Along your Strand converging flow The social tides to Rotten Row, Beloved and shady; Old Gouty trundles with his pair, De Bootle saunters, cane in air―― I’m wondering, who’s that golden hair- ’d young lady? What fools we are!――_Le Follets’_ page Makes yellow ringlets all the rage, And willy nilly, Poor ebon poles must cut their stick And silver change its ‘plaiting’ quick, Now only ‘gold’ is picked in Pic- ――cadilly! But whether black or gold or grey Fashion declares her slaves shall say The _dernier goût_ is You bear your motley freightage well, And East and West your convoys swell―― A sort of Cockneyfied canal Of Suez! A neutral ‘cut’ where every man’s A vessel bound to pay the trans- ――it dues and duty,―― Dues stricter than e’er Lesseps took―― Love’s tribute levied on a look, And duly noted in the Book Of Beauty. * * * * * And now whilst ice enwraps you still, And snow’s on Constitution Hill―― Like some old Pharaoh, Sun shaded ’mid the fervent rays I bask away the balmy days, And write these verses to your praise In Cairo. Across the desert ridges high Long lines of camels track the sky, The pink lights flicker,―― The day has run its golden race―― The Mussulman kneels in his place―― The pilgrim turns his patient face To Mecca.… All here’s aglow with summer sun; _There_ hugs black frost his mantle dun In winter chilly: Yet could I stand on “Simla’s” deck And Westward――ere this watch’s tick Old England ho! for me, and Pic- ――cadilly! H. CHOLMONDELEY PENNELL. _Temple Bar_, January, 1876. ――――:o:―――― SONGSTERS OF THE DAY. _The Bard of Society._ There, pay it, James! ’tis cheaply earned; My conscience! how one’s cabman charges! But never mind, so I’m returned Safe to my native street of Clarges. I’ve just an hour for one cigar What style these Reinas have, and _what_ ash!), One hour to watch the evening star, With just one Curaçao-and-potash. Ah me! that face beneath the leaves And blossoms of its piquant bonnet! Who would have thought that forty thieves Of years had laid their fingers on it! Could you have managed to enchant At Lord’s to-day old lovers simple, Had Robber Time not played gallant, And spared you every youthful dimple! That robber bold, like courtier Claude, Who danced the gay coranto jesting, By your bright beauty charmed and awed, Has bowed and passed you unmolesting. No feet of many-wintered crows Have traced about your eyes a wrinkle; Your sunny hair has thawed the snows That other heads with silver sprinkle.