FAREWELL TO THE CAMP. (_A Lyric for the 20th August_, 1853.) A military camp was held during the summer months of 1853 at Chobham, and became a favourite place of resort for Londoners. The Camp has departed!――farewell the parade, And the earth-shaking march of the stern Colonade:[70] The bands play no longer from manuscript leaves, Nor detectives prowl stealthily watching the thieves. The City of War, which immense fun we’ve had in Is fled like the palace that flew with Aladdin; And musketry’s crack, and artillery’s roar Astonish the echoes of Chobham no more. The Lancer in scarlet, the Rifle in green, And the Horse-guard in blue, have abandoned the scene; And we’ve witness’d the last of the blood-stirring frays Where gallop’d in glory those terrible Greys. No longer in toothsome libation is spilt The Dew that is dear to the sons of the kilt; No longer falls plashing in pleasantness here, The frothy cascade of the black British beer, O! Chobham Olympics, your games are all done, The last close is wrestled, the last race is run, The stone’s “put” away, to the leap-frog there’s truce, And the ultimate caber is pitched to the deuce. Rejoice in thy stable, thou omnibus steed! For thee the campaign-times were wiry indeed, No more shalt thou toil on that villanous road, With a cargo of snobs for thy heart-breaking load. Weep, rascally drivers of ramshackle flies, Adieu your extortions, your sauce, and your lies, Farewell to that Station, the cheating point where You’ve so oft charged a pound for a two shilling fare. Well, everything passes; a Camp like the rest, But this ends while its novelty still has a zest; And we’re free to confess that we see with regret The Flutters Hill’s sun, like the Austerlitz set. Here’s a health to the officer――liner or guard―― Who with Cambridge and Seaton has laboured so hard, Here’s a health to his men, whose good looks and good will Did such excellent credit to messman and drill. The object was good, and the object is gained, Right sound is the teaching the troops have obtained; And we’ll mark that M.P. for a short-sighted scamp Who grudges one mil for the Chobhamite Camp. SHIRLEY BROOKS. 1853. ――――:o:―――― ON THE DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE, OF WALES. (_In imitation of Cowper’s dirge on the loss of the “Royal George.”_) Wail for the dead! And rend thy streaming hair, Thou fairest Island-Queen That ever ocean bare! All lonely on the rock, To every passing sail, Let thy deep shriek of woe Fly pinioned on the gale. Not light that tale of woe is, No trouble of a day; Thy cup of Joy is dashed, Is dashed in haste away. Wail for the dead! The high-born and the good! Long years must pass before Her equal shall be viewed.