"Wire in, my warblers!" PUNCHIUS cried. "To 'wire,'

Though slangy, sounds appropriate to the Lyre."

Then forth there toddled with the mincing gait

Of some fair "Tottering Lily," him, the great

New Bard of Buddha! Grave, and grey of crest.

'Tis he illumes the nubibustic West

With the true "Light of Asia"—or, at least,

Such simulacrum of the effulgent East

As shineth from a homemade Chinese lantern.

No HAFIZ he, or SAADI, yet he can turn

Authentic Sanscrit to—Telegraphese,

And make the Muse a moon-faced Japanese.

Leaderesque love of gentle gush and "Caps.,"

Is blent in him with fondness for the Japs.

"Wah! wah! futtee!—wah! wah, gooroo!" he cried,

And twanged his tinkling orient lyre with pride.

No moaning of the bards! A pleasant quip!

No manufactured gloom to dim that far light!

Of dirge's luxury deprive my lip?

So suns might say there shall be no more starlight!

Lamping is not required at day's full noon,

Lanterns are out of place in dawn's fair flush-light;

But when dark night sets in, and there's no moon,

There is a chance for stars, or even a rushlight.

No moaning of the bards? That were hard lines

For minor line-spinners, imperial TENNYSON!

Owls only have their chance when day declines,

That's why the night-birds crown thee with prompt benison.

LEWIS has wailed and warbled—twiddlingly:

ALFRED has—rootley-tootlely—wailed and warbled;

WILLIAM's young Muse hath wept—then why not Me,

Whose brow, not less than theirs, with woe is marbled?

ROBERT and AUSTIN (DOBSON) took their turns;

There is some talk, too, of Sir THEODORE MARTIN.

Seeing my lips, too, thrill, my heart, too, burns,

Why the great contest should I take no part in!

May be I do not carry guns enough

To epically glorify King ARTHUR,

But I have penned some reams of rhythmic stuff

Concerning (please admire the rhyme!) SIDDÁRTHA.

(That, as an "assonance," is quite as good

As "sang it," and "began it.") Ornamental

And Eastern Mythos draws me; but I'm good

At "Poems National and Non-Oriental."

I love the Hindoos, I adore the Japs;

I'm fond of scraps of Oriental lingo;

Yet I'm a patriot, and have hymned, perhaps,

As much as most, my native god, great Jingo!

I think a Muse with twinkly almond orbs,

Would—as a change—in England prove most fetching;

Is it not plain Jap Art our Art ahsorbs!

Why not in singing, then, as well as sketching?

I'm sure my "GEISHA" is as good a girl

As Vivien, or Faustine, or e'en Dolores.

Is she more frail, less fair, that perfect pearl

Of Singing Girls, Xipangu's great'st of glories?

Knocks her nice little flat nose on the floor,

In Japanese politeness, my "Half Jewel."

ALGERNON's nymphs, in song or in amour

Are always coarse and generally cruel.

"Pearls of the Faith," is a most pious work,

Although AL-MUTÂHÂLI is the stringer.

But only he who hates "The Unspeakable Turk,"

On that account would blame the Christian singer!

"Lotus and Jewel!" Doesn't that sound nice?

My mild Jap Muse may be a roguey-poguey;

But there's no stimulus to pleasant vice

About a holy Brahman or chaste Yogi.

"Land of the Rising Sun," delightful "Third

Kingdom of Merry Dreams," of you I'm amorous.

Must that exclude me from the Wreath? Absurd!

I'm prettily pious, and I'm gently glamorous.

My Knighthood proves that I am quite O.K.,

My dear D.T. will answer for my morals;

I'm steeped in Sanscrit lore, and so must say

I can't see why I should not wear the laurels!

"Quite so," said Punch. "I like your rhyme—and cheek;

Still, there be others yet to hear—next week!"