5. Pledge me a draught of the Pepsine Wine To comfort thy spirit sore, To-morrow you’ll play a knife and fork As you never have played before 6. Hey nonny, nonny, Champagne is bonny, At summer pic-nic or wedding feast; But more for your weal, Is Citrate of Steel, Effervescing like German Yeast! 7. On an Iron Age we fall―― Iron steeds, and Iron rail, Iron ships and, worst of all, Iron drinks instead of Ale! 8. Life is cruel, false, and cold, Steel thy heart against the scorner, Steel it with the Tincture sold At the Chemist’s round the corner! 9. Iron drops such conquerors be Over death, that hoary croaker, That you’ll quite immortal be When you’ve swallowed all your porter. _Will-o-the-Wisp._ July 10, 1869. ―――― THE RINKER’S SONG. Rink to me only with thine ice, And I will sledge with mine; Or heave a hiss but inly up, And I’ll not look for whine. The thirst that from a sole doth rise, Doth ask a rink divine, But might I on Jove’s necktie slip, I would not change for thine. I went to thee, late, a rosy youth, Not so much honoring thee As in the hope that, taking care, I should not “Spiller’d” be. But thou me send’st, in groanly truth, Plump on back, ah me! Since when my “ditto” suit I swear, Smells asphaltely of thee! _The Figaro._ June 10, 1876. ―――― THE LANGUAGE OF LOVE. Talk to me only with thine eyes, And I will hear with mine; Turn hither all the light that lies In those twin orbs of thine. I shall not miss an H or two, Nor find as many slips Of grammar as I daily do From these bewitching lips. In such a deep impassioned glance Could any eye suspect A double negative, perchance;―― Which never ain’t correct. Could any dazzled gaze descry, In stars thus blue and bright, A tendency to say, “Says I;”―― Which, I says, can’t be right. Nay, Love and Prosody combined Sit smiling evermore. Within those eyes that speak a mind Above grammatic lore. Those lips may err――they often do; But why should that surprise? My love has nothing of the Blue About her but her eyes. From _A Town Garland_. By HENRY S. LEIGH. (Chatto and Windus. London, 1878.) ―――― PHILLIS IS MY ONLY JOY.