And how should I thy search assist, Thou very reverend man? Since thou would’st serve her Majesty, And I’m Republican!”[85] From “_They are Five_” by W. E. G. London. David Bogue, 1880. _The Rime of the Ancient Rinking Man_, is the title of the first parody contained in _Idylls of the Rink_, by A. W. Mackenzie. London. 1876. It is an ancient beggar man, And he stoppeth one of three. By thy tattered clothes, and battered nose, Now wherefore stopp’st thou me? * * * * * _The Meeting of the Justices_, relating to the water supply in Calcutta, appears in _Lyrics and Lays_, by “Pips,” published in Calcutta, in 1867. It possesses little merit as a parody, and the topic was one of purely local interest:―― It was an ancient gentleman, And he talk’d for hours three, “By thy long lean form, and dismal drone We fain must list to thee.” * * * * * Three long parodies are also to be found in _Truth_, February 1, 1877; May 16, 1878; and November 2, 1882. Unfortunately, all the parodies here enumerated are very long. To give them complete would fill a volume, and it must be confessed that few of them are sufficiently clever, or amusing, to repay perusal. Most of the best parodies have been here reprinted in full; disjointed extracts from the others would convey little idea of their literary merit, or general interest. ――――:o:―――― LOVE. All thoughts, all passions, all delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame, All are but ministers of Love, And feed his sacred flame. Oft in my waking dreams do I Live o’er again that happy hour, When midway on the mount I lay, Beside the ruined tower. The moonshine, stealing o’er the scene Had blended with the lights of eve; And she was there, my hope, my joy, My own dear Genevieve! She lean’d against the armed man, The statue of the armed knight; She stood and listened to my lay, Amid the lingering light. Few sorrows hath she of her own. My hope! my joy! my Genevieve! She loves me best, whene’er I sing The songs that make her grieve. I played a soft and doleful air, I sang an old and moving story―― An old rude song, that suited well That ruin wild and hoary. She listened with a flitting blush, With downcast eyes and modest grace; For well she knew, I could not choose But gaze upon her face. I told her of the Knight that wore Upon his shield a burning brand; And that for ten long years he wooed The Lady of the Land. I told her how he pined: and ah! The deep, the low, the pleading tone With which I sang another’s love, Interpreted my own. She listened with a flitting blush, With downcast eyes, and modest grace; And she forgave me, that I gazed Too fondly on her face!