"What news, what news, thou pilgrim grey, what news
from southern land?
How fare the bold Conservatives, how is it with Ferrand?
How does the little Prince of Wales—how looks our lady
Queen?

And tell me, is the monthly nurse once more at Windsor
seen?"
"I bring no tidings from the Court, nor from St Stephen's
hall;
I've heard the thundering tramp of horse, and the trum-
pet's battle-call;
And these old eyes have seen a fight, which England ne'er
hath seen,
Since fell King Richard sobbed his soul through blood on
Bosworth Green.

'He's dead, he's dead, the Laureate's dead!' 'Twas thus
the cry began,
And straightway every garret-roof gave up its minstrel
man;
From Grub Street, and from Houndsditch, and from Far-
ringdon Within,
The poets all towards Whitehall poured on with eldritch
din.

Loud yelled they for Sir James the Graham: but sore
afraid was he;
A hardy knight were he that might face such a minstrelsie.
'Now by St Giles of Netherby, my patron Saint, I
swear,
I'd rather by a thousand crowns Lord Palmerston were
here!—

'What is't ye seek, ye rebel knaves—what make you
there beneath?'
'The bays, the bays! we want the bays! we seek the
laureate wreath!
We seek the butt of generous wine that cheers the sons
of song;
Choose thou among us all, Sir Knight—we may not tarry
long!'

Loud laughed the good Sir James in scorn—'Rare jest it
were, I think,
But one poor butt of Xeres, and a thousand rogues to
drink!
An' if it flowed with wine or beer, 'tis easy to be
seen,
That dry within the hour would be the well of Hippo-
crene.

'Tell me, if on Parnassus' heights there grow a thousand
sheaves:
Or has Apollo's laurel bush yet borne ten hundred
leaves?
Or if so many leaves were there, how long would they
sustain
The ravage and the glutton bite of such a locust train?

'No! get ye "back into your dens, take counsel for the
night,
And choose me out two champions to meet in deadly
fight;
To-morrow's dawn shall see the lists marked out in Spital-
fields,
And he who wins shall have the hays, and he shall die
who yields!'

Down went the window with a crash,—in silence and in
fear
Each raggÈd bard looked anxiously upon his neighbour
near;
Then up and spake young Tennyson—'Who's here that
fears for death?
'Twere better one of us should die, than England lose the
wreath!

'Let's cast the lots among us now, which two shall fight
to-morrow;—
For armour bright we'll club our mite, and horses we can
borrow;
'Twere shame that bards of France should sneer, and
German Dichters too,
If none of British song might dare a deed of derring-do!'

'The lists of Love are mine,' said Moore, 'and not the
lists of Mars
Said Hunt, 'I seek the jars of wine, but shun the com-
bat's jars!'
'I'm old,' quoth Samuel Rogers.—'Faith, says Camp-
bell, 'so am I!'
'And I'm in holy orders, sir!' quoth Tom of Ingoldsby.

'Now out upon ye, craven loons!' cried Moxon, good at
need,—
'Bide, if ye will, secure at home, and sleep while others
bleed.
I second Alfred's motion, boys,—let's try the chance of
lot;
And monks shall sing, and bells shall ring, for him that
goes to pot.'

Eight hundred minstrels slunk away—two hundred
stayed to draw,—
Now Heaven protect the daring wight that pulls the
longest straw!
'Tis done! 'tis done! And who hath won? Keep silence
one and all,—
The first is William Wordsworth hight, the second Ned
Fitzball!