There was a young man from Cornell,
Who said, "I'm aware of a smell,
But whether it's drains

Or human remains,
I'm really unable to tell."

There was a young lady from Joppa,
Whose friends all decided to drop her;
She went with a friend

On a trip to Ostend,

And the rest of the story's improper.

There once was a sculptor named Phidias, Whose statues by some were thought hideous; He made Aphrodite

Without any nighty,

Which shocked all the ultra-fastidious.

John woke on Jan. first and felt queer;

Said, "Crackers I'll swear off this year!
For the lobster and wine

And the rabbit were fine,

And it certainly wasn't the beer."

There was a young lady of Venice

Who used hard-boiled eggs to play tennis;
When they said, "You are wrong,"
She replied, "Go along!

You don't know how prolific my hen is!"

There was a young man of Fort Blainey,
Who proposed to his typist named Janey;
When his friends said, "Oh, dear!
She's so old and so queer!"

He replied, "But the day was so rainy!"

XIII

NONSENSE

LUNAR STANZAS

NIGHT saw the crew like pedlers with their packs
Altho' it were too dear to pay for eggs;

Walk crank along with coffin on their backs
While in their arms they bow their weary legs.

And yet 'twas strange, and scarce can one suppose That a brown buzzard-fly should steal and wear His white jean breeches and black woollen hose, But thence that flies have souls is very clear.

But, Holy Father! what shall save the soul,

When cobblers ask three dollars for their shoes? When cooks their biscuits with a shot-tower roll, And farmers rake their hay-cocks with their hoes.

Yet, 'twere profuse to see for pendant light,
A tea-pot dangle in a lady's ear;
And 'twere indelicate, although she might
Swallow two whales and yet the moon shine clear.

But what to me are woven clouds, or what,

If dames from spiders learn to warp their looms? If coal-black ghosts turn soldiers for the State, With wooden eyes, and lightning-rods for plumes?

Oh! too, too shocking! barbarous, savage taste!
To eat one's mother ere itself was born!
To gripe the tall town-steeple by the waste,
And scoop it out to be his drinking-horn.

841

No more: no more! I'm sick and dead and gone;
Boxed in a coffin, stifled six feet deep;

Thorns, fat and fearless, prick my skin and bone,
And revel o'er me, like a soulless sheep.

Henry Coggswell Knight.

THE WHANGO TREE

THE Woggly bird sat on the whango tree,
Nooping the rinkum corn,

And graper and graper, alas! grew he,

And cursed the day he was born.

His crute was clum and his voice was rum,

As curiously thus sang he,

"Oh, would I'd been rammed and eternally clammed

Ere I perched on this whango tree."

Now the whango tree had a bubbly thorn,

As sharp as a nootie's bill,

And it stuck in the woggly bird's umptum lorn

And weepadge, the smart did thrill.

He fumbled and cursed, but that wasn't the worst,

For he couldn't at all get free,

And he cried, "I am gammed, and injustibly nammed On the luggardly whango tree."

And there he sits still, with no worm in his bill,

Nor no guggledom in his nest;

He is hungry and bare, and gobliddered with care,
And his grabbles give him no rest;

He is weary and sore and his tugmut is soar,

And nothing to nob has he,

As he chirps, "I am blammed and corruptibly jammed,

In this cuggerdom whango tree."

Unknown.

Cossimbazar

THREE CHILDREN

THREE children sliding on the ice
Upon a summer's day,

As it fell out they all fell in,
The rest they ran away.

Now, had these children been at home,
Or sliding on dry ground,

Ten thousand pounds to one penny
They had not all been drowned.

You parents all that children have,
And you too that have none,
If you would have them safe abroad
Pray keep them safe at home.

843

Unknown.

'TIS MIDNIGHT

'Tis midnight, and the setting sun
Is slowly rising in the west;
The rapid rivers slowly run,

The frog is on his downy nest.
The pensive goat and sportive cow,
Hilarious, leap from bough to bough.

Unknown.

COSSIMBAZAR

COME fleetly, come fleetly, my hookabadar,
For the sound of the tam-tam is heard from afar.
"Banoolah! Banoolah!" The Brahmins are nigh,
And the depths of the jungle re-echo their cry.
Pestonjee Bomanjee!

Smite the guitar;

Join in the chorus, my hookabadar.

Heed not the blast of the deadly monsoon,

Nor the blue Brahmaputra that gleams in the moon
Stick to thy music, and oh, let the sound
Be heard with distinctness a mile or two round.
Jamsetjee, Jeejeebhoy!

Sweep the guitar.

Join in the chorus, my hookabadar.

Art thou a Buddhist, or dost thou indeed
Put faith in the monstrous Mohammedan creed?
Art thou a Ghebir-a blinded Parsee?

Not that it matters an atom to me.

Cursetjee Bomanjee!

Twang the guitar

Join in the chorus, my hookabadar.

Henry S. Leigh.

AN UNSUSPECTED FACT

IF down his throat a man should choose
In fun, to jump or slide,

He'd scrape his shoes against his teeth,
Nor dirt his own inside.

But if his teeth were lost and gone,
And not a stump to scrape upon,
He'd see at once how very pat

His tongue lay there by way of mat,
And he would wipe his feet on that!

Edward Cannon.

THE CUMBERBUNCE

I STROLLED beside the shining sea,
I was as lonely as could be;

No one to cheer me in my walk

But stones and sand, which cannot talk-
Sand and stones and bits of shell,

Which never have a thing to tell.