Forth from that glorified Guildhall A griffin reeled with easy sprawl; Through mire and midnight, floundering west He hooted, like a brute possessed―― “One blunder more!” “Halt!” cried the watchmen of St. Bride, As hastily they edged aside. “Try Scotland Yard!” a small boy said; The answer came, from far ahead―― “One blunder more!” A pilgrim, under Street’s new clock, Beheld him climb the Temple block, A chuckle through the darkness passed―― “This blessed night we’ve crowned at last “One blunder more!” And when the morn broke, soft and fair, Lifeless he stood, erect in air; A stark and startling beast of brass, Completing, in the Fleet-street pass One blunder more! GLEN JUNE. ―――――――― THE COUNTRY FAIR. Night was fast falling o’er the scene, As through the crowd on village green, There passed a youth, who once or twice Said, as he stopped to eat an ice, Excelsior! “Climb not the pole,” an old man said, “The grease will spoil your trousers, Ned;” With upward glance the youth replied, “The mutton at the top is tied.” Excelsior! “O stay,” a maiden said, and sighed, “And take me for a donkey ride;” He grasped the pole, and in reply, He softly murmured with a sigh, Excelsior “Beware!” a withered crone cried out, “Take care, take care what you’re about:” Far up the pole they heard him pant, As though his breath was rather scant, Excelsior! Just as he neared the prize he stopped, Then quick as falling star he dropped, He laid upon the ground and groaned, Yet still in feeble accents moaned, Excelsior! MINNIE MUM. ―――――――― “Wheeling Annual” for 1885 contains many excellent parodies, relating principally, of course, to the joys and troubles of bicyclists. WHAT ROADS! At a recent sessions of the Uxbridge Court a gentleman pleaded guilty to riding on the footpath with a bi., and excused himself on the ground that the roads were very muddy. P.C. X. 20. proved the case, and a fine of 5s. was imposed.――_Uxbridge Gazette._ The shades of night were falling fast, As thro’ a local village pass’d A youth, who rode a Rudge, once bright, He cried, as onward sped his flight, “What roads!” His brow was sad, the road beneath Resembled much dull Hounslow Heath, And in a voice, just tinged with ire, Cried as he still rode through the mire, “What roads!”