Part 7

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, His age deplored them, foul with dye; But purple hills, and copses green, And these old towers he wandered by, Still to the simple strains reply Of his pure unrepining reed, Who lies where he was fain to lie, Like Scott, within the sound of Tweed.

The Contented Angler.

THE Angler hath a jolly life Who by the rail runs down, And leaves his business and his wife, And all the din of town. The wind down stream is blowing straight, And nowhere cast can he: Then lo, he doth but sit and wait In kindly company.

The miller turns the water off, Or folk be cutting weed, While he doth at misfortune scoff, From every trouble freed. Or else he waiteth for a rise, And ne’er a rise may see; For why, there are not any flies To bear him company.

Or, if he mark a rising trout, He straightway is caught up, And then he takes his flasket out, And drinks a rousing cup. Or if a trout he chance to hook, Weeded and broke is he, And then he finds a godly book Instructive company.

Off My Game.

“I’M of my game,” the golfer said, And shook his locks in woe; “My putter never lays me dead, My drives will never go; Howe’er I swing, howe’er I stand, Results are still the same, I’m in the burn, I’m in the sand— I’m off my game!

“Oh, would that such mishaps might fall On Laidlay or Macfie, That they might toe or heel the ball, And sclaff along like me! Men hurry from me in the street, And execrate my name, Old partners shun me when we meet— I’m off my game!

“Why is it that I play at all? Let memory remind me How once I smote upon my ball, And bunkered it—behind me. I mostly slice into the whins, And my excuse is lame— It cannot cover half my sins— I’m off my game!

“I hate the sight of all my set, I grow morose as Byron; I never loved a brassey yet, And now I hate an iron. My cleek seems merely made to top, My putting’s wild or tame; It’s really time for me to stop— I’m off my game!”

The Property of a Gentleman who has given up Collecting.

OH blessed be the cart that takes Away my books, my curse, my clog, Blessed the auctioneer who makes Their inefficient catalogue.

Blessed the purchasers who pay However little—less were fit— Blessed the rooms, the rainy day, The knock-out and the end of it.

For I am weary of the sport, That seemed a while agone so sweet, Of Elzevirs an inch too short, And First Editions—incomplete.

Weary of crests and coats of arms, “Attributed to Padeloup” The sham Deromes have lost their charms, The things Le Gascon did not do.

I never read the catalogues Of rubbish that come thick as rooks, But most I loathe the dreary dogs That write in prose, or worse, on books.

Large paper surely cannot hide Their grammar, nor excuse their rhyme, The anecdotes that they provide Are older than the dawn of time.

Ye bores, of every shape and size, Who make a tedium of delight, Good-bye, the last of my good-byes. Good night, to all your clan good night!

* * * *

Thus in a sullen fit we swore, But on mature reflection, Went on collecting more and more, And kept our old collection!