But little noble Albert recked The haughty damsel’s self-respect. “I keep my circle most select,” Says Mary. So with a calm impassive eye She gave his Highness the “go by.” “Who wants to know you, Sir? Not I!” Said Mary. Across the Atlantic wave to-day Columbia’s children proudly say, “Guess naow who snubbed a Coming K.? Why, Mary.” _Judy._ October 24, 1883. ―――― THE NEGRO’S COMPLAINT. Forced from home and all its pleasures, Afric’s coast I left forlorn; To increase a stranger’s treasures, O’er the raging billows borne. Men from England bought and sold me, Paid my price in paltry gold; But, though slave they have enrolled me, Minds are never to be sold. Still in thought as free as ever, What are England’s rights, I ask, Me from my delights to sever, Me to torture, me to task? Fleecy locks and black complexion Cannot forfeit nature’s claim; Hues may differ, but affection Dwells in white and black the same. Why did all-creating Nature Make the plant for which we toil? Sighs must fan it, tears must water, Sweat of ours must dress the soil. Think, ye masters, iron-hearted, Lolling at your jovial boards, Think how many backs have smarted For the sweets your cane affords. * * * * * Deem our nation brutes no longer, Till some reason ye shall find Worthier of regard and stronger Than the colour of our kind. Slaves of gold, whose sordid dealings Furnish all your boasted powers; Prove that you have human feelings Ere you proudly question ours! WILLIAM COWPER. ―――― Two parodies of this poem appeared in _Figaro in London_ more than fifty years ago, they are consequently rather out of date, and it is unnecessary to give them in full. The first referred to Henry Phillpotts, the stern, mercenary, and bigoted Bishop of Exeter, the bitter opponent of Roman Catholic emancipation, and the apologist for the Peterloo massacre. The second is supposed to be a complaint made by Lord Grey on his rejection from the office of premier by his late colleagues. NO. 1. BISHOP PHILLPOTTS’ COMPLAINT. Forced from dissipation’s pleasures, Oxford’s walls I left forlorn, To increase my worldly treasures, Up to town a stranger borne. Men in office bought and sold me, Paid my price in shining gold, But though theirs they then enrolled me, Sentiments may twice be sold. Still in thought as Whig as ever, What are Brougham’s rights I ask, Me with irony so clever Cruelly to take to task? Whigs may proudly all connection With the Tories now disclaim, But for place a fond affection Dwells, we know, in both the same.