_Tu regrettes ta femelle; Hélas! aussy fay-je moy: J’ay perdu ma tourterelle._ _Si ton amour est fidèle, Aussy est ferme ma foy; Je veux aller après elle._ _Ta plainte se renouvelle? Toujours plaindre je me doy: J’ay perdu ma tourterelle._ _En ne voyant plus la belle Plus rien de beau je ne voy: Je veux aller après elle._ _Mort, que tant de fois j’appelle Prens ce qui se donne à toy: J’ai perdu ma tourterelle, Je veux aller après elle._ Of modern English specimens one of the most beautiful is that by Mr. Austin Dobson “When I saw you last, Rose,” which is given in Mr. White’s book, together with a French translation of it by M. J. Boulmier. ―――― A VILLANELLE. (_After Mr. Oscar Wilde._) Commissioner of Lunacee! An _inquirendo_ come and hold; For Oscar Wilde hath need of thee! Flings to the world in wild frenz_ee_ A poem on “a wattled fold,” Commissioner of Lunac_ee_. In his strange verse none sense can see; He raves of “limbs and beards of gold”; He really hath great need of thee! Anon he says, “A hell I see!” And talks of satyrs dead and cold: Commissioner of Lunac_ee_. And many an untold idioc_ee_, With little meaning, is enrolled: He verily hath need of thee, A Bedlamite as mad as he No open doors should ever hold. Commissioner of Lunac_ee_, You see he has great need of thee! FRANK DANBY. _The Whitehall Review_, September 30, 1880. ―――― THE STREET SINGER. (_Villanelle from my window._) He stands at the kerb and sings. ’Tis a doleful tune and slow, Ah me, if I had but wings! He bends to the coin one flings, But he never attempts to go,―― He stands at the kerb and sings. The conjurer comes with his rings. And the Punch-and-Judy show. Ah me, if I had but wings! They pass like all fugitive things―― They fade and they pass, but lo! He stands at the kerb and sings. All the magic that Music brings Is lost when he mangles it so―― Ah me, if I had but wings! But the worst is a thought that stings! There is nothing at hand to throw! He stands at the kerb and sings―― Ah me, if I had but wings! AUSTIN DOBSON. ―――― CULTURE IN THE SLUMS. Now ain’t they utterly too-too (She ses, my missus mine,[3] ses she), Them flymy little bits of Blue. Joe, just you kool ’em――nice and skew Upon our old meogginee, Now ain’t they utterly too-too? They’re better than a pot ’n’ a screw, They’re equal to a Sunday spree, Them flymy little bits of Blue! Suppose I put ’em up the flue, And booze the profits, Joe? Not me. Now ain’t they utterly too-too? I do the ’Igh Art fake, I do. Joe, I’m consummate; and I _see_ Them flymy little bits of Blue.