t!
There George of Gorbals lay, skull and bones all blanched and grey,
In the arms he bore the day
Of the fight!

I have sung this ancient tale, not, I trust, without avail,
Though the moral ye may fail to perceive;
Sir Launcelot is dust, and his gallant sword is rust,
And now, I think, I must
Take my leave!

ILLUSTRATIONS
OF
THE PUFF POETICAL

[The following eleven pieces of verse appeared originally with many
others in an article called "Puffs and Poetry," from which the following
passage is taken:--

"Some people are fond of excursions into the realms of old romance, with
their Lancelots and Gueneveres, their enchanted castles, their bearded
wizards, 'and such odd branches of learning.' There needs a winged
griffin, at the very least, to carry them out of the everyday
six-and-eightpenny world, or the whizz of an Excalibur to startle their
drowsy imaginations into life. The beauties and the wonders of the
universe died for them some centuries ago; they went out with Friar Bacon
and the invention of gunpowder. Praised be Apollo! this is not our case.
There is a snatch of poetry, to our apprehension, in almost everything.
We have detected it pushing its petals forth from the curls of a
barrister's wig, and scented its fragrance even in the columns of the
'London Gazette.'

"'The deep poetic voice that hourly speaks within us' is never silent.
Like Signor Benedick, it 'will still be talking.' We can scarcely let
our eyes dwell upon an object--nay, not even upon a gridiron or a
toothpick--but it seems to be transmuted as by the touch of Midas into
gold. Our facts accordingly adopt upon occasions a very singular shape.
We are not nice to a shade. A trifle here or there never stands in our
way. We regard a free play of fancy as the privilege of every genuine
Briton, and exclaim with Pistol, 'A fico for all yea and nay rogues.'

"We have often thought of entering the lists against Robins [famous for
his imaginative advertisements of properties for sale]. It may be
vanity, but we think we could trump him. Robins amplifies well, but we
think we could trump him. There is an obvious effort in his best works.
The result is a want of unity of effect. Hesiod and Tennyson, the
Caverns of Ellora, and the magic caves of the Regent's Park Colosseum,
are jumbled confusedly one upon another. He never achieves the triumph
of art--repose. Besides, he wa