“Kate Brandeth comes to us, I hope, He's lost to human ken; We've ask'd Du Singe, who shot the "Snorter will have the cedar-room apes; (It is the Moor-I know his trumpet !) ; E'en his sonorous nasal boom Won't wake his neighbour, deaf aunt Crumpet, Flemming, his handkerchief and cough, We've put a little farther off; While--penance for your crimes!You'll share my den-you know the spot! Where Latakie and whiskies hot Shall flout the midnight chimes. "So come, Ned; fling the pen aside, Upset the ink and tear the paper; Shake up your liver with a ride; And brace up your muscles with a caper. Those rounded shoulders, careworn looks, And bring back to our eyes once more No, dear old Frank! though heaven knows All for my own enjoyment meant ! I-bah! begone the stale device! For thirty years, Frank, Christmas found Me sitting by the side of one Whose every draught in life was bound In me, Frank, and who called me "Son." The autumn came; that sacred tie Was loosed by Death's cold hand, and I Have since then stood alone; Half of my heart within me glows; The better half-which no one knowsIs hid beneath a stone! And I have dreamed that when the air And happiness amongst us dwells,— A thin white hand will chafe once more A sweet, sweet face will bend to mine, God grant it, Frank! though false and vain Acknowledge to be cheaply bought. So paint me in your mind, As one who, fenced with fields of snow, EDMUND YATES. AT A COUNTRY-HOUSE. MANSION, large but not too grand, Can't tell you in what style it's Elizabethan, Gothic, Tudor. Rich ivy softening red brick Conceals all cause for artist stricture; Around the trees grow tall and thick— A pleasant, homely English picture. Right homely too the pleasant face, The pleasant voice that gives you greeting, They speak the gentleman- -a race That from our ranks is fast retreating. A host he's in himself and more; His wife's to all a liberal hostess ; yon darkened corridor Why, in There's even lodging for a ghostess! The guests! Be sure a jovial crew Sweet ladies-lovers not a few Have hence their heart-submission dated. Our host's young daughter, brightly fair, Brings sunshine in the winter, bless her! E'en to yon dried-up fossil there, His learned Reverence, the Professor. For he is here, not half so stiff As when he lectured us at Eton. That smiling lounger's Mr. Smiff, The man they say Miss Rose is sweet on. A plunger's here, a journalist (Two youths whose ways are seldom straight ways), A sporting parson, good at whist, A preaching sportsman, good at gateways; A lady who once wrote a book, And one of whom a book's been written; One who a prize at London took, And one who took a house at Ditton; A "blue" who'll derivations trace And with long words your ears importune; One blonde whose fortune is her face, We dance, we flirt, we shoot, we ride, We fish the river's silver tide, Miss Rose herself can wield a slim rod. We fall in love-and out again; Sometimes we sail in troubled waters, For pleasure oft gives birth to pain When shared with Eve's seductive daughters. C. C. RHYS. ARRIVALS AT A WATERING-PLACE. PLAY a spade.-Such strange new faces Are flocking in from near and far; Such frights!(Miss Dobbs holds all the aces)— One can't imagine who they are: The lodgings at enormous prices,New donkeys and another fly; And Madame Bonbon out of ices, Although we're scarcely in July: We're quite as sociable as any, But our old horse can scarcely crawl; And really, where there are so many, We can't tell where we ought to call. 66 Pray who has seen the odd old fellow A pretty chariot,-livery yellow, Almost as yellow as his cheek; "And so Miss Jones, the mantua-maker, |