Now gilded youth loves cutty pipes,
And slang that's rather scaring,-
It can't approach its prototypes
In taste, or tone, or bearing.

In Brummell's days of buckle shoes,
Lawn cravats, and roll collars,
They'd fight, and woo, and bet—and lose
Like gentlemen and scholars :

I'm glad young men should go the pace,
I half forgive Old Rapid;

These louts disgrace their name and race So vicious and so vapid!

Worse times may come.

Bon ton, indeed,

Will then be quite forgotten,

And all we much revere will speed
From ripe to worse than rotten :
Let grass then sprout between yon stones,
And owls then roost at Boodle's,
For Echo will hurl back the tones
Of screaming Yankee Doodles.

I love the haunts of Old Cockaigne,
Where wit and wealth were squander'd ;
The halls that tell of hoop and train,
Where grace and rank have wandered;
Those halls where ladies fair and leal
First ventured to adore me !—
Something of that old love I feel

For this old street before me.

FREDERICK LOCKER.

TO Q. H. F.

SUGGESTED BY A CHAPTER IN THEODORE MARTIN'S "HORACE" ("ANCIENT CLASSICS FOR

ENGLISH READERS ").

ORATIUS FLACCUS, в. c. 8,"

There's not a doubt about the date,—
You're dead and buried:

As you remarked, the seasons roll,

And 'cross the Styx full many a soul
Has Charon ferried,

Since, mourned of men and Muses nine,
They laid you on the Esquiline.

And that was centuries ago!

You'd think we'd learned enough, I know,
To help refine us,

Since last you trod the Sacred Street,
And tacked from mortal fear to meet
The bore Crispinus;

Or, by your cold Digentia, set
The web of winter birding-net.

Ours is so far-advanced an age!
Sensation tales, a classic stage,
Commodious villas!

We boast high art, an Albert Hall,
Australian meats, and men who call
Their sires gorillas!

We have a thousand things, you see,
Not dreamt in your philosophy.

And yet, how strange! Our "world," to-day,
Tried in the scale, would scarce outweigh

Your Roman cronies;

C

Walk in the Park-you'll seldom fail
To find a Sybaris on the rail
By Lydia's ponies,

Or hap on Barrus, wigged and stayed,
Ogling some unsuspecting maid.

The great Gargilius, then, behold!
His "long-bow" hunting tales of old
Are now but duller;

Fair Neobule too! Is not

One Hebrus here-from Aldershot?
Aha, you colour!

Be wise.

There old Canidia sits;
No doubt she's tearing you to bits.

And look, dyspeptic, brave, and kind,
Comes dear Maecenas, half behind
Terentia's skirting;

Here's Pyrrha, "golden-haired " at will;
Prig Damasippus, preaching still;
Asterie flirting,-

Radiant, of course. We'll make her black,—
Ask her when Gyges' ship comes back.

So with the rest. Who will may trace
Behind the new each elder face

Defined as clearly;

Science proceeds, and man stands still;
Our "world" to-day's as good, or ill,-
As cultured (nearly)

As yours was, Horace! You alone,
Unmatched, unmet, we have not known.

AUSTIN DOBSON.

ROTTEN ROW.

HOPE I'm fond of much that's good,
As well as much that's gay;
I'd like the country if I could;
I love the Park in May:

And when I ride in Rotten Row,
I wonder why they called it so.

A lively scene on turf and road;
The crowd is bravely drest:
The Ladies' Mile has overflowed,
The chairs are in request:
The nimble air, so soft, so clear,
Hardly can stir a ringlet there.

I'll halt beneath the pleasant trees,
And drop my bridle-rein,
And, quite alone, indulge at ease,
The philosophic vein :

I'll moralize on all I see

Yes, it was all arranged for me!

Forsooth, and on a livelier spot
The sunbeam never shines.
Fair ladies here can talk and trot
With statesmen and divines:
Could I have chosen, I'd have been
A Duke, a Beauty, or a Dean.

What grooms! What gallant gentlemen!
What well-appointed hacks !
What glory in their pace, and then
What beauty on their backs!

My Pegasus would never flag
If weighted as my lady's nag.

But where is now the courtly troop
That once rode laughing by?
I miss the curls of Cantilupe,
The laugh of Lady Di:

They all could laugh from night till morn,
And Time has laughed them all to scorn.

I then could frolic in the van
With dukes and dandy earls,
Then I was thought a nice young man
By rather nice young girls!

I've half a mind to join Miss Browne,
And try one canter up and down.

Ah, no- -I'll linger here awhile,

And dream of days of

yore;

For me bright eyes have lost the smile,
The sunny smile they wore :—

Perhaps they say, what I'll allow,
That I'm not quite so handsome now.

FREDERICK LOCKER..

ROTTEN ROW.

HERE'S a tempting bit of greenery— of rus in urbe scenery—

That's haunted by the London upper ten;"

Where, by exercise on horseback, an equestrian

may force back

Little fits of tedium vitæ now and then.