These are the green woods of Cliefden. The glorious oaks and the chestnuts All appertain to the Duke, whose residence stands in the distance-- Stands like a toyhouse of childhood, besprinkled all over with windows-- Stands like a pudding at Christmas, a white surface, dotted with black things. Loud from the neighbouring river, the deep voiced clamorous bargée Roars, and in accents opprobrious holloas to have the lock opened. These are the green woods of Cliefden. But where are the people who in them Laughed like a man when he lists to the breath-catching accents of Buckstone? Where are the wondrous white waistcoats, the flimsy baréges and muslins, Worn by the swells and the ladies who came here on pleasant excursions? Gone are those light-hearted people, flirtations, perhaps love--even marriage, All have had woeful effect since Mrs. Merillian's picnic; And of that great merry-making, some bottles in tinfoil enveloped, And a glove dropped by Jane Page, are the vestiges only remaining! Ye who take pleasure in picnics, and dote on excursions aquatic, Flying the smoke of the city, vexations and troubles of business, List to a joyous tradition of one which was once held at Cliefden-- List to a tale of cold chicken, champagne, bitter beer, lobster salad! EDMUND H. YATES. * * * * * TOWN AND GOWN. Brightly blazed up the fires through the long dark days of November, Glimmered the genial lamp in the wainscoted rooms of the College, Brightest of all in the rooms of De Whyskers, "the talented drinker." Thence came the festive song, and the clink of the bottles and glasses, Thence came the chorus loud, abhorred of the Dean and the Fellows. There sat De Whyskers the jolly, the drinker of curious liquors, There sat De Jones, and De Jenkyns, stroke oar of the Boniface Torpid; There too, De Brown, and De Smith, well known to the eyes of the Proctors, Heedless of numberless ticks, and the schools, and a "plough" _in futuro_, Sat by the ruddy-faced fire, and quaffed the bright vintage of Xeres. Merrily out to the night through the fogs and the mist of November Floated the breath of the weed through the fields of the dark Empyrean, Rose the melodious sounds of the "dogs" which are known as "the jolly," "Slapping" and "banging" along through that noisy and meaningless ditty. But silence! the welkin now rings (whatever the meaning of that is), A rumour of battle is heard, and the wine and the weeds are deserted. Out to the darkling High, where the cad and the commoner struggle, Out to the noise, and the din, and the crowd of the unwashed mechanics, Went forth De Whyskers the bold, brimfull of the valour of Holland, Flashed both his eyes in the dark with a gleam that was quite meteoric,