Who shall reign over us sole and single? He who his rhyme-web’s intricate hanks Wears like a collar of bells that tingle, Not like the links of a chain that clanks: He who his burden of quips and cranks Bears with the step of a light-foot mime, Figure erect and unwavering flanks,―― This is the era of run-mad rhyme. Muse, I presume you object to “spanks,” Word――I admit it――beneath the sublime. Pray then excuse me the Envoi. Thanks! This is the era of run-mad rhyme. ―――― AUSTIN DOBSON.――ANDREW LANG. Ah me! how many Fate makes mourn Unhonoured in our midst to dwell, Tho’ Epics write they, and――in scorn, Shun Rondeau, Ballade, Villanelle; Blank verse they scan――at times, as well, In jolts and jingles harsh rhymes clang, But fail to reach the pinnacle Of Austin Dobson――Andrew Lang, Dear brothers these, whose names adorn Their roll, who spread Poesy’s spell, Their sweetest strains heartward are borne In Rondeau, Ballade, Villanelle; Yet did no rival e’er excel Their efforts in the realms o’ sang;―― The Laureate’s self bears not the bell From Austin Dobson――Andrew Lang. Their’s not the heaviness men spurn, Light as the breeze in fairy dell The flights of fancy that they turn To Rondeau, Ballade, Villanelle; From them we never flee pell mell, Ne’er close their volumes with a bang; O! naught our happiness can quell With Austin Dobson――Andrew Lang. _Envoy._ How soothed our souls――what words can tell? With Rondeau, Ballade, Villanelle, How robbed of many a bitter pang By Austin Dobson――Andrew Lang. From _Ballades of a Country Bookworm_. By Thomas Hutchinson. London, Stanesby & Co. 1888. ―――― Some years ago Mr. Austin Dobson wrote a few comical _Triolets_, which appeared in “Hood’s Comic Annual.” These have not been included in recent English editions of his poems――which is to be regretted. ――――:o:―――― RONDEL. You bet! you hear _me_. I tell _you_ I, Whistler, Sir, has fetched this town Onto a copper, _a_ renown, _He_ scratches in, Sir; yes a few! Your critics they may hop the flue, Your painting critturs, Sir, may frown, I, Whistler, Sir! has fetched the town, You bet you hear me, I tell you. His bowie, Sir! is bright _and_ new, He licks ’em up, he licks ’em down I guess, he gives ’em _Fits in Brown_, Yes, Sir! and plays _Old Hell in Blue_! You bet! you hear me! I tell you! RONDEL. We have a most erotic bard, His style and title Swinburne Charles, Passion his frame contorts and gnarls, The gods and women grip him hard. Observe him bearded like a pard, Furious and fair as northern jarls; We have a most erotic bard, His style and title Swinburne Charles.