A fine old thing is the yard of clay, The zest of a social throng, It driveth the clouds of grief away, From the old as well as the young. The hearts may be wrung by the hand of care, Or with joyous mirth be crown’d But a lofty hope, for the spirit’s wear, In a yard of clay is found, Puffing all our cares away, A fine old thing is the yard of clay. God Bacchus hath many a trophy won, From the pipe for his glorious shrine, And till his career on the earth is done, It ever must be divine. It heeds not the frowns of the rich or poor, It beareth no factions sway, And where is a friend in the world so sure As this fine old yard of clay? Puffing, &c. The beardless boy with his meerschaum fine Or famous Principee, To fashion’s strange follies may still incline, They never will do for me. The Stoic, too, dead to our joys, may blame, And barter his peace away, But while life still throbs in this mortal frame I’ll cling to the yard of clay. Puffing, &c. Our fathers who loved the pipe, have died. Their vacant seats we find, And we cling with steadfast pride, To the faith they left behind. And when from the spot where we now appear, Our spirits are called away, May those who are sent to succeed us here, Still honour the yard of clay. Puffing all our cares away, A fine old thing is the yard of clay. ANONYMOUS. ―――― I. V. GREEN. (“I. V.” is short for John Villiam.) Oh, a rare old toper was I. V. GREEN, With his nose so fiery and bold; ’Twas redden’d by dips in the tankard, I ween, That had grown in his service old. Drunk, when he should not have been, A rare old toper was I. V. GREEN! Though I. V. GREEN he pull’d so hard, ’Twas mostly at something “short;” He was half-seas over within the bar, And yet never got into port. Sober never was he seen: A rare old toper was I. V. GREEN! He needed no bier to carry his bones, For he carried his beer in his head; And instead of a winding-sheet, he was found “Three sheets in the wind,” when dead. Dead? dead drunk is what I mean: A rare old toper was I. V. GREEN! _Judy._ April 19, 1876. ――――:o:―――― LITTLE NELL. This Song was founded upon the pathetic story in Dickens’s _Old Curiosity Shop_, the first line is:―― _They told him gently she was dead._ And the refrain is―― “_She’ll come again to-morrow._”