His communal wives, at his ease, He would curb with occasional blows; Or his State had a queen, like the bees (As another philosopher trows): When he spoke it was never in prose: But he sang in a strain that would scan, For (to doubt it, perchance, were morose) ’Twas the manner of Primitive Man! (_Three verses omitted._) _Envoy._ Max, proudly your Aryans pose, But their rigs they undoubtedly ran, For, as every Darwinian knows, ’Twas the manner of Primitive Man! ANDREW LANG. A BALLADE OF PRIMITIVE WOMAN. _An American Parody._ She lived in a primitive way, She lived in a hut made of trees, With never a moving in May, Unless when invaded by bees, Her husband had never night keys, Lodge nights were not then to deceive; Nor was he addicted to sprees―― What a life led our relative, Eve! He hadn’t for bonnets to pay, Which accounts for his efforts to please; Nor did he growl round every day, O’er his trousers that bagged at the knees, Unheard of were fashion’s decrees Her dolmans she knew how to weave From grape-leaves with greatest of ease, What a life led our relative, Eve! Her stew-pans she wrought out of clay Her knives were the shells of the seas, And she dined on a spicy _entrée_ Of grapes and some ape-fricassees. To sleep with the toes to the breeze Was considered the cheese, I believe, Which was healthy, no one but agrees―― What a life lead our relative, Eve. _Envoy._ Cast off fashions gay panoplies, “Sassiety” maiden, retrieve; Learn, while apeing our “first familees,” What a life led our relative, Eve! ANONYMOUS. ―――― _The Universal Review_, for December, 1888, contained a peculiar article by Mr. H. D. Traill, entitled “The Doom of the Muses,” in which he satirically describes the present position of the Fine Arts. Dealing with Poetry, he thus alludes to the present craze for the _Ballade_:―― This is the age of glorified jingle, Honour is only to rhyming pranks; Deftliest who their assonants mingle, They shall walk first in Poesy’s ranks: They shall recline upon Helicon’s banks, Fountain of bards who have conquered Time; (Others must do with inferior tanks) This is the era of run-mad rhyme. Cold though their verse as the sea-shore shingle, Common and cheap as the nails in the planks, Empty as frothiest blather of Fingal, Pointless as ends of the cats of the Manx, Still the mere fact that their lines are not “blanks” Helps them the Mount of Parnassus to climb, Strengthens their unwinged Pegase’s shanks: This is the era of run-mad rhyme.