The original poem contained arguments of a most unpleasant and absurd description, these were ably ridiculed in the burlesque, which will be found on page 184, Volume 1, of this collection. The following parody was also printed with the initials “A. C. S.,” but clever as it is, few would venture to assert that it was actually written by Mr. Swinburne. THE TOPER’S LAMENT. Oh, my memory lovingly lingers Around the sweet sound of thy name, And the spell of those magical fingers That kindled my heart into flame; But the joy that I think on no more is, And my throat feels an ominous lump, As I muse o’er the wreck of thy glories, Thou Magpie and Stump! For day after day have I sought thee, As flowers are sought by the gale; And night after night have I brought thee A lip for thine exquisite ale. Thy portals have welcomed me ever, Mine hostess was pleasant and plump, And her handmaids attentive and clever, O Magpie and Stump! Did I rage with the thirst of a Hector (A thirst that she nimbly foresaw) For a cup of thy ravishing nectar, Who drew it as Nancy could draw? While for grilling a steak that was juicy, Or a chop that was chopped from the chump, Had’st thou ever an equal to Lucy, My Magpie and Stump? Ah! thy votaries flocked beyond number, And worshipped full oft at thy shrine; And we poured forth libations to slumber, And we censed with tobacco divine; And then haply some bibulous fellow Would fall to the floor with a bump―― For thy potions were potently mellow, Our Magpie and Stump. But I rave――for the past of my pleasure Has left me a little intense, And the lolloping lilt of my measure Is stronger in sound than in sense. Yet an ecstasy must have its morrow, And an ace may succumb to a trump; So my spirit is sunken in sorrow, Dear Magpie and Stump. Farewell! nevermore shall thy chalice Of barleycorn bubble for me; They have altered thee into a palace Devoted to coffee and tea. Thy courts are now trod by the teacher, Thy fountains the cow and the pump, And thy priest is a temperance preacher, Poor Magpie and Stump! Farewell! But if e’er in the distance Of time that we cannot foresee, Thou return to thy pristine existence―― For I cannot, alas! come to thee! As the prodigal found from his father Forgiveness, again shalt thou jump To the height of my patronage――rather! Rare Magpie and Stump! A. C. S. _St. James’s Gazette._ March 19, 1881. ――――:o:―――― SONG OF THE SPRINGTIDE. O Season supposed of all free flowers, Made lovely by light of the sun, Of garden, of field, and of tree-flowers, Thy singers are surely in fun! Or what is it wholly unsettles Thy sequence of shower and shine, And maketh thy pushings and petals To shrivel and pine?