The sage replied, Alas, my son, I light the lamps by day―― The hermit’s work, at evening done, Brings me no extra pay. And get you cheese alone to eat, I asked the good old man. Sometimes, he said, I buy a treat From baked potato can. The luxury sometimes I bring With butter――a small lump, With water from the crystal spring That rises ’neath our pump. Father, I cried, your tale is long, You tire my patience quite; I’m off to hear the comic song, Lull-li-e-tee, good night, GILBERT A. A’BECKETT. From _George Cruikshank’s Table Book_, 1845. ――――:o:―――― In Scribner’s Magazine for 1881 appeared a set of variations on “Home, Sweet Home,” treated in the different styles of Swinburne, Bret Harte, Austin Dobson, Walt Whitman and Oliver Goldsmith. This amusing contribution has since been included by its Author, Mr. H. C. Bunner, in his pretty little Volume, entitled “Airs from Arcady and elsewhere,” published by Mr. C. Hutt. HOME, SWEET HOME. (As it might have been constructed in 1744. Oliver Goldsmith, at 19, writing the first stanza, and Alexander Pope, at 52, the second.) Home! at the word, what blissful visions rise: Lift us from earth, and draw us toward the skies! ’Mid mirag’d towers, or meretricious joys Although we roam, one thought the mind employs: Or lowly hut, good friend, or loftiest dome, Earth knows no spot so holy as our Home. There, where affection warms the father’s breast. There is the spot of heav’n most surely blest: Howe’er we search, though wandering with the wind Through frigid Zembla, or the heats of Ind, Not elsewhere may we seek, nor elsewhere know, The light of heav’n upon our dark below. When from our dearest hope and haven reft, Delight nor dazzles nor is luxury left, We long, obedient to our nature’s law, To see again our hovel thatched with straw: See birds that know our avenaceous store Stoop to our hand, and thence repleted soar: But, of all hopes the wanderer’s soul that share, His pristine peace of mind’s his final prayer. From _Scribner’s Monthly_, May, 1881. ――――:o:―――― A BRAND-NEW SONG, (After Goldsmith.) (_On the Speaker of the House of Commons, Sir H. B. W. Brand, having his pocket picked of his watch at the Folly Theatre._) When a grave Speaker stoops to Folly, And finds with tickers roughs make way, What charm can soothe his melancholy―― Can _Laughing gas_ his loss repay? The only way to hide vexation, To shield himself from pungent chaff, Save dignity of House and nation, And keep his temper, is――to laugh. _Punch_, May 5, 1877.