An exile from home is both cruel and vain, So give us our coveted “Home Rule” again, With a Parliament pledged to destroy British thrall; And Charles Stewart Parnell as king over all, Home Rule, rule at home! &c. ROGGEE SHURT. ―――― When worries and creditors force you to groan, For safety and freedom there’s nought like Boulogne, In vain will bum-bailiffs or writs seek you there, Very short is the distance, very cheap is the fare. Boulogne! oh, Boulogne! There’s nought like Boulogne, there’s nought like Boulogne. I can laugh at all duns, bailiffs threaten in vain, By Jove! they shan’t catch me on their side again. By my wits I can manage to keep up the ball, To be lagged for contempt would not suit me at all. Boulogne! oh, Boulogne, &c. NUTSHELL. ―――― ROME, SWEET ROME. ’Mid Ritualistic clergy, though we may roam, Be they ever so High Church, there’s no place like Rome; No Forty-nine articles harass one there, No Penzance to rule what a parson must wear. Rome, Rome! Sweet, sweet Rome! There’s no place like Rome! There’s no place like Rome! A concert from Rome, livings dazzle in vain, Oh, give me my stole and my incense again; The maids sighing daily who came to my call, The piece of mind then that I gave to them all. Rome, Rome! Sweet, sweet Rome! CLERICUS. ―――― A NEW VERSION OF AN OLD SONG. “She had a voice like a siren, and when she sang:―― “Mid play sure, sand pal aces, thoug heam a Rome, Be it averse, oh! wum bull there, snow play sly comb, H, arm from thesk eyeseam stew wallow a sheer, Whitch seek through the whirl disneerm et twithel swear!” ――――there wasn’t a dry eye in the Tabernacle; but if the programme hadn’t said, in clear, unmistakable print, that she was going to sing “Home, Sweet Home,” a man might have thought his teeth loose without ever guessing it.” _American Paper._ ―――― DRINK TO ME ONLY WITH THINE EYES. (From “The Forest,” by Ben Jonson, born 1574, died 1637.) Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup, And I’ll not look for wine. The thirst that from my soul doth rise, Doth ask a drink divine: But might I of Jove’s nectar sup, I would not change for thine.