There is Cricket, an old English sport, And a very good game in its way, But its votaries all must admit It is most inconvenient to play. For its players have nothing to do, Half the time that they own is so dear, And I’ve noticed, when once they are “out,” They hurry to ’baccy and beer. And Archery, Rinking, and Bowls, Your charms are displayed but in vain; No one cares the least atom for you, Or desires to taste you again; But with me folks their troubles assuage, With me they are merry and gay; Each game they enjoy more and more, And are cheered by the “rallies” they play. When driven with judgment and skill, How swiftly my balls cleave the air, And “topping the net” by an inch, Call for no little caution and care; How merrily, too, sound my cries, Though strangers can’t make out their use; My language is strange, I admit, “Fifteen, love,” “thirty, forty,” and “deuce.” When worn with the troubles of life, Or harrassed with business and care, Cast your worries at once to the wind, And straight to your Tennis repair. In every “set” that you play, There is pleasure and health to be got, And I’m the best thing in the world, To reconcile man to his lot. A. W. MACKENZIE. From _Pastime_, July 20, 1883. ―――― ON THE ANNEXATION OF NEW GUINEA BY QUEENSLAND. _Verses supposed to have been composed by the individual who annexed the Island._ I am monarch of all I survey, Where only the savage disputes My right to teach heathenish clay The graces of trousers and boots. O liberty! what are thy rules To men with the Papuan skin? Better bless them with churches and schools, And plenty of powder and gin! I am out of a Parliament’s reach, And far from Gladstonian blame; No fear that a Radical speech Will spoil our Colonial game. The Papuans don’t care a straw If we claim all their acres in fee―― They are so unacquainted with law, Their darkness is shocking to me! With railways, and taxes, and gaols, In store for this fortunate land, That native is mad who assails Such blessings so graciously planned. But his sorrows we soon shall assuage With this cheerfully practical test; “To till your own soil for a wage Is the pleasure of being annexed!” __Truth._ April 26, 1883. ―――― A SOLITARY SOLILOQUY BY A DISGUSTED DANDY. I. I snoozle or snore all the day, I loll in my silk smoking suit, Yet, I’m drowsy and tired as can be, And feel like a regular brute; Oh! Solitude! where are your calms My head’s going round such a pace, All limp are my legs and my arms And I hardly dare look at my face. II.