Bright days, when a stroll is my afternoon wont And I meet all the people I do know, or don't: Here is jolly old Brown, and his fair daughter Lillie

No wonder, young Pilgrim, you like Piccadilly!

See yonder pair riding, how fondly they saunter, She smiles on her poet, whose heart's in a canter! Some envy her spouse, and some covet her filly, He envies them both,-he's an ass, Piccadilly!

Now were I such a bride, with a slave at my feet,
I would choose me a house in my favourite street;
Yes or no-I would carry my point, willy-nilly:
If “no,”—pick a quarrel; if “yes”—Piccadilly!

From Primrose balcony, long ages ago,
"Old Q." sat at gaze,-who now passes below?
A frolicsome statesman, the Man of the Day
A laughing philosopher, gallant and gay;

Never darling of fortune more manfully trod, Full of years, full of fame, and the world at his nod,

Can the thought reach his heart, and then leave it more chilly

Old P. or old Q.,-"I must quit Piccadilly?"

Life is chequer'd; a patchwork of smiles and of

frowns;

We value its ups, let us muse on its downs;

There's a side that is bright, it will then turn us t'other,

One turn, if a good one, deserves yet another. These downs are delightful, these ups are not hilly,

Let us try one more turn ere we quit Piccadilly. Frederick Locker-Lampson.

A WORD THAT MAKES US LINGER

(Written in the visitor's book at Gopsall)

K

IND hostess mine, who raised the latch And welcomed me beneath your thatch, Who makes me here forget the pain, And all the pleasures of Cockaigne, Now, pen in hand, and pierced with woe, I write one word before I go

A word that dies upon my lips

While thus you kiss your finger-tips.

When Black-eyed Sue was rowed to land
That word she cried, and waved her hand—
Her lily hand!

It seems absurd,

But I can't write that dreadful word.

Frederick Locker-Lampson.

MY MISTRESS'S BOOTS

HEY nearly strike me dumb,
And I tremble when they come

TH

Pit-a-pat:

This palpitation means

That these Boots are Geraldine's-
Think of that!

Oh where did hunter win
So delectable a skin

For her feet?

You lucky little kid,

You perish'd, so you did,
For my sweet!

The faery stitching gleams
On the sides, and in the seams,
And it shows

That the Pixies were the wags
Who tipt these funny tags,
And these toes.

The simpletons who squeeze
Their extremities to please
Mandarins,

Would positively flinch
From venturing to pinch
Geraldine's.

What soles to charm an elf!
Had Crusoe, sick of self,
Chanced to view

One printed near the tide,

Oh how hard he would have tried
For the two!

For Gerry's debonair,
And innocent and fair
As a rose:

She's an angel in a frock,
With a fascinating cock
To her nose.

Cinderella's lefts and rights
To Geraldine's were frights;
And, I trow,

The damsel, deftly shod,
Has dutifully trod
Until now.

Come, Gerry, since it suits
Such a pretty Puss (in Boots)
These to don,

Set this dainty hand awhile
On my shoulder, dear, and I'll
Put them on.

Frederick Locker-Lampson.

A NICE CORRESPONDENT!

'HE glow and the glory are plighted

THE

To darkness, for evening is come; The lamp in Glebe Cottage is lighted, The birds and the sheep-bells are dumb. I'm alone in my casement, for Pappy

Is summon'd to dinner at Kew:
I'm alone, dearest Fred, but I'm happy—
I'm thinking of you!

I wish you were here! Were I duller
Than dull, you'd be dearer than dear;
I'm drest in your favourite colour-
Dear Fred, how I wish you were here!
I am wearing my lazuli necklace,
The necklace you fasten'd askew!
Was there ever so rude and so reckless
A darling as you?

I want you to come and pass sentence
On two or three books with a plot;
Of course you know "Janet's Repentance"?
I'm reading Sir Waverley Scott,

The story of Edgar and Lucy,

How thrilling, romantic, and true! The master (his bride was a goosey!) Reminds me of you.

They tell me Cockaigne has been crowning A Poet whose garland endures;

It was you who first spouted me Browning,That stupid old Browning of yours!