I’m monarch of all I survey, My right there is none to dispute: No Poors Rates nor taxes I pay, Nor take out a license to shoot. No bailiffs or brokers I dread To carry off me or my sticks, And this hut I built over my head Though of mud, is as jolly as bricks. They may talk of residing abroad, With limited means for a plea, But of all the cheap places to live, Uninhabited islands for me. Quite out of my fashion I strike All habits defying my ease; I wear my clothes just as I like, And I think they are “rather the cheese.” No poachers nor bailiffs I fear, Nor e’er shot a man by mistake. My venison though cheap still is “deer,” And game of the game-laws I make. They may talk of residing abroad, At Boulogne, or Brussels, or Brest, But of all the cheap places to live, Uninhabited islands are best. I’ve no Mrs. Caudle to twit, But go to sleep just when I choose, And corn-laws don’t fret me a bit, For I always wear very large shoes. I’ve nothing to purchase, and so With bills I am never afflicted, And quarrels I never shall know, Because I am ne’er contradicted. They may talk of residing abroad, Or of flight to the land of Yankee, But of all the cheap places to live, Uninhabited islands for me. From _A Bowl of Punch_, by Albert Smith. London. D. Bogue. 1848. ―――― THE MODERN SELKIRK. (_Ballad of the Exeter Arcade Beadle._) I am beadle of all I survey, My right there is none to dispute; From the centre to over the way, I’m lord of the playbills and fruit. O, solitude, where are thy joys? O, would I could see but one face! ’Tis but to be chaffed by the boys I am left in this horrible place. I am out of humanity’s reach, I must walk up and down all day long, I’ve no one to list to my speech, I have not the pluck for a song. The newspaper boys they peep in, And laugh and insult me with glee; To them it is very good fun―― Their jesting is shocking to me. Lyceum! what pleasures untold Reside in thy laugh-loving crowd; But I may grow owlish and old, Ere to witness a play I’m allowed. The sound of the drop-raising bell, Not once, as a beadle, I’ve heard; Never sighed at a tragedy swell, Nor laughed when a burlesque appear’d. Shareholders, who’ve made me your sport, Convey to this dreary arcade A drop of that something called short, Or with me ’tis all up, I’m afraid, If my friends would but now and then send A small drop of comfort to me, I might know that I yet have a friend, Though a friend I am never to see. From _A Bowl of Punch_, by Albert Smith. London. 1848. ―――― A SAVAGE PARODY. (Born 1845; couldn’t be borne any longer, 1866; retired from society, is buried in the seclusion of a garret, 1867.)