John Alcohol, my foe, John,
Ye've blear'd out a' my een,
And lighted up my nose, John,
A fiery sign atween!

My hands wi' palsy shake, John,
My locks are like the snow;
Ye'll surely be the death of me,
John Alcohol, my foe.

John Alcohol, my foe, John,
'Twas love to you, I ween,
That gart me rise sae ear', John,
And sit sae late at e'en;

The best o' friens maun part, John,
It grieves me sair, ye know;

But

we'll nae mair to yon town,"

John Alcohol, my foe.

John Alcohol, my foe, John,

Ye've wrought me muckle skaith;

And yet to part wi' you, John,

I own I'm unko' laith;

But I'll join the temperance ranks, John,

Ye needna say me no;

It's better late than ne'er do weel,

John Alcohol, my foe.

Unknown.

NURSERY SONG IN PIDGIN ENGLISH

SINGEE a songee sick a pence,

Pockee muchee lye;

Dozen two time blackee bird

Cookee in e pie.

When him cutee topside

Birdee bobbery sing;

Himee tinkee nicey dish

Setee foree King!

Father William

Kingee in a talkee loom

Countee muchee money;
Queeny in e kitchee,

Chew-chee breadee honey.

Servant galo shakee,

Hangee washee clothes;

Cho-chop comee blackie bird,

Nipee off her nose!

531

Unknown.

FATHER WILLIAM

"You are old, Father William," the young man said, "And your nose has a look of surprise;

Your eyes have turned round to the back of your head,
And you live upon cucumber pies."

"I know it, I know it," the old man replied,
"And it comes from employing a quack,
Who said if I laughed when the crocodile died
I should never have pains in my back."

"You are old, Father William," the young man said,
"And your legs always get in your way;

You use too much mortar in mixing your bread,
And you try to drink timothy hay."

"Very true, very true," said the wretched old man,
"Every word that you tell me is true;

And it's caused by my having my kerosene can
Painted red where it ought to be blue."

"You are old, Father William," the young man said,
"And your teeth are beginning to freeze,

Your favorite daughter has wheels in her head,
And the chickens are eating your knees."
"You are right," said the old man, "I cannot deny,
That my troubles are many and great,

But I'll butter my ears on the Fourth of July,

And then I'll be able to skate."

Unknown.

A POE-'EM OF PASSION

IT was many and many a year ago,

On an island near the sea,

That a maiden lived whom you mightn't know
By the name of Cannibalee;

And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than a passionate fondness for me.

I was a child, and she was a child

Tho' her tastes were adult Feejee

But she loved with a love that was more than love,

My yearning Cannibalee;

With a love that could take me roast or fried
Or raw, as the case might be.

And that is the reason that long ago,
In that island near the sea,

I had to turn the tables and eat
My ardent Cannibalee-

Not really because I was fond of her,

But to check her fondness for me.

But the stars never rise but I think of the size

Of my hot-potted Cannibalee,

And the moon never stares but it brings me night

mares

Of my spare-rib Cannibalee;

And all the night-tide she is restless inside,

Is my still indigestible dinner-belle bride,

In her pallid tomb, which is Me,

In her solemn sepulcher, Me.

C. F. Lummis.

How the Daughters Come Down at Dunoon 533

HOW THE DAUGHTERS COME DOWN AT DUNOON

How do the daughters

Come down at Dunoon?
Daintily,

Tenderly,

Fairily,

Gingerly,

Glidingly,

Slidingly,

Slippingly,

Skippingly,

Trippingly,

Clippingly,

Bumpingly,

Thumpingly,

Stumpingly,

Clumpingly,

Starting and bolting,

And darting and jolting,

And tottering and staggering,
And lumbering and slithering,
And hurrying and scurrying,
And worrying and flurrying,

And rushing and leaping and crushing and creeping;
Feathers a-flying all-bonnets untying all-

Petticoats rapping and flapping and slapping all,
Crinolines flowing and blowing and showing all

Balmorals, dancing and glancing, entrancing all;
Fests of activity-

Nymphs on declivity-
Mothers in extacies-

Fathers in vextacies

Lady-loves whisking and frisking and clinging on
True-lovers puffing and blowing and springing on,
Dashing and clashing and shying and flying on,
Blushing and flushing and wriggling and giggling on,
Teasing and pleasing and squeezing and wheezing on,
Everlastingly falling and bawling and sprawling on,
Tumbling and rumbling and grumbling and stumbling on,

Any fine afternoon,
About July or June-

That's just how the Daughters

Come down at Dunoon!

H. Cholmondeley Pennell.

TO AN IMPORTUNATE HOST

DURING DINNER AND AFTER TENNYSON

Ask me no more: I've had enough Chablis;
The wine may come again, and take the shape,
From glass to glass, of "Mountain" or of "Cape;"
But, my dear boy, when I have answered thee,

Ask me no more.

Ask me no more: what answer should I give,
I love not pickled pork nor partridge pie;
I feel if I took whisky I should die!
Ask me no more for I prefer to live:

Ask me no more.

Ask me no more: unless my fate is sealed,
And I have striven against you all in vain.
Let your good butler bring me Hock again:
Then rest, dear boy. If for this once I yield,

Ask me no more!

Unknown.

CREMATION

BY A BURNING ADMIRER OF SIR HENRY THOMPSON

To Urn, or not to Urn? that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler for our frames to suffer
The shows and follies of outrageous custom,
Or to take fire-against a sea of zealots-