'How prettily my nose he licks! '(I'm speaking of the dog) and pricks 'His ears and barks, while as for tricks 'He never seems to tire, man! 'He'll balance sugar on his snout----' From burning windows came a shout; Her husband suddenly leaned out And thus addressed the fireman: 'You've seen the sort of wife I cherish; 'Then be humane and--let me perish!' ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF BOSTON SCHOOL (_With apologies to Thomas Gray_) [Lord Tankerville was reported to have removed his son from Eton and sent him to school at Boston, U.S.A., where he would be known as Charles Bennet and be free from 'the kowtowing of a sycophantic crowd of pseudo-aristocrats who lick the boots of our young noblemen' at English schools!] Ye modern spires, ye fireproof floors, Of Boston's boarding-school, Each grateful scion still adores Your Hiram's homely rule; For here no boy would ever brag That he employed a ducal 'fag,' His 'brolly' for to furl, Or sent a Baronet 'up town' To fetch his tea from 'Little Brown,' Or caned a belted Earl! His scorn of lords the youthful Yank Can openly display, For here, regardless of their rank, The little Viscounts play. The Earl of Byfleet's eldest son Is known as Percival T. Bunn, And joins the common scrum, As daily he delights to share With Chas. K. Grubb (Lord Woking's heir) His wad of chewing-gum! Here Reginald, Lord Swaffield's boy, Protects beneath his wing The family of Kid McCoy, The famous Doughnut King; While John, the Duke of Portsmouth's child ('Jawn' by his school-companions styled), Forgets his kith and kin, And soon begets a taste, alack! For 'highballs,' 'cocktails,' 'canvasback,' For clams and terrapin! To each his fancies! I have done. And yet, for auld lang syne, Though Boston suits another's son, Eton I'll choose for mine! And though he won't acquire a twang, Or get the hang of Yankee slang, Like others of his class, My son I'll seek to Anglicise; For, if Lord Tankerville be wise, I'd sooner be an ass! THE SPORTING SPIRIT ['The emotional surprise and the unexpected suddenness in the rise of game require great accuracy, rapidity, and nerve control, and experience is in my favour that there are some who are improved in these essentials of good shooting by a little alcohol at lunch.'--Dr. T. CLAYE SHAW in the _Times_.] It once was my habit to miss ev'ry rabbit At which I might happen to fire; I wasted each cartridge despatching some partridge To die in a neighbouring shire. By nature ungainly, I struggled, but vainly, A duck or a woodcock to kill, And cut a poor figure when pressing the trigger With far greater vigour than skill, Until, all at once, I discovered a tonic, And now (so to speak) my adroitness is chronic!