Nor you, ye proud, impute to Baum the fault, If Chelsea triumphs while Cremorne decays; And tipplers elsewhere seek their grog and malt, And Canon Cromwell swells the note of praise. Can photograph or picture from the dust The glories of a Ranelagh bequeath? Like Highbury and Vauxhall, Cremorne must The auctioneer’s dread hammer fall beneath. Oft have stern magistrates, in angry tone, Its garish gaiety and “larks” maligned, Forbade its reckless frolics with a groan, And shut the gates of Cremorne on mankind. For oft the madding crowd, in midnight strife, From sober wisdom straying, hither came, Threading the fevered paths of modern “life,” While sleepy Chelseaites were loud to blame. Alas! to dumb forgetfulness a prey, Cremorne will to the builder be resigned; The bard who sees it rudely swept away Yet casts one longing, lingering look behind. THE EPITAPH. Here lies a garden, famous in its birth, And once among the festive haunts of town; But magistrates have frowned upon its mirth, And Speculation marked it for her own. From _Funny Folks_. 1878. Cremorne Gardens were closed in 1877. These gardens had had a long and chequered career, and the ground they stood on has since been entirely built over. Elderly people can remember that fifty years ago a certain Count de Berenger started an Institution called “_The Stadium_,” or British National Arena, in the grounds of Lord Cremorne. Here archery, riding, swimming, and gymnastics were taught, but the venture did not succeed. The lighter, and more frolicsome, entertainments of Cremorne Gardens were tried instead. ――――:o:―――― CIRCUIT ELEGY. _By the late Lord Chelmsford._ On the occasion of a dinner given by the Bar Mess to Lord Justice Bramwell and Mr. Justice Denman, at Maidstone, on July 12, 1881, Mr. Justice Denman rose and remarked that amongst some old papers he had found a MS. by the late Lord Chelmsford, being a parody on Gray’s ‘Elegy;’ he then read it, and afterwards offered it to the Mess. Mr. Day, Q.C., moved that it be accepted and entered in the Minute Book, and that copies should be printed and sent to the members of the Bar Mess. The motion was carried unanimously. The trumpets sound the coming of the Judge; The anxious crowd rush wildly o’er the way: The bustling clerks, well-laden, court ward budge And leave the streets to dulness for the day. Now eager necks are straining for a sight, And all the Court a solemn stillness holds, Save when the crier bawls with all his might Or drowsy pleadings some dull voice unfolds. Save that from yonder silky mantled seat Some solemn owl does to the Judge complain Of such as, wandering in with noisy feet, Disturb the home-spun labours of his brain.