His waistcoat all unbuttoned gaped, His coat was all undone, For one as unconfined of waist You might have searched wide London. But though poor Ralph no more was pinched By swathes of tailors’ stuff, he Still suffered pain. I ne’er before Had seen a wight so puffy. So swells sometimes a huge balloon Within its hempen fetters. D. Lambert had been beaten by This bloated lord of letters! “What’s wrong?” I asked the groaning wretch. “Say, have you ‘growed’ like Topsy? Is poison lurking in your veins? Or is your ailment dropsy?” “It’s Manners’ tip that’s laid me low,” This answer did Ralph mutter. “_I’m busting, sir, with cups o’ tea, And plates o’ bread-and-butter!_” _Funny Folks._ December, 1885. ――――:o:―――― THE POETS AT TEA. Such is the title of a series of short clever parodies which appeared in _The Cambridge Fortnightly_ (Feb. 7, 1888). This bright little magazine is published by Mr. Octavus Tomson, 16, King’s Parade, Cambridge. Four verses are here omitted, but the titles are given:―― _Macaulay, who made it._ Pour, varlet, pour the water, The water steaming hot! A spoonful for each man of us, Another for the pot! We shall not drink from amber, No Capuan slave shall mix For us the snows of Athos With port at thirty-six; Whiter than snow the crystals Grown sweet ’neath tropic fires, More rich the herb of China’s field, The pasture-lands more fragrance yield For ever let Britannia wield The tea-pot of her sires! _Tennyson, who took it hot._ _Swinburne, who let it get cold._ _Cowper, who thoroughly enjoyed it._ _Browning, who treated it allegorically._ _Wordsworth, who gave it away._ “Come, little cottage girl, you seem To want my cup of tea; And will you take a little cream? Now tell the truth to me.” She had a rustic, woodland grin, Her cheek was soft as silk. And she replied, “Sir, please put in A little drop of milk.” “Why, what put milk into your head? ’Tis cream my cows supply;” And five times to the child I said, “Why, pig-head, tell me, why?” “You call me pig-head,” she replied; “My proper name is Ruth, “I called that milk――she blushed with pride―― “You bade me speak the truth.” _Poe, who got excited over it._ Here’s a mellow cup of tea-golden tea! What a world of rapturous thought its fragrance brings to me! Oh, from out the silver cells How it wells! How it smells! Keeping tune, tune, tune, tune To the tintinabulation of the spoon. And the kettle on the fire Boils its spout off with desire, With a desperate desire And a crystalline endeavour Now, now to sit or never, On the top of the pale-faced moon, But he always came home to tea, tea, tea, tea, tea, Tea to the _n_-th,