It may be a grand invention At the distant guard to get; But I’ve tried it in twenty cases, And I’ve never succeeded yet. GEORGE R. SIMS. From _The Lifeboat, and other Poems_. 1883. The following Volunteer parody, of the same original, recently appeared in the _First Lanark Gazette_.―― THE LOST SHOT. Shooting one day at the targets, In a steady three-o’clock breeze, I watched my score rise quickly―― I was making bulls’-eyes with ease. I knew well what I was doing, And what I was thinking then, As I fired my one last bullet, And awaited the signal again. It sped thro’ the Golden Ether, With the speed of an angel’s wing, And it must have reached the target, For I’m certain I heard the “ping.” I waited with utmost confidence For the signal that never came; I challenged, and paid my sixpence, But the marker ignored my claim! I raged with perplexed feelings, And swore like a big dragoon; Then I fretted away into silence O’er the loss of the silver spoon. I have sought, and I still seek vainly The value of that one last shot, For which I claimed a bull’s-eye, Only the scorer said it was not. It may be that playful zephyrs Wafted it over the plain; It may be that only in dreamland I shall find my last shot again. CORPORAL. [Illustration] CLEMENT W. SCOTT. Many poems written by this distinguished dramatic critic are chosen for recitation, notably “The Women of Mumbles Head” which is to be found in “_Lays of a Londoner_” (London, Carson and Comerford, 1886.) A very funny parody of this, entitled “The Wreck of the Steamship ‘Puffin,’” is in _Burglar Bill_, by J. Anstey, and would form an amusing contrast to the original, in the second part of an entertainment. Another well-known poem by Mr. Clement Scott was the _Tale of the Tenth Hussars_, in favour of the late Colonel Valentine Baker, which originally appeared in _Punch_, and was quoted, with a parody on it, on p. 87, vol. iv. _Parodies_. THE GARDEN OF SLEEP. (_With compliments to Messrs. Clement Scott and Isidore de Lara_) There’s a crib in Whitechapel is used by a heap, An’ the deppity calls it ’is Garden o’ Sleep! Where the Heast Hend hexotics are bloomin’ in rows, An’ the fake an’ the cadger find blameliss repose. For a double or single you settles the boss, An’ you dumps down your coppers an’ goes for your doss; Though if turn out you won’t when your time’s fairly sped, They’ve a ’abit of lettin’ you down by the ’ead, An’ a bump on your Barnet you commonly keep All the day hafter leavin’ the Garden o’ Sleep. Sleep! sleep! Never mind things wot creep! Sleep, my dossy ones, sleep!