STUDIES IN EXOTIC VERSE. _A Ballade of the Nurserie._ (After Mr. Swinburne’s “Dreamland.”) She hid herself in the _soirée_ kettle Out of her Ma’s way, wise wee maid! Wan was her lip as the lily’s petal, Sad was the smile that over it played. Why doth she warble not? Is she afraid Of the hound that howls, or the moaning mole? Can it be on an errand she hath delayed? Hush thee, hush thee, dear little soul! The nightingale sings to the nodding nettle In the gloom o’ the gloaming athwart the glade: The zephyr sighs soft on Popòcatapètl, And Auster is taking it cool in the shade: Sing, hey for a _gutta serenade_! Not mine to stir up a storied pole, No noses snip with a bluggy blade―― Hush thee, hush thee, dear little soul? Shall I bribe with a store of minted metal? With Everton toffee thee persuade? That thou in a kettle thyself should’st settle, When grandly and gaudily all arrayed! Thy flounces ’ill foul and fangles fade. Come out, and Algernon Charles ’ill roll Thee safe and snug in Plutonian plaid―― Hush thee, hush thee, dear little soul. ENVOI. When nap is none and raiment frayed, And winter crowns the puddered poll, A kettle sings ane soote ballade―― Hush thee, hush thee, dear little soul. JOHN TWIG. ――――:o:―――― ON MARRIAGE WITH A DECEASED WIFE’S SISTER. O blood-bitten lip all aflame, O Dolores and also Faustine, O aunts of the world worried shame, Lo your hair with its amorous sheen Meshes man in its tangles of gold; O aunts of the tremulous thrill, We are pining――we long to enfold The Deceased Wife’s Fair Relative Bill. G. R. SIMS. ――――:o:―――― A PARODY. If it be but a dream or a vision, The life which is after the grave, The moil of the metaphysician Is vain,――but an answer I crave, Amid bright intellectual flambeaux I shall find no light clearer than thee, O sable and sensual Sambo, The servant of me! I beheld thee beholding the ballet, Dumps doleful display’d deep despair, Thou didst think of thine own land, my valet, The land in which nought thou didst wear. * * * * * O statue, us Philistines loathing, Of Phœbus!――our tailors we fear, Come down, and redeem us from clothing, O nude Belvidere! We are wise――and we make ourselves hazy, We are foolish――and, so, go to church; While Sambo but laughs, and is lazy, (Vile Discipline! lend me thy birch); He dreams of no life save the present, His virtue is but when it suits; Sometimes, which is not quite so pleasant, I miss coat or boots. ANONYMOUS. _Once a Week._ January 16, 1869.