BYGONES.

The midsummer twilight is dying, The golden is turning to gray, And my troublesome thoughts are a-flying To the days that have vanished away, When life had no crosses for me, love, But Proctors and bulldogs and dons, And I used to write sonnets to thee, love, In the dreamy old garden of John's. By Jove! What a time we just had, love, That week you were up for Commem.! The dances and picnics—egad, love, How strange to be thinking of them! How we laughed at the dusty old doctors, And the Vice with his gorgeous gold gown, And you thought it a shame that the Proctors Were constantly sending me down. We danced and we dined and we boated, Did the lions all quite comme il faut, And I felt a strange thrill when you voted Old Johnnie's the best of the show. I remember your eager delight, love, With our garden and chapel and hall— And oh, for that glorious night, love, When we went to the Balliol ball! There is very poor pleasure in dancing In a stuffy hot ball-room in June— And the Balliol lawn looked entrancing In the silvery light of the moon. I fancy the thought had occurred, love, To somebody else besides me, For I managed, with scarcely a word, love, To get you to smile and agree. We sat on the Balliol lawn, love, And the hours flew as fast as you please, Till the rosy-tipped fingers of dawn, love, Crept over the Trinity trees. A stranger might say he had never Heard trash in a vapider key; But no conversation has ever Been half so delicious to me. I seemed to be walking on air, love; And oh, how I quivered when you Snipped off a wee lock of your hair, love, And said you were fond of me too. I clasped it again and again, love, To my breast with a passionate vow. There ever since it has lain, love, And there it is lying just now. —But my heart gives a horrible thump, love, I find myself gasping for air, For my throat is choked up with a lump, love, Which surely should never be there. And I sadly bethink me that life, love, Won't always run just as we will— For you are another man's wife, love, And I am a bachelor still.

Common (Gas) Metre. "Light metres" there are many, The lightest of the lot Is what is called "the Penny-in-the-Slot!"

EMBARRAS DE RICHESSES. ["The Bank Return shows considerable additions to the reserve and the stock of bullion."—"Times," on "Money Market."] Richer Old Lady you'll not meet, Than this one, of Threadneedle Street. Nicer Old Lady none, nor neater, But, like the boy in Struwwelpeter, That whilom chubby, ruddy lad, The dear old dame looks sour and sad; Nay, long time hath she seemed dejected, And her once fancied fare rejected. She screams out—"Take the gold away! Oh, take the nasty stuff away! I won't have any gold to-day." This Dame, like Danaë of old Has long been wooed in showers of gold, By Jupiters of high finance; But, sick of that cold sustenance, Or surfeited, or cross, or ill, The dear Old Lady cries out still— "Not any gold for me, I say! Oh, take the nasty stuff away!! I won't have any more to-day!!!" And on my word it is small wonder, For in her spacious house, and under, Of bullion she hath boundless store, And scarcely can find room for more. Filled every pocket, purse, safe, coffer, And still the crowds crush round and offer Their useless, troublesome deposits, To cram her cupboards, choke her closets. What marvel then that she should say— "Oh, take the nasty stuff away! I won't have any more to-day!!" The poor Old Lady once felt pride as A sort of modern Mrs. Midas; For all she touches turns to gold Within her all-embracing hold; Gold solid as the golden leg Of opulent Miss Kilmansegge, But, like that lady, poor-rich, luckless, She values now the yellow muck less, Though once scraped up with assiduity, Because of its sheer superfluity. It blocks her way, it checks the breath of her; She dreads lest it should be the death of her. With bullion she could build a Babel, So screams, as loud as she is able,— "Not any more, good friends, I say! For goodness gracious go away!! I won't take any more to day!!!" They beg, they pray, they strive to wheedle The Old Lady of the Street Threadneedle. The cry is still they come! they come! Men worth a "million" or a "plum," The "goblin," or the "merry monk"; Constantly chinketh, chink-chank-chunk! In "Gladstone" or in canvas bag; But sourly she doth eye the "swag," Peevishly gathers round her skirt, As though the gold were yellow dirt. Crying, "Oh, get away now, do! I'm really getting sick of you. The proffered 'stuff' I must refuse; I have far more than I can use. I've no more need or wish for money Than a surfeited bee for honey. Money's a drug, a nauseous dose. At cash the Market cocks its nose. 'Tis useless as the buried talent, Or the half-crown to a poor pal lent; As gilded oats to hungry nag. Away with bulging purse and bag! They are a bother and a pest. I will not store, I can't invest. With your 'old stocking' be content, I can't afford you One per Cent. Bullion's a burden and a bore. I cannot do with any more! Not any more for me, I say Oh, take the nasty stuff away I won't have any gold to-day!!!"

THE NEW AIR. (To an Old Tune.) O Rayleigh now, this raelly strange is This New Nitrogen! Air that into water changes Seem not new to men, (All our atmosphere this summer Has been "heavy wet,") But sheer solid air seems rummer, More Munchausenish yet! New things now are awfully common; And it seems but fair, With New Humour, Art, and Woman, We should have New Air. "Lazy air," one calls it gaily; Seasonable, very! Will it quiet us, dear Rayleigh, Soothe us, make us merry? Still the flurry, cool the fever, Calm the nervous stress? If it be so, you for ever Punch will praise and bless. Will the New Air set—oh! grand Sir!— Life to a new tune? Lead us to a Lotos-Land, Sir, Always afternoon? One per cent. seems rather little! Can't you make it more? When 'tis solid is it brittle? Liquid, does it pour? Rayleigh? No? You don't say so! What lots of funny things you know!