In _Punch_ (October 22, 1887) there was a set of verses (in honour of Mr. White’s book) written in the various metres described, and one of each of these may fitly lead the several varieties here dealt with. THE MUSE IN MANACLES. (_By an Envious and Irritable Bard, after reading “Ballades and Rondeaus,” just published, and wishing he could do anything like any of them._) Bored by the Ballade, vexed by Villanelle, Of Rondeau tired, and Triolet as well! THE BALLADE. (_In Bad Weather_). Oh! I’m in a terrible plight―― For how can I rhyme in the rain? ’Tis pouring from morn until night: So bad is the weather again, My language is almost profane! Though shod with the useful galosh, I’m racked with rheumatical pain―― I think that a Ballade is bosh I know I am looking a fright; That knowledge, I know, is in vain; My “brolly” is not water-tight, But hopelessly rended in twain And spoilt by the rude hurri_cane_! Though clad in a stout mackintosh, My temper I scarce can restrain―― I think that a Ballade is bosh! Oh, I’m an unfortunate wight! The damp is affecting my brain; My woes I would gladly recite, In phrases emphatic and plain, Your sympathy could I obtain. I don’t think my verses will wash, They’re somewhat effete and inane―― I think that a Ballade is bosh! _Envoy._ I fancy I’m getting insane, I’m over my ankles in slosh; But let me repeat the refrain―― I think that a Ballade is bosh! ―――― A BALLADE OF OLD METRES. When, in the merry realm of France, Bluff Francis ruled and loved and laughed, Now held the lists with knightly lance, Anon the knightly beaker quaffed; Where wit could wing his keenest shaft With Villon’s verse or Montaigne’s prose, Then poets exercised their craft In ballades, triolets, rondeaux. O quaint old times! O fitting chants! With fluttering banners fore and aft, With mirth of minstrelsy and dance, Sped Poesy’s enchanted craft; The odorous gale was blowing abaft Her silken sails, as on she goes, Doth still to us faint echoes waft Of ballades, triolets, rondeaux. But tell me with what countenance Ye seek on modern rhymes to graft Those tender shoots of old Romance―― Romance that now is only chaffed? O iron days! O idle raft Of rhymesters! they are ‘_peu de chose_,’ What Scott would call supremely “saft” _Your_ ballades, triolets, rondeaux. _Envoy._ Bards, in whose vein the maddening draught Of Hippocrene so wildly glows, Forbear, and do not drive us daft With ballades, triolets, rondeaux. _The Century._ ―――― A YOUNG POET’S ADVICE.