(After Lord Tennyson.)

Hail, O Imperial Institute! Strike the tabor, and play the lute, This is South Kensington’s latest fruit: Hail, O Imperial Institute!

Rise in thy might and make envy mute, Slanderous sneer and snarl refute, Slap the face of the bellowing brute, Noble Imperial Institute!

Our Prince he promised that, coûte que coûte, He’d find us a brand-new site to suit, And leave the “clique” and its ill-repute Outside the Imperial Institute.

So, hail Imperial Institute! India, Colonies, Kyles of Bute, Lands of Britain by every route, Heligoland to far Tirhoot, Into our laps your treasure shoot, For you’ll guess if you’re only slightly cute That there’ll always be plenty of room for “loot” In the noble Imperial Institute.

The Plan of Campaign.

The heart of the nation is throbbing with grief At the tales that are told of the winter distress; We are longing to hear of some scheme of relief That will make London’s burthen of misery less. But what we’re to do, or how best to commence, There’s nobody able, it seems, to explain. O, isn’t there someone with courage and sense To draw up a workable Plan of Campaign?

The work of the nation is all in arrears: We tinker the laws that need thorough repair, We potter about between Commons and Peers, And fools in the Senate their eloquence air. To rout the obstruction that stands in the way, And wields a long tongue and gives battle to brain, Is there none who can marshal a force for the fray, And act on a sensible Plan of Campaign?

There are women of England who toil for their bread-- Poor hard-working sisters and mothers and wives, Whose years are a slavery, dreary and dread, Who drag out their cruel and colourless lives. Can nothing be done that may better their state? Shall the white women slaves in their bondage remain? O, manhood of Britain! think, think of their fate, And start the New Year with some Plan of Campaign.

The People’s Palace.

I sing of the People’s Palace, a tale of Arabian nights, A place where the toiling masses could feast on all true delights. It was opened with morning lectures, and closed with an evening hymn, And the Bishop of London whispered it was just the place for him.

It was open for recreation from nine until six p.m., Which times, said the working classes, were specially fixed for them. It was closed for the day on Sunday, and on Saturday afternoon, So the very select declared it “a perfectly priceless boon.”

To cater for men and women who toil for their daily bread, The beer of their hearts was vetoed, and sherbet was sold instead, And they made it a coffee palace, with scones and a plate of “thick,” With counters for almond hardbake and liquorice in the stick.

The pictures were all improving, the moral of all was “grand,” And at intervals there were concerts by the Blue Ribbon Army band; With exhibits in big glass cases of terrible temperance facts, And the entrance fee included a bundle of stirring tracts.

It was built at the lavish outlay of a dozen of million pounds Which included the church and chapel, and the mission-hall in the grounds; But as nobody wanted sermons, and sherbet, and ginger-beer, It was sold at a great reduction to a philanthropic peer.

And in less than a twelvemonth after the Palace had reared its head, On the top of it proudly floated a banner of vulgar red; And General Booth was shouting, and having a grand “all night” In our latest “gigantic failure,” the Palace of No Delight.

A Charade.

He wore three hats upon his head, And called aloud “Old clo’,” It would not be correct to say His Christian name was “Mo.” His home was in a lane that used Some time ago to bear The Anglicised French name we give A garment ladies wear. You’ve seen him as the comic man In plays at Drury Lane, And Mr. Irving showed him once A prey to grief and pain. In all the tales our authors write He’s painted at his worst; I’ll have a “go” at him myself, And here he stands--my first.

It was a young and noble earl, An impecunious sinner, He’d won a lovely Yankee girl, And gave a little dinner. The restaurant, a tip-top one, Was in the town that ‘Arry, Who once, with Cook, the trip has done, Insists on calling “Parry.”

The bride-elect and all her friends The noble earl invited, They said, “He don’t mind what he spends,” And all were much delighted. But when the splendid spread was o’er, The guests about departing, The landlord came and locked the door, This piece of news imparting: “His lordship’s had me twice on toast, So now, as you are going, I’d like to ask,” exclaimed mine host, “Who’ll pay me what is owing? Not one of you shall pass the door, The key is in my pocket; And not till someone’s paid the score Will this ’ere child unlock it.” “I’ve not enough!” gasped out the earl-- Without his host he’d reckoned-- The friends of that proud Yankee girl Went shares and paid my second.

I stood at eve as the sun went down By the side of a flowing river That runs through the East of London town, And I turned me away with a shiver. I have smelt some smells in thy streets, Cologne, I have seen some filthy fluids, But nothing like this has the wide world known Since the days of the Ancient Druids. Let the essence of all the stinks be stirred And then you may fancy you smell my third.

Where’er the flag of Britain Floats proudly on the breeze, In this our home of freedom And in lands beyond the seas; In India’s wondrous cities, On wild Australian tracks, In vast Canadian forests, And among the conquered blacks,-- As far as sword and bayonet Extend our freedom’s goal, Next year, as per arrangement, They’ll celebrate my whole.

A True Story.