Each morn his matutinal meal he’d eat, And then be seen both out of breath and hot, Rushing with eager steps along the street To meet his comrades at the much-loved spot. Then with his skates upon his feet fast strapp’d He’d rink and rink through all the livelong day; Now seemingly in meditation wrapp’d, Now urged by eager thoughts and fancies gay. At first some figure would he deftly trace, Anon the wide-spread eagle would essay, Then madly rush round and around the place, Or in the outside edge his skill display. One morn I miss’d him from his fav’rite spot (The night before he fell and seemed in pain); Another’ morn, but with it he was not, Alas! alas! he never came again. His comrades sore lamented him I fear, For some at least upon his skill did dote, And having dropped a sympathetic tear, This was the epitaph they calmly wrote. THE EPITAPH. Here rests from skating, by his much loved ground, A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown Science and Learning on him grimly frown’d And Rinking only mark’d him for her own. His birth was simple, and his ending sad, His understanding and his means were small; He gave to rinking all the cash he had, And gain’d, his friends said “Serve him right,” a fall. No father had he to direct his course, Nor e’en from such a dismal fate to save, For skaters own with pensive face, perforce, The paths of rinking lead but to the grave. From _Idyls of the Rink_, by A. W. Mackenzie. Second Edition. London. Hardwicke and Bogue, 1877. ――――:o:―――― CREMORNE: AN ELEGY. [_An application being made for the renewal of the license, it was stated that the proprietor had decided to have the ground built on. The counsel then said nothing remained but to put up a tombstone, and write the epitaph of Cremorne Gardens._] The builder tolls the knell of Cremorne’s day The navvy’s spade uproots each flower and tree, Dumb waiters from their tables slink away, And leave the spot to darkness and to me. Now fades the glittering rocket from the sight, And every nook a solemn stillness holds, Save where the hodman climbs the scaffold’s height, Or tinkling trowel the dabby mortar moulds. The waltz and galop on the breezes borne From orchestra with blazing lamps o’erhead, The cornet, fiddle, flute, and echoing horn No more will keep the Cockney from his bed. For him no more will sparkling firework burn, Or busy waiter ply his evening care, No acrobat a somersault will turn, Or from the _trapeze_ leap into the air. Let not North Woolwich mock while they despoil Cremorne’s quaint temples, grots, and glades obscure, Some day the builder, with disdainful smile, Will, too, its leafy avenues secure.