First Lady of our British Race, We’ll Hope that with thy peaceful Jubilee We of this dream may a fulfilment see, For this, were thy lost Consort with us still, Yon scene of pomp and pageantry to grace, Would surely be _his_ will; And this we fain would trust thy son, Undoing what he’s done, Will also help fulfil. Time this must show, but we can pray That higher motives from to-day May strengthen those who execute The business of the Institute; That from to-day its end and aim May be the country’s wealth and fame. That flunkeys, toadies, snobs may find It is not for _their_ sake designed; Whilst Kensington, forced to admit It has no lot nor part in it, No more will claim to such extent What is for all the Empire meant. Then will the Palace fair, by patriotism planned, Be hailed a glory of the land, And, as the Empire joins its walls to raise, Its people, one and all, will loudly sound its praise. _Truth._ July 7, 1887. Mr. Lewis Morris was rewarded for his ode by a silver Jubilee medal, with permission to wear it on public occasions. Some time afterwards he wrote to a Manchester newspaper complaining that people confounded him with Mr. _William_ Morris, the poet and socialist, on which _The Star_ published the following POET AND POETASTER. If this kind of thing goes on, Sir, I shall have to change my name; ’Tis an odious position to be in; Though the other Mr. Morris may be better known to fame, I am Mr. Lewis Morris, of Penbryn. He was christened after Shakespeare, but his other name is mine; Yet, though critics are so quick at me to quiz, I can honestly asseverate I never wrote a line That could fairly be compared with one of his. When I wrote an ode to praise the life our precious Prince has led, Though I must confess it fell a little flat, There were certain silly editors who ignorantly said Mr. William had been capable of that. Now I happen to be certain it would take him all his time To indite an ode on Royalty’s affairs, For disloyalty to Princes isn’t reckoned any crime, ’Mong the people whose society he shares. In a word he is a poet, and a Socialist to boot, One whose company ’tis wiser to eschew; For although I am a person of importance and repute, It is certain I am neither of the two. J. L. J. [Illustration] THE TWINS. In form of feature, face and limb, I grew so like my brother That folks got taking me for him And each for one another, It puzzled all our kith and kin, It reach’d an awful pitch: For one of us was born a twin And not a soul knew which. * * * * * The whole of this amusing poem will be found in _Carols of Cockayne_ by Mr. Henry S. Leigh.