The strangers who come and “withdraw” My form with indifference see; They are so unacquainted with law, Their tameness is shocking to me. The Claimant――what treasures untold I found in that wonderful claim! More precious than silver and gold―― It added M. P. to my name. Ye _Stokers_ who made me your sport, Convey to this desolate shore Some cordial, endearing report, Ere the public shall vote me a bore. The bar, do they now and then send A wish or a thought after me? O! tell me I yet have a friend, Though but ONE in the lobby I see. When I think how I stormed at the Bench In a moment I seem to be there; But alas! recollections that wrench Soon hurry me back to despair. But there’s comfort in every case; There are Prittlewells――glorious thought! Magna Charta’s a movement that pays; And the _Englishman_[72] freely is bought. _Funny Folks._ May 15, 1875. ―――― COMPETITION PARODIES. In 1879, _The World_ offered prizes for parodies on this poem, the subject selected being _The Frozen-out Fox Hunter_. _First Prize._ I am rather left out in the cold―― Frozen out in more senses than one―― This skating is “jolly,” I’m told; I’ll be hanged, sir, if I see the fun! Society! What a dull part I must play with these ladies and men! I know nothing of music or art, I never read Mallock or _Gwen_. They are dancing to-night――so I stand And sulk, with my back to the wall―― To the tune of “John Peel” by the band, And feel myself out of it all. I glance at the girls who go by, My looks with amusement they see; I’d ask them to dance, but I’m shy―― I know they are laughing at me. How fresh are the breezes of morn, While over the meadows we go! What music can equal a horn? Toot! Gone away! Yoicks! Tally-ho! There’s a place we intended to draw To-morrow, just under those rocks―― O, tell me it’s going to thaw, You fellows who follow the fox! But the ladies are going to bed; At least I feel piously glad That when all the good-nights have been said There is pool and a pipe to be had. Yes, while there’s a pipe and some grog, All pleasure in life is not lost; Come, throw on another pine log, And be jolly in spite of the frost! FABULA SED VERA. _Second Prize._ I can’t go a huntin’ to-day, That fact there is none can dispute―― In short, it’s the devil to pay; I feel like a funeral mute. O Leicestershire, these are the farms I dreamt would have shown me the pace That kills, with a scent! ’Tis the scent Of the drains in this horrible place.