MIDNIGHT MUSINGS.

"Hence! avaunt!

The world is wide;

Brighter spots may soon be found; Where thy prowess can be tried

On a happier hunting-ground. Seek thy prey across the seas, In the wild Antipodes !

"Vex not thou the poet's brain;

Let him sleep and let him snore ;

Cut-but never come again;

Fly, farewell for evermore. Leave me cradled in repose, Silent, all except the nose."

Thus the bard's unsleeping lyre
Virulently vented verse.
Reader, what aroused his ire?

Was it flea, or was it worse? Gentle reader, spare your smiles; 'Twas a cat upon the tiles !

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OH, AGONY!

OY is a myth to me, mirth is a mockery;
Earth is a dungeon, and life is a chain ;
Friendship and love are as brittle as crockery;

Peace has departed and comes not again.

Long did I riot in healthful security,

Treading on roses unmixed with a thorn; Little I thought that my fate and futurity Haply might plant on my trotters a corn.

Lost are the days when my lot was a shiny one ;-
Lost from the minute I felt on my toe
Something I fancied a wart, and a tiny one,
Mildly but firmly beginning to grow.

Never again shall I feel the tranquillity

Born of a foot and a conscience at ease :

Never again don a boot with facility,

Free from a sigh and a cry and a squeeze.

OH, AGONY!

Some of my friends say I ought to put oil on it:

Others that vinegar acts as a cure.

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Vainly I've wasted my time and my toil on it ;—
Still I continue to grin and endure.
No;-in this worst of all possible maladies
Vinegar heals not, and oil is at fault.
Shall I at last have it drest as a salad is,
Adding the condiments, pepper and salt?

Daily and nightly my merciless visitor
Fills me with fury, and robs me of rest.
Never in Spain did the sternest Inquisitor
Frame such a torture as harrows my breast.
Oft, as I limp on my day's weary wanderings,
One of those little red-uniformed brutes

Brings to a stop my poetical ponderings
With a suggestion of "Polish yer boots?"

P

"A MERRY CHRISTMAS."

HE words are blithe and full of cheer;
They never pall on any hearer,
But-borne along from year to year—

From year to year sound ever dearer.

And yet we know the words are vain ;
We know the season must be merry,
When those long-severed meet again
Below the white and scarlet berry.

When small but mirth-compelling jokes
Are heard from every nook and corner ;-
When on the board Plum-Pudding smokes,
Attended by the Pie of Horner.

When kissing shall by favour go,
And Age declare it only folly
That Youth descends to mistletoe,

And lovely Woman stoops to holly.

A MERRY CHRISTMAS.

When old, and young, and middle-aged-
Three generations-all commingle;

The widowed, wedded, fresh-engaged,
And, last and least, the many single.

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Merry?"—When all around is bright? "Merry?"—Ay, marry; now or never. The churl that cannot laugh to-night May give the habit up for ever.

One week in all the fifty-two

Is little time to give to laughter; Come, join the revel, cynic, do! Although a cynic ever after.

Come, choose a seasonable strain,
To fit the jolly days before us ;

And shout we all, with might and main—
"A Merry Christmas!" is the chorus !

PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO.
EDINBURGH AND LONDON

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