I am out of society’s reach, I can issue my edicts alone; I laugh at the rights of free speech, For I tolerate none but my own. The mobs that collect in the Square I can’t with indifference see, So outspoken, so bold――I declare Their language is shocking to me, How sweet is the constable’s stave For putting the rabble to flight, When they bludgeon some vagabond knave, Then arrest him for brawling outright! Who talks of a free native land? I’ll teach them ’tis otherwise there, With the cells and police-court at hand, And no speaking allowed in the Square. So let orators note my behest, Let each pauper slink back to his lair; They can go to the workhouse for rest, While I to my mansion repair. There’s a workhouse in everyplace, And the guardians (encouraging thought) Give relief when they’ve sifted each case―― Why ain’t they content with their lot? _Pall Mall Gazette._ November 25, 1887. ―――― Several other parodies of this poem are scattered about in various Magazines, but they are not of sufficient interest to be reprinted. See _Punch._ January 10, 1880. _Judy._ June 30, 1880. _St. James’s Gazette._ April 22, 1881. _Moonshine._ January, 1882. ――――:o:―――― BURBABAN’S DEFEAT. _A Warwickshire Lay._ Count Peste, he was a nobleman, Of credit and renown, A jockey-club man, too, was he, Of old Newmarket town. Count Peste said to his love, “My dear, Though with me you have been These many tedious years, yet you No racing yet have seen. To-morrow is a racing day, And we will then repair Unto the town of Warwickshire And see the racing there. I am a nobleman so bold, As all the world doth know, So I will ride old ‘Burbaban,’ You’ll see how we will go.” Quoth Lady Peste, “That is well said, For jockey’s fees are dear, So you can ride, and be your own, That is both nice and clear.” * * * * * He lost the race, he lost it quite, And back he got to town; All wished he never had been up, For it was up and down. Now let us sing, “Long live the Queen! And Count Peste, long live he! And when he next a race does ride, May I be there to see!” There are twenty-two verses in all in this not very interesting parody, which is to be found in _Lays of the Turf_, by Rose Grey. London: G. H. Nichols, 1863. ――――:o:―――― A RIDDLE. I am just two and two, I am warm, I am cold, And the parent of numbers that cannot be told; I am lawful, unlawful――a duty, a fault, I am often sold dear, good for nothing when bought; An extraordinary boon, and a matter of course, And yielded with pleasure when taken by force.