New Collected Rhymes

Of Scott’s or Ainsworth’s “venison pasty,”
In cups of old Canary drowned,
(Which probably was very nasty).
The beefsteak pudding made by Ruth
To cheer Tom Pinch in his affliction,
Ah me, in all the world of truth,
There’s nothing like the food of fiction!

The cakes and ham and buttered toast
That graced the board of Gabriel Varden,
In Bracebridge Hall the Christmas roast,
Fruits from the Goblin Market Garden.
And if you’d eat of luscious sweets
And yet escape from gout’s infliction,
Just read “St. Agnes’ Eve” by Keats —
There’s nothing like the food of fiction.

What cups of tea were ever brewed
Like Sairey Gamp’s – the dear old sinner?
What savoury mess was ever stewed
Like that for Short’s and Codlin’s dinner?
What was the flavour of that “poy” —
To use the Fotheringay’s own diction —
Pendennis ate, the love-sick boy?
There’s nothing like the food of fiction.

Prince, you are young – but you will find
After life’s years of fret and friction,
That hunger wanes – but never mind!
There’s nothing like the food of fiction.

“A Highly Valuable chain of Thoughts.”

Had cigarettes no ashes,
And roses ne’er a thorn,
No man would be a funker
Of whin, or burn, or bunker.
There were no need for mashies,
The turf would ne’er be torn,
Had cigarettes no ashes,
And roses ne’er a thorn.

Had cigarettes no ashes,
And roses ne’er a thorn,
The big trout would not ever
Escape into the river.
No gut the salmon smashes
Would leave us all forlorn,
Had cigarettes no ashes,
And roses ne’er a thorn.

But ’tis an unideal,
Sad world in which we’re born,
And things will “go contrairy”
With Martin and with Mary:
And every day the real
Comes bleakly in with morn,
And cigarettes have ashes,
And every rose a thorn.

Matrimony

(Matrimony – Advertiser would like to hear from well-educated Protestant lady, under thirty, fair, with view to above, who would have no objection to work Remington type-writer, at home. Enclose photo. T. 99. This Office. Cork newspaper.)

T. 99 would gladly hear
From one whose years are few,
A maid whose doctrines are severe,
Of Presbyterian blue,
Also – with view to the above —
Her photo he would see,
And trusts that she may live and love
His Protestant to be!
But ere the sacred rites are done
(And by no Priest of Rome)
He’d ask, if she a Remington
Type-writer works – at home?

If she have no objections to
This task, and if her hair —
In keeping with her eyes of blue —
Be delicately fair,
Ah, then, let her a photo send
Of all her charms divine,
To him who rests her faithful friend,
Her own T. 99.

Piscatori Piscator

In Memory of Thomas Tod Stoddart

An angler to an angler here,
To one who longed not for the bays,
I bring a little gift and dear,
A line of love, a word of praise,
A common memory of the ways,
By Elibank and Yair that lead;
Of all the burns, from all the braes,
That yield their tribute to the Tweed.

His boyhood found the waters clean,