The cakes and ham and buttered toast That graced the board of Gabriel Varden, In Bracebridge Hall the Christmas roast, Fruits from the Goblin Market Garden. And if you’d eat of luscious sweets And yet escape from gout’s infliction, Just read “St. Agnes’ Eve” by Keats— There’s nothing like the food of fiction. What cups of tea were ever brewed Like Sairey Gamp’s—the dear old sinner? What savoury mess was ever stewed Like that for Short’s and Codlin’s dinner? What was the flavour of that “poy”— To use the Fotheringay’s own diction— Pendennis ate, the love-sick boy? There’s nothing like the food of fiction. Prince, you are young—but you will find After life’s years of fret and friction, That hunger wanes—but never mind! There’s nothing like the food of fiction. “_A Highly Valuable chain of Thoughts_.” HAD cigarettes no ashes, And roses ne’er a thorn, No man would be a funker Of whin, or burn, or bunker. There were no need for mashies, The turf would ne’er be torn, Had cigarettes no ashes, And roses ne’er a thorn. Had cigarettes no ashes, And roses ne’er a thorn, The big trout would not ever Escape into the river. No gut the salmon smashes Would leave us all forlorn, Had cigarettes no ashes, And roses ne’er a thorn. But ’tis an unideal, Sad world in which we’re born, And things will “go contrairy” With Martin and with Mary: And every day the real Comes bleakly in with morn, And cigarettes have ashes, And every rose a thorn. _Matrimony_. (Matrimony—Advertiser would like to hear from well-educated Protestant lady, under thirty, fair, with view to above, who would have no objection to work Remington type-writer, at home. Enclose photo. T. 99. This Office. Cork newspaper.) T. 99 would gladly hear From one whose years are few, A maid whose doctrines are severe, Of Presbyterian blue, Also—with view to the above— Her photo he would see, And trusts that she may live and love His Protestant to be! But ere the sacred rites are done (And by no Priest of Rome) He’d ask, if she a Remington Type-writer works—at home? If she have no objections to This task, and if her hair— In keeping with her eyes of blue— Be delicately fair, Ah, _then_, let her a photo send Of all her charms divine, To him who rests her faithful friend, Her own T. 99. _Piscatori Piscator_. IN MEMORY OF THOMAS TOD STODDART. AN angler to an angler here, To one who longed not for the bays, I bring a little gift and dear, A line of love, a word of praise, A common memory of the ways, By Elibank and Yair that lead; Of all the burns, from all the braes, That yield their tribute to the Tweed.