RAILWAY RHYMES.

When books are pow'rless to beguile And papers only stir my bile, For solace and relief I flee To Bradshaw or the A. B. C., And find the best of recreations In studying the names of stations. There is not much among the A's To prompt enthusiastic praise, But B is infinitely better, And there are gems in ev'ry letter. The only fault I have with Barnack Is that it rhymes with Dr. Harnack; Barbon, Beluncle Halt, Bodorgan Resound like chords upon the organ, And there's a spirit blithe and merry In Evercreech and Egloskerry. Park Drain and Counter Drain, I'm sure, Are hygienically pure, But when æsthetically viewed They seem to me a little crude. I often long to visit Frant, Hose, Little Kimble and Lelant; And, if I had sufficient dollars, Sibley's (for Chickney) and Neen Sollars; Shustoke and Smeeth my soul arride And likewise Sholing, Sole Street, Shide, But I'm afraid my speech might go Awry on reaching Spooner Row. In serious mood I often bend My thoughts to Ponder and his End, And when I'm feeling dull and down The very name of Tibshelf Town Rejoices me, while Par and Praze And Pylle and Quy promote amaze. Of all the Straths, a numerous host, Strathbungo pleases me the most, While I can court reluctant slumber By murmuring thy name, Stogumber. Were I beginning life anew From Swadlincote I'd take my cue, But shun as I would shun the scurvy The perilous atmosphere of Turvey. But though the tuneful name of Horbling Incites to further doggerel warbling, And Gallions, Goonbell, Gamlingay Are each deserving of a lay, No railway bard is worth his salt Who cannot bear to call a "Halt."