Slight skiffs aslant the starboard slipt, And jet-black coal-boats, stoled in state, And slender shallops, silvern tipp'd, And other craft both small and great. But we nor changed to skiff or barge, Or slender shallops, silvern-peak'd; We knew no vessel, small or large, Was built by mortal hands, but leak'd. Beyond the blank horizon burn'd; The moon had slid below the main; About the bows we sharply turn'd, And scull'd the good ship home again. Before us gleam'd the hazy dawn; We scull'd, but ere we shockt the lea, And paid old Jack, the ship had gone Down to the bottom of the sea. Above the wreck the sad sea breaks, And many a pitying moonlight streams; And o'er the yeasty water flakes The snow-white sea-gull, sliding screams. If any goods be wash'd ashore, Or cash--if any cash be found-- To us, and not to Jack, restore: But then--you cannot; we were drowned. S. K. C. _Kottabos_ (William McGee), Dublin, 1875. * * * * * "Break, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, O sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me." * * * * * TENNYSON. It seems hard to believe that the weather was even hotter in New York during last June than it was in London during certain days of July and August. An American poet thus records his impressions:-- Hot, hot, hot, Is the blistering breath of June, And I would that my throat could utter An anti-torridness tune. O well for the Esquimau That he sits on a cake of ice! O well for the Polar bear That he looks so cool and nice! But the scorching heats pours down And blisters both head and feet! And O for a touch of vanished frost, Or the sound of some hail and sleet! * * * * * THE LAY OF THE DRENCHED ONE. (_Time_, 11.45 P.M.) Pelt, pelt, pelt, On the cold wet earth, thou Rain! While my tongue is about to utter The anger that swells in my brain. Oh, well for the waterproof'd gent, As he walks in his shiny array: Oh, well for the dandified swell, As he drives in his cabriolet. And the last lone 'bus rolls on, As full as its guard can fill; But oh for the sight of a vanish'd cab, And the sound of a wheel that's still! Pelt, pelt, pelt, On the damp, drench'd streets, O Rain; But the tender bloom of a dress-coat spoilt Will never return again. JOHN COLLETT. "But, says the _Sporting Times_, Calcutta is a rough place for a 'stony-broke,' for there is no comfortable workhouse for Europeans, such as would remind one of Tennyson's well-known 'Workhouse Song.'"-- "Break, break, break, All these cursed stones I see, For that is the task they've set me, And _I wish that I wasn't me_."