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"Perhaps you think you've made a Sonnet ;
I'm sorry for you!-out upon it!
You havn't got a rhyming pbiz,
And don't know what a Sonnet is.
You ought to talk of May or June,
Mary, and Music, and the Moon,
Just mention Zephyrs in the dell,
And give a hint of Philomel,
Enlarge upon a blighted tree,
A rock, a ruin, or the sea,
Conclude with something energetic,
Or a neat touch of the pathetic.
This is the way, mistaken elf!

To write-like Gerard-or myself!

"Oh! Charles !-who said you were a dunce?
I heard you read a sonnet once,

And really I was so enchanted,

With all you said, and all you chaunted,,
That home I hurried in delight,

And sat me down in haste to write
A little thing the Club shall see—


"Oh! I am weary of thy minstrelsy;

Thou claw'st the chords with such a clumsy gripe And (straining still thy throat's discordant pipe) Fumblest, and fumblest on so dismally* ;

Evermore drawling a dull sleepy air,

Like that the old Cow died of. Cruel bard!

What have I done, that thou wouldst have me share
That poor Cow's fate? "Twere not a task too hard
(So I might 'scape the torture of thy lay)
To read the Post or Courier, day lay day,
To my deaf grandam. Oh! I could endure,
Methinks, of harsh and grating sounds to die,
So but thy song were spared, and li were sure,
BELLAMY, thou would'st not chaunt my elegy."
"Bravo! the Sonnet of Sonnets! oh never
Talk now of your Orpheus and Linus!"

" I vow and declare that it's almost as clever
As mine on the Pons Asinimas !”

Schuvaat 27 kN. 1943

Chorus. Nesbit. Chorus.



"Bravo-Golightly's the poet to please;"


66 May I never drink beer if he's not!
"Loaded and prim'd with such verses as these,
Number VI. will go off like a shot!"

"Libel and felony !"

"Zounds! Mr. Bellamy!


Bellamy. "How can I sit with this base charlatan?" Golightly. "Lord! I'm afraid that his sisters he'll tell o' me!" "Mr. Golightly shall find I'm a man!"


O'Connor. "Murder and turf! "2



"How I'll cut and assassinate ! Mr. Golightly shall smart for it soon!"

O'Connor. "Nate Mr. Bellamy, don't be so passionate!"
Bellamy. Ignorant blockhead! I'll write a Lampoon!"
(Exit in a passion !—All the Members much appalled.)
Courtenay. "My friends! your spirits seem indeed
In most unusual excitation;
To cool them, I'll proceed to read

Two bits of Prose from F. Golightly;
One' On the Art of Dancing Lightly;'


One On the Sense of Homer's Particles'-"

Golightly. "Two very neat and clever Articles!"
Courtenay. "Reflections upon Human Troubles; '
'A Dissertation upon Bubbles;'
'Remarks upon the Fight of Ramillies;'
'The Art of Cookery for Families ;'
'Biography of Mr. Wastle;'


And Stanzas on Caernarvon Castle;'
A Country Sabbath,' neatly penn'd

By Bellamy, our departed friend;

'The Power of Steam;' 'A Tale of Bradgelah!'
'Pleasure;' 'Good Night;' 'Old Boots; ''The

Lastly some Greek and Roman stories.

I've burnt' Sir Francis on the Tories,'

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As also Martial's Ode to Paint:

It has much humour, dry and quaint,
And there are pretty verses in't;
But I must give the youth a hint,
That, when he wishes to be Lyrical,
He ought n't to affect Satirical."
"Bravo! Bravo! look how it grows!
Beautiful bundle of verse and prose!
Jester and Moralist, on they come,
Poet and Sage, at the beat of our drum ;
Puddings of precept, and pickings of pun,
Solid and syllabub, wisdom and fun,
Hurry and scurry they tumble in-
Poor Mr. Courtenay is up to the chin!

How can the merry Etonian fail,
Blest with these writers"-


"And blest with this ale?"

Oakley." While the Club's in such good humour, I'm very sorry to

shock it;

But I've receiv'd an insult, which I really can't possibly pocket:
Mr. Swinburne himself will allow that I've good reason

To prefer against him a charge, amounting to


Mr. Gerard, you've got a smile on your face, as much as to tell
That I'm but an indifferent rhymer, but that I know very well,
And I should be glad to tell my story in prose, if I might,
Only, as there's nothing of the kind to be spoken here to-night,
I must say what I have to say in verse, as well as I am able;—
Well then, here's Mr. Swinburne a-spilling all the tea upon my table,
And making a mess and a slop with his impertinent hand,
Because he wants to paint the situation where Troy us'd to stand;
And though I care a great deal more about my butter and toast,
Than about avaş avde̟wy and all his abominable host,
Yet here he persists in spurting hot water upon my cheek,
And, which is my detestation, quoting a bushel of Greek.

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And, here's the river Simois, and here's Xanthus,' says he,

As if either of them ever ran with Mr.Weight's best tea;

And here's Achilles and his Myrmidons.' I think it's very harsh To clap Achilles and all his soldiers into a great boiling marsh;

And though I tell him to be quiet, as loud as I can bawl,

It seems that he thinks me à blockhead, (Hear! hear!) for he don't mind me at all.

Therefore, as I don't like to be in this manner defied,

I pray that the President will immediately decide,

Whether the rights of Members are to be protected, or whether

Mr. Swinburne is to go on upsetting propriety, tea-cups, and Trojans, all together."

Swinburne. "Larga quidem, Drance, semper tibi copia fandi—”

Oakley. "If you talk any more lingo, you'll be fin'd and that won't be so handy."

Swinburne." I scorn to talk English where Latin won't be heard, And if I mayn't answer him classically, I won't answer a single word."

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Courtenay. Guilty, guilty, the case is clear."

Musgrave. "The Swinburne coach is upset, I fear."

Courtenay. "To give the Judges no defence



Argues or guilt, or insolence;

Be it the first, or be it the last,

Dread is the doom that must now be past."

"Guilty, guilty, the case is clear."

"Mr. Courtenay, and Gentlemen, I think you're decidedly

wrong here,

I differ from you in most matters, and I differ from you in this;
You say Mr. Swinburne is guilty ;-now what if I don't think he is?"

Chorus (testifying astonishment.)



"Oh! Lord! did you ever?

Oh Lord! no I never!

The culprit was caught, the indictment drawn!
Like a terrified child,

Mr. Oakley grows mild,

Peregrine's mock'd, and the charge withdrawn!"

"Chairman and King,

I meant no such thing;

Whence is this shouting and tumult drawn?"

"You've gone in your track

Too far to go back,

Peregrine's mock'd, and the



"I don't wish or intend to transgress any proper rules,
But I can't help observing that you're altogether a
parcel of fools."

(Exit in the sullens.-Members testify congratulation.)



"It's very late!"

“Let's have another cup!"

Montgomery. "And sing a song,"



"By way of Summing Up?""
"Late is the Evening! hush'd is the song,

Friendly Etonians-health, and good night!
Be your fame and your 'Articles' equally long!
Be your Ale and your Genius equally bright,”

The Members shouted carmen hoc,

As sweet as linnet or canary;
The Club adjourn'd at Six o'clock,





FAREWELL to the Hero, whose chivalrous name
Bade the land of his fathers rise highest in fame;
Farewell, Macedonia, to all that was dear;
Farewell to thy glory's unbroken career.

The Triumphs of Empire have fled with a breath,
And the Day-star of Conquest is faded in death.
With the soul that once gave thee command over all,
With the arm that upheld thee, proud Land, thou must fall;
For the Spirit that warmed thee for ever hath flown,
And left thee to weep o'er his sepulchre's stone.

Time was that the lightning, which erst used to play
From yon eyeball that glares with a powerless ray,
Would have flash'd through the din, and the tumult of fight,
As the meteor gleams 'mid the darkness of night.
Time was, that yon arm would have dealt out the blow
With the thunderbolt's force on the helm of the foe;
And Fancy might think, as the blood-reeking crest
Of the King and the Warrior shone high o'er the rest,
That the God of the battle was goading his car
Through the ranks of the vanquish'd, the tide of the war.
Time was, but those glories have long passed away,
Like the breeze of the North o'er the sea-ruffled spray;
Like the rose-bud of Summer they died in their bloom,
And Memory pauses to weep o'er their doom.

Oh! Fiend of Ambition, look down on the shame
That has darkened the ray of thy Votary's fame;
And blush to confess that in yon low estate
Lies the remnant of all that was mighty and great.

And shook not the world, and its kingdoms with dread?
And quail'd not the sky as the parting life fled?
And fell not the Hero where nations pursued,
In the heat of the battle, the toil of the feud?
Did no prodigy herald the last dying pain,

As his breath ebb'd away o'er the millions of slain?

Now, joy to ye, Thebans, whose heart's blood bedew'd

The desolate soil, where thine altars had stood!

Thou, Genius of Persia! look down from thy throne,
The battle is won, and the proud are o'erthrown;

And the Spirit of Valour, the bosom of Fire,
That grasp'd at the world in its headlong desire,
Unworthy the fame of the Deified Brave,
Has sunk like the dastard luxurious slave.

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