Volume 103 — THE CHÂTEAU D'"IF."

The Castle that I sing, is not The strong-hold près Marseilles, Where Monte Christo brewed his plot For DUMAS' magic tale: It's one we all inhabit oft, The residence of most, And not peculiar to the soft, Mediterranean coast. The Castle "If"—If pigs had wings, If wishes horses were, If, rather more substantial things, My Castles in the air; If balances but grew on Banks, If Brokers hated "bluff;" If Editors refrained from thanks And printed all my stuff. If holidays were not a time Beyond a chap's control, When someone else prescribes how I'm To bore my selfish soul; If bags and boxes packed themselves For one who packing loathes; If babes, expensive little elves, Were only born with clothes If Bradshaw drove me to the train! Were mal-de-mer a name! If organ-grinders ground a strain That never, never came; If oysters stuck at eighteen pence; If ladies loathed "The Stores;" If Tax-collectors had the sense To overlook my doors! If sermons stopped themselves to suit A congregation's pain; If everyone who played the flute Were sentenced to be slain; If larks with truffles sang on trees, If cooks were made in heaven; And if, at sea-side spots, the seas Shut up from nine till seven. If I might photograph the fiend Who mauls me with his lens, If supercilious barbers leaned Their heads for me to cleanse! If weather blushed to wreck my plans, If tops were never twirled; If "Ifs and ands were pots and pans,"— 'Twould be a pleasant world!