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Mobilising millions, marvellous mobility,
Numberless nonentities, numerous nobility.
Oligarchies olden opposed olive offering,
Prussia pressed Paris, Polish protection proffering,
Quaint Quebec quickly quartered quotidian quota,
Renascent Russia, resonant, reported regal rota.
Scotch soldiers, sterling, songs stalwart sung,
"Tipperary" thundered through titanic tongue.
United States urging unarmament, unwanted,
Visualised victory vociferously vaunted,
Wilson's warnings wasted, world war wild,
Xenian Xanthochroi Xantippically X-iled.
Yorkshire's young yeomen yelling youthfully,
"Zigzag Zeppelins, Zuyder Zee."

John R. Edwards.

LINES TO MISS FLORENCE HUNTINGDON

SWEET maiden of Passamaquoddy

Shall we seek for communion of souls

Where the deep Mississippi meanders

Or the distant Saskatchewan rolls?

Ah, no!-for in Maine I will find thee
A sweetly sequestrated nook,
Where the far-winding Skoodoowabskooksis
Conjoins with the Skoodoowabskook.

There wander two beautiful rivers,

With many a winding and crook:

The one is the Skoodoowabskooksis;

The other, the Skoodoowabskook.

Ah, sweetest of haunts! though unmentioned
In geography, atlas, or book,

How fair is the Skoodoowabskooksis,

When joining the Skoodoowabskook!

Lines to Miss Florence Huntingdon

Our cot shall be close by the waters,

Within that sequestrated nook, Reflected by Skoodoowabskooksis,

And mirrored in Skoodoowabskook.

You shall sleep to the music of leaflets,
By zephyrs in wantonness shook,
To dream of the Skoodoowabskooksis,

And, perhaps, of the Skoodoowabskook.

Your food shall be fish from the waters,
Drawn forth on the point of a hook,
From murmuring Skoodoowabskooksis,
Or meandering Skoodoowabskook.

You shall quaff the most sparkling of waters,
Drawn forth from a silvery brook,
Which flows to the Skoodoowabskooksis,
And so to the Skoodoowabskook.

And you shall preside at the banquet,
And I shall wait on you as cook;

And we'll talk of the Skoodoowabskooksis,
And sing of the Skoodoowabskook.

Let others sing loudly of Saco,

Of Quoddy and Tattamagouche,

Of Kenebeccasis and Quaco,

Of Merigoniche and Buctouche,

Of Nashwaak and Magaguadavique,

Or Memmerimammericook:

There's none like the Skoodoowabskooksis,
Excepting the Skoodoowabskook!

831

Unknown.

TO MY NOSE

KNOWS he that never took a pinch,
Nosey, the pleasure thence which flows,
Knows he the titillating joys

Which my nose knows?

O Nose, I am as proud of thee
As any mountain of its snows,
I gaze on thee, and feel that pride
A Roman knows!

Albert A. Forrester (Alfred Crowquill).

A POLKA LYRIC

Qui nunc dancere vult modo,

Wants to dance in the fashion, oh!

Discere debet-ought to know,

Kickere floor cum heel and toe,

One, two, three,

Hop with me,

Whirligig, twirligig, rapide.

Polkam jungere, Virgo, vis,
Will you join the polka, miss?
Liberius-most willingly,

Sic agimus-then let us try:

Nunc vide,

Skip with me, Whirlabout, roundabout, celere.

Tum læva cito, tum dextra,

First to the left, and then t'other way;

Aspice retro in vultu,

You look at her, and she looks at you.

Das palmam

Change hands, ma'am;

Celere-run away, just in sham.

Barclay Philips.

Ode for a Social Meeting

A CATALECTIC MONODY!

A CAT I sing, of famous memory,
Though catachrestical my song may be;
In a small garden catacomb she lies,
And cataclysms fill her comrades' eyes;
Borne on the air, the catacoustic song
Swells with her virtues' catalogue along,
No cataplasm could lengthen out her years,
Though mourning friends shed cataracts of tears.
Once loud and strong her catechist-like voice
It dwindled to a catcall's squeaking noise;
Most categorical her virtues shone,

By catenation join'd each one to one;-
But a vile catchpoll dog, with cruel bite,
Like catling's cut, her strength disabled quite;
Her caterwauling pierced the heavy air,

As cataphracts their arms through legions bear;
'Tis vain! as caterpillars drag away

Their lengths, like cattle after busy day,
She ling'ring died, nor left in kit kat the
Embodyment of this catastrophe.

833

Cruikshank's Omnibus.

ODE FOR A SOCIAL MEETING

WITH SLIGHT ALTERATIONS BY A TEETOTALER

COME! fill a fresh bumper,-for why should we go

logwood

While the nectar still reddens our cups as they flow?

decoction

Pour out the rich-juices still bright with the sun,

dye-stuff

Till o'er the brimmed crystal the rubies shall run. half-ripened apples

The purple-globed-elusters their life-dews have bled;

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How sweet is the-breath of the fragrance they shed!

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For Summer's last roses lie hid in the wines

stable-boys smoking long-nines That were garnered by maidens who laughed through the

vines,

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Then a smile, and a glass, and a toast, and a cheer,
strychnine and whiskey, and ratsbane and beer
For all the good wine, and we've some of it heret
In cellar, in pantry, in attic, in hall,

Down, down with the tyrant that masters us all!
Long live the gay servant that laughs for us all!

Oliver Wendell Holmes.

THE JOVIAL PRIEST'S CONFESSION

TRANSLATED FROM THE LATIN OF WALTER DE MAPES,
TIME OF HENRY II

I DEVISE to end my days-in a tavern drinking,

May some Christian hold for me the glass when I am shrinking,

That the cherubim may cry when they see me sinking, God be merciful to a soul of this gentleman's way of thinking.

A glass of wine amazingly-enlighteneth one's internals;
'Tis wings bedewed with nectar-that fly up to supernals;
Bottles cracked in taverns-have much the sweeter kernels,
Than the sups allowed to us-in the college journals.

Every one by nature hath-a mold which he was cast in;
I happen to be one of those who never could write fasting;
By a single little boy-I should be surpass'd in

Writing so I'd just as lief-be buried; tomb'd and grass'd in.

Every one by nature hath—a gift too, a dotation:
I, when I make verses-do get the inspiration
Of the very best of wine-that comes into the nation:
It maketh sermons to astound-for edification.

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