Boiling and bored, no fight, no fun, Onward the M. P. goes. Each day sees aimless jaw begun, No night beholds its close. Little attempted, nothing done-- No work and no repose! _Punch_, March 24, 1883. * * * * * THE VILLAGE PAX. (_With Deprecatory Acknowledgments to Longfellow._) ["A PEACEFUL PARISH.--It is worthy of remark that in a parish near Blandford a petition in favour of peace has been signed by every grown-up man and woman, with the exception of one farmer."--_Times._] Under the spreading olive tree The peaceful village stands, It's known for its tranquillitee Throughout the neighbouring lands; And it drinks but very weak Bohea, Nor smokes the mildest brands. Its hair is smooth, its patience long, Its biceps, when you span, You find they're more like dimples; and You may hit them where you can, And come off cheap with easy fame, For it fights not any man. Week in, week out, from morn till night, You can hear the humming low Of dogs who like to bark and bite Because their nature's so; And their cocks they're all put out of sight, For the bullies used to crow! Preaching, protesting, sorrowing, Because of Eastern foes, Each morning sees that village dawn, Each evening sees it doze, O'er asses' milk and ginger-beer, And Peter Taylor's prose. Thanks, thanks, to you, O happy vale! It is a cheering thought That somewhere waits a blessed spot For one by yells distraught, Where bray of Jingoes reaches not, And Drummond-Wolff is nought. * * * * * THE VILLAGE WOODMAN. (_With apologies to Mr. Longfellow._) Under a spreading chestnut tree The busy Gladstone stands; Ever this restless W. G. Has something on his hands. O'er field or meadow, park or farm, O'er clay or gravelly lands, He takes the sharpened axe in hand With tree-destroying plan; His brow is wet with woodman's sweat, He fells whate'er he can, And looks the proud tree in the face, And cleaves it like a man. Week in, week out, from morn to night, You can hear his hatchet's blow; You can see him swing his heavy axe, Resolved that tree shall go, Like a workman labouring for his pay When his funds are very low; And tourists, wandering o'er the fields, Look aghast at this woodman bold; They shudder at the flashing axe, And mark the upturned mould; They see by the scattered chips that fly That the woodman's strong though old.