Her language his wits did bereave, She proceeded to carney and gabble on, And at last (which you’d hardly believe) He smirked at the Lady of Babylon. Says he, “I should get in a scrape, Could my late and respectable Sire hark; He’d frown should a Wilberforce ape A sleek Ultramontanist hierarch.” Rum-ti-iddi-ti-ti. Says she, “Don’t be frightened at names, You’ve always to Rome had a tendency! Stand up for Confession; your game’s To struggle for priestly ascendency. Cut the priest a back-way to the house, And you’ve cut through the Isthmus of Darien: Fathers, husbands, are not worth a souse After that, my fine stout-legged Tractarian.” Rum-ti-iddi-ti-ti. * * * * * This counsel he took from his love, And in Parliament’s very next Session He pleaded, with voice of a dove, For “the excellent rite called Confession.” But Premiers are wary, and _they_ can see Whom ’tis expedient to fish up; Lo! an archiepiscopal vacancy, And Sam is _not_ made an Archbishop. Rum-ti-iddi-ti-ti. “If that Woman were here, dash my wigs.” Cried he, “I’d come Luther and Knox at her, I’d slate the old mother of prigs, And raise my episcopal _vox_ at her. I fancied I’d made such a rare book, And now I’m in just the wrong box for ’t; Had I struck to my Anglican Prayer-book, I should not have stuck Bishop of Oxford.” Rum-ti-iddi-ti-ti. MORAL. (_Too obvious to need telling._) ―――― The burlesque of _George Barnwell_ is the last of the poetical extracts that need be quoted from _The Rejected Addresses_. Those already given in this collection consist of the imitations of W. T. Fitzgerald, William Wordsworth, Lord Byron, Thomas Moore, Robert Southey, Walter Scott, M. G. Lewis, S. T. Coleridge and George Crabbe. Those not given consist of a few prose imitations (William Cobbett and Dr. Johnson), and two or three parodies of second-rate and almost forgotten authors. [Illustration] MISSIONARY HYMN. (By Dr. REGINALD HEBER, 1783-1826,) From Greenland’s icy mountains, From India’s coral strand, Where Afric’s sunny fountains Roll down their golden sand; From many an ancient river, From many a balmy plain, They call us to deliver Their land from error’s chain. What though the spicy breezes Blow soft on Ceylon’s isle, Though every prospect pleases, And only man is vile; In vain, with lavish kindness, The gifts of God are strewn, The Heathen in his blindness, Bows down to wood and stone. * * * * * SONG BY PRINCE GORTSCHAKOFF.