A succulent chop on the counter lay, (The Butcher said "Buy! Buy!") When a Terrier, scenting an easy prey, Observed to himself, "What a fine display!" And he cooked his eye in a sapient way-- The Butcher said "Buy! Buy!" The Terrier jumped through the open sash; (The Butcher said "Buy! Buy!") To his infinite credit--he had no cash-- Away with the chop like a lightning flash. (The Butcher, by way of a change, said "Dash!") The Terrier said "Bye! Bye!" * * * * * Tip for a Trundler. (_In the Off Season._) Cricket is over; the Summer fails: Do you feel rather out in the cold, Sir? Well have a shy at "professional bails": And the Public will cry, "Well bowled, Sir!" * * * * * A SEA-QUENCE OF SONNETS. (_Supposed to have been "written in Mid-Channel." See published Works of Alfr-d A-st-n._) I. This is the sea that great BRITANNIA rules! The waves salute their mistress. Still I see Far in our wake the white cliffs of the free. Arise, O tempest, blow, disturb these pools! Ye waves, I love you! Let the puling fools Prate as they will, but let me ever be Tossed on your foaming crests. I shout with glee. While the North wind my poet's forehead cools. O guernseyed sailors, I am of your kin: I too have in my blood the scorn of fear That faced the storm, what time th' embattled din Broke on Trafalgar, and an answering cheer From British throats proclaimed, "We win! we win!"---- Dear me, what's this? Ahem! I'm feeling queer. II. No, no, it shall not be; the poet's eye Shall yet flash fire, his heart shall never fail, Though round about him, blanching in the gale, His fellows falter----Waves, be not too high; Mere height proves nothing. Leave, oh leave me dry. Down, waves! Down, fluttering heart! Why should I quail? Here in the packet of the Royal Mail I tread the deck and do disdain to fly. But ah, what pangs are these? No, no!-- yes, yes!-- Again I say it shall not be--no, no!-- At least not yet--but yet I do confess A craven yearning draws me down below. Curst be the words in which I erst did bless The towering billows----Steward! yo, heave, ho! III. Was it for this I left the pleasant strand Of England, and the leafy country lanes, The ploughs, the cattle, and the creaking wains? Ye sounds that only poets understand, Of sheep-bells tinkling o'er a sunny land, Was it for this I left you, for the gains Of dew-sprent brow and deep internal pains, Of feeble voice and nerveless clammy hand? Never again shall ocean with his roar Attract me from the firm-built homes of men. Let others steer from shore to farthest shore, Climbing the liquid hills that now and then Break and o'erwhelm them--I shall roam no more, Once landed on old Dover Pier again. * * * * *