If you were queen of pleasure, And I were king of pain, We’d hunt down love together, Pluck out his flying-feather, And teach his feet a measure, And find his mouth a rein; If you were queen of pleasure, And I were king of pain. A. C. SWINBURNE. ―――― A CATCH. (_By a Mimic of Modern Melody._) If you were queen of bloaters, And I were king of soles, The sea we’d wag our fins in Nor heed the crooked pins in The water dropt by boaters, To catch our heedless joles; If you were queen of bloaters And I were king of soles. If you were LADY MILE-END, And I were DUKE OF BOW, We’d marry and we’d quarrel, And then, to point the moral Should LORD PENZANCE his file lend, Our chains to overthrow; If you were LADY MILE-END, And I were DUKE OF BOW. If you were chill November, And I were sunny June; I’d not with love pursue you; For I should be to woo you (You’re foggy, pray remember) A most egregious spoon; If you were chill November, And I were sunny June. If you were cook to Venus And I were J. 19; When missus was out dining, Our suppetites combining, We’d oft contrive between us To keep the patter clean; If you were cook to Venus And I were J. 19. If you were but a jingle, And I were but a rhyme; We’d keep this up for ever, Nor think it very clever, A grain of sense to mingle At times with simple chime; If you were but a jingle And I were but a rhyme. TOM HOOD, the younger. _Fun._ December 30, 1871. ―――― IF! If life were never bitter, And love were always sweet, Then who would care to borrow A moral from to morrow―― If Thames would always glitter, And joy would ne’er retreat, If life were never bitter, And love were always sweet! If care were not the waiter Behind a fellow’s chair, When easy-going sinners Sit down to Richmond dinners, And life’s swift stream flows straighter―― By Jove, it would be rare, If care were not the waiter Behind a fellow’s chair. If wit were always radiant, And wine were always iced, And bores were kicked out straightway Through a convenient gateway; Then down the year’s long gradient ’Twere sad to be enticed, If wit were always radiant, And wine were always iced. MORTIMER COLLINS. As a parody this is scarcely inferior to that of Mr. Tom Hood, but the poet has let the sound run away from the sense, and has forgotten that a wit who is _always_ a radiant wit is apt to become tiresome; whilst if “wine were always iced,” all red wines would greatly suffer, especially Port and Burgundy. ―――― THE UNIVERSITY ELECTION. _A Candidates Carol._