The sorest stress of the Season’s over; Out of it’s crush I am lying alone, My face to the sky, and my back in the clover. Hark to that lark! Its jubilant tone Is a cheery change from St. Stephen’s drone; And ah! that whift from the wind-swept brine! With nought to do but absorb ozone―― Should there be ballad more blythe than mine? Song of a haven-welcoming lover! Rare rose-scents from our garden blown Reach me here, and my eyes discover, Shimmering there, in a tangle thrown, Sunny locks. “She is coming, my own!” The green bowers sever, her blue eyes shine. Sweet love nearing, sore labour flown,―― Should there be ballad more blythe than mine? What to me though weariness hover Still o’er Town where the toilers groan? Lazy lounger, leisurely lover, What care I for the Members’ moan At the Irish incubus, heavy as stone? For Biggar’s bullying, Whalley’s whine? Peace unchequered, and care unknown, Should there be ballad more blithe than mine? ENVOI. Eh! What! Drowsing? A dream? Ochone! St. Patrick’s curse on those Irish swine, Who have burst the bubble by slumber blown, And broken a ballad so blithe as mine! _Punch._ August 11, 1877. ――――:o:―――― The following parody appeared in _The Tomahawk_ (London) on the occasion of a visit paid by Ada Isaacs Menken to M. Alexandre Dumas, in Paris. “Miss Menken,” who was really the wife of John C. Heenan the pugilist, will be best remembered for her appearance (in very scanty attire) as “Mazeppa,” at Astley’s Theatre. She had a fine stage appearance, but was a very indifferent actress. She published a small volume of poems, entitled _Infelicia_, which is now eagerly sought after by collectors, because it contains an introduction written by Charles Dickens. TO ADA.