Between the bumble and the bee Full many a soul has had to flee; And what is love may I inquire When asked to build the kitchen fire? Or who would not leap in the sea Between the bumble and the bee. Between the tea store and the tea There is a wide immensity; A dollar twenty five a pound And not a nickel to be found; Then what has fate in store for thee Between the tea store and the tea. R. W. ANSWELL. ――――:o:―――― A SONG AFTER SUNSET. (_Being a Word from the Hanley Dog by the Cynic Poet Laureate_, ALG-RN-N SW-NB-RNE.) Lo, from my Black Country flung for thee, Raving, red-eyed, scarred and seared; To a bran-new sensation tune sung for thee, With red lips, white teeth, underhung for thee, Beauty begrimed and blood-smeared! Vice-jawed, retractile, snub-snouted―― Tushes for fists swift to smite; Round by round felled but not routed, Rare of bark, bitter of bite! If with grapplings and pluckings asunder―― If with throat-thirst for worry unslaked―― If with rush on growl, flash on low thunder―― Knocked over, but ne’er knocking under―― With cash on me lavishly staked―― If eye against eye glimly glaring, Biped BRUMMY could quadruped scan, Ring and chain with me, blood with me, sharing,―― Say which was brute, which was man? * * * * * _Punch._ August 1, 1874. ――――:o:―――― The following is a parody of another favourite metre of Mr. Swinburne, which has been sent in, unfortunately without any information as to when and where it originally appeared:―― APRIL SHOWERS. Oh, April showers Are good for flowers, And fill the bowers With perfumes rare; But twinge erratic, And pang rheumatic And not ecstatic Do they prepare! And though the leanness And arid meanness Of lawns with greenness They hide and clothe; They, past disputing, Set corns a-shooting, Which makes your booting A thing to loathe! And of the Future Although they suit your Bright dreams, compute you’re The Past’s sad prey; The while you yell a Vain ritornello For that umbrella That’s stolen away! ――――:o:――――