te the same,--
And think, perchance, he wears them quite as well
As the sole bard who sang of Peter Bell!]

The above note, which appeared in the first and subsequent editions of
this volume, is characteristic of the audacious spirit of fun in which
Bon Gaultier revelled. The sonnet here ascribed to Wordsworth must have
been believed by some matter-of-fact people to be really by him. On his
death in 1857, in an article on the subject of the vacant Laureate-ship,
it was quoted in a leading journal as proof of Wordsworth's complacent
estimate of his own supremacy over all contemporary poets. In writing
the sonnet I was well aware that there was some foundation for his not
unjust high appreciation of his own prowess, as the phrase "sole bard"
pretty clearly indicates, but I never dreamt that any one would fail to
see the joke.

The Laureates' Tourney.

BY THE HON. T--- B--- M---.

FYTTE THE FIRST.

"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 trumpet'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 Farringdon Within,
The poets all towards Whitehall poured on with eldritch din.

Loud yelled they for Sir James the Graham: {157} 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 ho