"Health to 'lang' Andrew! Heaven preserve his life To flourish on the sacred shores of Fife! Prosper good Andrew! leanest of the train Whom Scotland feeds upon her fiery grain; Whatever blessings wait a 'brindled' Scot In double portion swell thy glorious lot! As long as Albion's silly sons submit To Scottish censorship on English wit, So long shall last thy unmolested rule, And authors, under thee, shall go to school; Behold the 'Savile' band shall aid thy plan And own thee chieftain of the critic clan. KIPLING shall 'butter' thee, and thou sometimes Wilt praise in gratitude his doggerel rhymes, And HAGGARD, too, thy eulogies shall seek, And for his book another 'boom' bespeak; And various magazines their aid will lend To damn thy foe or deify thy friend. Such wondrous honours deck thy proud career, Rhymester and lecturer and pamphleteer, Known be thy name, unbounded be thy sway, And may all editors increase thy 'pay'-- Yet mark one caution ere thy next review Falls heavy on a female who is 'blue.' Grub-street doth whisper that a 'ladye faire' Intends to snatch thee by the brindled hair And stab thee through thy tough reviewer's skin With nothing more important than a pin-- A case of 'table turned' and 'biter bit'; Heaven save thee, Andrew, from a woman's wit! "What marvel now doth Afric's zone disclose? A solemn book of rank blasphemous prose, Writ by a MISTRESS SCHREINER, who elects A Universal Nothing as her text; Whereat the _Athenæum_, doddering soul! Whimpers about the 'beauty of the whole,' And shrieks, in columns of hysteric praise, How such a work all nations should amaze: 'Nothing has ever been or e'er will be Like Dreams'--produced by the blasphemous She; So writes the _Athenæum_ to the few Who still pay threepence for a bad review, And watch the hatching of the little plots Conceived and carried out by Mr. Watts. CHARLES DILKE! Come forth from Mrs. Grundy's ban, And show thyself to be the 'leading' man, With one strong effort snap thy social fetter And get thy prosy journal managed better!