Dear Bailey, I will not deny That of Swinburne’s great merit I’m sensible, But this one complaint I must cry―― “He’s exceedingly incomprehensible!” He sings pretty songs about kisses, He christens them “red,” also “white”; I confess, in all lowliness, this is Beyond my intelligence quite. It may well be that I’m very silly, But some of his songs seem to me Like a mixture of very weak skilly With ten times as much eau-de-vie. His language is wrondrously charming, And falls like a spell on the ear; But there’s one thing that’s rather alarming―― Would it ever bring laughter or tear? END OF PARODIES ON A. C. SWINBURNE. VERNON AVICK. _Dedicated without permission to the Author of “Father O’Flynn,” by the Author of “The Blarney Ballads.”_ Of all the gay “scions” and sprigs of nobility, Far renowned for their grace and agility, Faix i’d advance you for sheer volatility Vernon avick! as the flower of them all. Here’s a health to you, Vernon avick! Long may you flounder through thin and through thick, Merriest mummer, And burliest “bummer,” And loudest big-drummer in Westminster Hall. Don’t talk of your sages and seers of antiquity, Famous for rectitude――or for obliquity, Faix an’ the divils at mental ubiquity, Vernon avick! would make hay of them all. Come, I’ll wager that nobody quite Aiquals his elegant blatherumskite, Down from urbanity, Into inanity, Troth! and profanity――if he’d the call. Arrah, Vernon machree! what were Bottom or Puck to you? Falstaff himself was a harmless ould buck to you; Look how you gather the Radical ruck to you; Whisha, bad luck to you, Vernon avick! Still, for all, you’re the prince of buffoons, Gad! you’ve the dash of a troop of dragoons, Firing the flagging ones, Bolstering the bragging ones, Leathering the lagging ones on wid the stick. And though never crossing the confines of charity, Still, in your moments of mammoth hilarity, Who, without showing the widest disparity Vies in vulgarity, Vernon with you? Once Sir Ughtred was minded to frown, Till this remark broke his prudery down―― “Is it lave jollity All to the ‘quality,’ Cannot we masses be mountebanks too?” Here’s a health to you, Vernon avick! Long may you flounder, through thin and through thick, Merriest mummer, And burliest “bummer,” And loudest big drummer in Westminster Hall. _The Globe._ December 11, 1888. [Illustration] George R. Sims. Mr. George R. Sims was born in London on September 2nd, 1847. He was educated first, at Hanwell College, and subsequently at Bonn.