN BOLT, AND NOT I!!! _England_, January 24, 1885. ――――:o:―――― THE LOST CHORD. ―――― THE LOST BALL. (A Parody on The Lost Chord, by Miss Adelaide Anne Proctor. Music by Sir Arthur Sullivan.) Batting one day at the Oval, I was scoring and quite at ease, And I “placed” the bowling neatly, Piling up twos and threes. I know not whom we were playing Or what was my total then, But I struck one ball of Morley’s Like the sound of a great “Big Ben.” It fled in the golden sunlight Like the devil away from psalms, And swiftly, though long-leg fielded, It slipped like an eel through his palms. It quieted chaff and chatter Like loves overcoming dears, And raised a harmonious echo Of loud, discordant cheers. It left the perplexéd fieldmen, Simple as perfect geese, And rolled away in the distance As if it were loth to cease. I have sought and still seek vainly Of the lost ball a sign, That came from the shoulder of Morley And travelled away from mine. It may be some man from the gas-works Will find it on his domain; It may be that only next season I shall strike at that ball again. Written by the late Doctor G. F. Grace, the celebrated Cricketer. ――――