A wonderful joy our eyes to bless, In his magnificent happiness, Is the working-man of whom I sing, Who fares more royally than a king. Seeing his "board" Sir EDWIN'S floored-- _Hors d'[oe]uvres_, soup, fish, _entrée_, joint, game, ices. _Ab ovo_ nothing has been ignored _Usque ad malum_, not minding prices. AUGUSTUS might have hurt his sight Reading with only a lamp or taper; The working-man's electric light Glows on immaculate daily paper. Go search in MOMMSEN'S history, Then come you home and sing with me-- No life of emperor could, or can, Be bright as that of the working-man! "Machinery turns his toil to art." BURNE-JONES and MORRIS at this would start. Though the "Arts and Crafts" be with horror dumb, A Birmingham Parthenon yet may come! The School Board's pains mature his brains, Masses beat classes--he'll soon annul us. Never went--as he goes--in trains HELIOGABALUS or LUCULLUS. He, should he care, can daily stare At statues draped by dear Mrs. GRUNDY, And ride in trams for a halfpenny fare, And "wire" for sixpence, except on Sunday. His letters traverse the ocean wave. _Note._--If a penny you fail to save, To HENNIKER-HEATON please apply, And he will discover the reason why. Rich in the things contentment brings, In every pure enjoyment wealthy, But is he as gay as the poet sings, In body and mind as hale and healthy? In silence adept, he has certainly kept So extremely quiet we should not know it. Yet he "as authorities mayn't accept" Such blooming blokes as an Eastern poet. * * * * * OH WHAT A SIR PRYCE!--Sir PRYCE PRYCE-JONES, M.P. for the Montgomery Boroughs, has received a testimonial from his constituents. That is to say, because he has been a nice-PRYCE-JONES they have made him a prize-PRYCE-JONES. Bravo, Sir TWICE-PRYCE-JONES! * * * * * SUGGESTION TO PROVINCIAL LAWN-TENNIS CLUB.--Why not give Lawn-Tennis Balls in Costume during the winter? * * * * * QUOTH DUNRAVEN, NEVERMORE! There's many a slip 'twixt "cup" and lip! Is there not, good DUNRAVEN? You'll take your Transatlantic trip Like sportsman, not like craven. The "centre-board" against the keel Has won. On woe we sup, Sir! As in old nursery rhyme we feel "The 'dish' ran away with the--cup," Sir! The Valkyries, those valiant dames, Success might sure have wished us; But the _Vigilant_, our yacht-builders shames. The "Yankee Dish" has--dished us! * * * * * TO "HANS BREITMANN." [Mr. C. G. LELAND, in his recently-published _Memoirs_, informs us of his very early appreciation of the formula, "I am I--I am myself--I myself I."]