Home, home, sweet home, Be it ever so quiet, There’s no place like home! But parties perpetual now are my lot. I’ve a home,――but I never enjoy it one jot; It is only a place where I put on white ties―― Whence I drive with my wife in our nightly-jobbed flies. Home, home, sweet home, Be it ever so humdrum, There’s no place like home! O woe to the morning when, foolishly vain, I gazed on my wife in the shopkeeper’s pane; It was only a _carte_――but with anger I foam When I think how it’s carted us both from our home. Home, home, sweet home, Be it ever so “homey” There’s no place like home! _Truth Christmas Number_, 1882. ―――― THE WEEKLY DISPATCH. (PRIZE PARODY. January 28, 1883.) ’Mid hardships and hovels Though we may roam, From Dan to Beersheba, There’s no place like home. A fiend from below Seems to worry us there, Which, search through the world, Is not met elsewhere. Home, home! vile, vile home! There’s no place like home; There’s no place like home. How hateful the squalling Of children and wife! While doctors and duns Make a limbo of life. Of all human dwellings Beneath heaven’s dome, Be they ever so shocking, There’s no place like home. Home, home! vile, vile home! There’s no place like home; There’s no place like home. DAVID REID. ―――― “PLACE, SWEET PLACE.” (Sung by an Old Whip). Though clubdoms’s fair palaces Welcome my face, I cannot but grumble There’s nothing like place. A chance may arise For a fellow who’s there, But he’ll travel the world Ere he meets it elsewhere. An exile from “place,” Fashion dazzles in vain, Oh, give me my showy Appointment again! With members who tremble And come at my call, Give me this――or a pension, More valued than all! EXE. ―――― THE BARRISTER’S LAMENT ON LEAVING THE OLD COURTS, AND GOING INTO THE NEW COURTS. ’Mid new courts and chambers, Where’er I may roam, There no place familiar―― I don’t feel at home. A shade from the old hall Has followed me here, As a friend that’s departed, Whose mem’ry is dear.