And goodly Porthos, as of old the famed Orthryades,
Raises the trophy of the fight, then falling on his knees,
He writes in gore upon his shield, 'Romance, Romance, has won!'
And blood-red on that stricken field goes down the angry sun.
Night falls upon the field of death, night on the darkling lea:
Oh send us such a tournay soon, and send me there to see!



BALLAD OF THE PHILANTHROPIST



Pomona Road and Gardens, N.,
Were pure as they were fair -
In other districts much I fear,
That vulgar language shocks the ear,
But brawling wives or noisy men
Were never heard of THERE.

No burglar fixed his dread abode
In that secure retreat,
There were no public-houses nigh,
But chapels low and churches high,
You might have thought Pomona Road
A quite ideal beat!

Yet that was not at all the view
Taken by B. 13.
That active and intelligent