In fact, we poor Zulus, I see, From Christians have little to learn, Unless it be vices which we Were compelled in my kingdom to spurn. And if to my desolate nation, To go you will not me allow, Your “religion” and “civilisation” Will soon be my ruin, I vow. _Truth Christmas Number._ 1879. ―――― THE FROZEN-OUT FOX-HUNTER. _At a Leicestershire Country Inn_, I am “Cock of the Walk” at “The Post,” My commands there are none to forestall, From the bandy-legged boots to the host I am lording it over them all! Oh! Leicestershire! where is the wag Who called thee “a region of bliss?” Better dine with “The Bore” at “The Rag,” Than freeze in a pot-house like this! I am outside society’s bounds, Alone I must finish my weeds, Never hear the sweet music of hounds, I start at the neigh of my steeds! The foxes that roam o’er the wold Will soon get to laugh in my phiz; They are so little used to this cold, They’re shockingly tame as it is! Tobacco! what solace divine Resides in that comforting word! More precious by far than such wine As yon beggarly bar can afford! But the click of a billiard ball These desolate walls never knew, Never heard the trim marker’s “Love-all,” Or rejoice at the sight of a cue! But the cattle are safe in their shed, My hunters are wrapped in repose; Even here is that luxury――bed―― Where I may forget all my woes! It may thaw! I will hope for the best, And the _chance of a thaw_, and some sport Gives e’en to tough mutton a zest, And reconciles man to bad port! From _Snatches of Song_, by F. B. Doveton. London. ―――― THE GRIFFIN’S LAMENT. (_As sung by the Fleet Street Selkirk._) I am Monarch of naught I survey; E’en my site is a theme for dispute: Every omnibus horse that I see, As he passes me, says, “_What_ a brute!” Talk of dignity? What are its charms, When, thrust in the popular face, I fill the old street with alarms, Looking down from this _horrible_ place! I’m out of humanity’s reach, Stuck up here on the summit alone; And as for the music of speech, All I get is a hiss or a groan! For no beast of the plain, old or new, No brute from the depths of the sea, No bird that you’ll find at the Zoo―― Has the vaguest resemblance to me! But alas! spite rebuke and report, And letters, and threats by the score, I’ve been fixed! And, henceforth, without sport, I shall hear my name mentioned no more! My friends in the City, do they Send a wish or a thought after me? I trust that they do; for _this_ way Not a friend but old Birch shall I see!