Punch (103.1892)

182 PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [October 22, 1892.

THE BATTLE OF THE BARDS; OR, THE LISTS FOR THE LAURELS.

Peoem.

Tan-ta-ra-ra-ra-ra ! The trumpets blare !
The rival Bards, wild-eyed, with wind-
blown hair,

And close-hugged harps, advance with fire-
winged feet
For the green Laureate Laurels to compete ;
The laurels vacant from the brows of him
In whose fine light all lesser lustres dim.
Tourney of Troubadours! The laurels lie
On crimson velvet cushion couched on

Whilst Punch, Lord-Warden of his country's Porphyrogenitus at least he looks;

high, I scarred,

fame,

Attends the strains to hear, the victor-bard
to name.

And first advances, as by right supreme,
With frosted locks adrift, and eyes a-dream,
With quick short footfalls, and an arm
a-swing,

As to some cosmic rhythm heard to ring
From Putney to Parnassus, a brief bard.'
(In stature, not in song!) Though passion-

Haughty as one who rivalry scarce brooks;
Unreminiscent now of youthful rage,
Almost " respectable," and well-nigh sage,
Dame Geundy owns her once redoubtec
foe,

Whose polished paganry's erotic flow,
And red anarchic wrath 'gainst priests, anc
kings,

The virtues, and most other "proper " things.
Once drew her frown where now her smile \

bestowed.
Such is the power of timely palinode!