The turret-clock proclaims the hour eleven; Sir Francis Bolton[23] from his tower descends; The last illumined shower drops from heaven, And so the much-bepuff’d “Colinderies” ends. Now fade the glimm’ring lamps amongst the trees, And all seems dismal now, and dark and dead, Save where the crowds still t’wards the station squeeze, And through the Subway plod with weary tread. And save where in a snug official room The members of the S. K. Ring have met To talk of things that in the future loom, And the conclusion of their “Shows” regret. Sad were their faces as they sat and heard The clock strike out the Exhibition’s close, And gloomily together they conferr’d As to the Epitaph they would propose. _After conferring for some time, the following, it is agreed, shall be the_ EPITAPH ON THE “COLINDERIES.” Here ends a Show which, started with high aim, Was soon for its degenerate features known, And an apotheosized Cremorne became, Which reckless Folly quickly made her own. Large were its profits, and its crowds immense; But larger still the expenses it defrayed, Thanks to the notable munificence With which its lavish staff it overpaid. Of such gross jobbery it was the spring, So big the perquisites which it did rain, That much we fear, as an official Ring, We ne’er shall look upon its like again. _Truth_, November 11, 1886. ――――:o:―――― PARNELL-EGY Written in a Westminster Palace-yard. The clock-tow’r tolls the bell of coming day, The Saxon herd departs ere stroke of three, The cabman homeward whips his wheel-y way, And leaves the “Yard” to Denning, and to me. Now fade the gibbering Tories on the sight, Against no form the watchful peeler rubs Where, just before, men filed to left, or right, And lobby tinklings stirred the distant clubs. * * * * * “The catty “call”――of incensed breathing born, The shallow tittering from the empty head, The “cock-a-doodle-do,” the nasal horn, No more are heard――their authors are a-bed. Oft did the Commons to our pickle yield, Our guffaw oft some stubborn speech has broke, How jocund did we bring our team afield! How bow’d the Whips beneath our sturdy stroke! Let not Refinement mock abuse-ful toil, Unceasing “jaw,” and ancestry obscure, Nor Breeding hear, with a disdainful smile, The sharp and shady annals of “the flure.” The “cheek” of Harr――n, the rant of Power, And all that Bunkum, all that stealth e’er gave, Await alike th’ unenviable hour, The ways of Sexton lead to much that’s grave. Nor you ye _Times_, impute to me the fault And――in fac-simile――your trophies raise, Where, ’neath the book-stall’d station’s grimy vault, The steaming engine swells the note that brays.