THE COMPLIMENTS OF THE SEASON

THREE CHRISTMAS GREETINGS. Before the fireside's ruddy glow I sit, and let my thoughts fly free; Lo, these my Christmas greetings go To three good friends beyond the sea. Vain is the winter tempest's wrack, It cannot keep my greetings back. Oh wind and rain, and rain and wind, How purposeless and blind ye are, Like fate, for fate was surely blind That bade my three friends range afar. Like mine, perchance, their fancy strays To other scenes and distant days. Dear Frank, I think I see you now, My flaxen-haired American, Brave heart, grey eye, unclouded brow, Two stalwart yards of wilful man, How oft in laughter and in song With you I sped the hours along. Ah me, the days were all too short, Too swift the unreturning hours In that old town of Hall and court, Of ancient gateways flanked with towers, Where once we feared the near exam... And dared the dons, and stirred the Cam. You went, and now expound the law (As Bumble said, the law's a hass) And argue, as I note with awe, For litigants in Boston, Mass.; And, though you wear no warlike suit, They call you "General" to boot. And, Fred, how fares it now with you In that drear country of the North? Too great your needs, your means too few, A whim of temper drove you forth. On far Vancouver's shore, alone You hear the sad Pacific moan. With us, God wot, you little throve; Your life all fire, and storm, and fret, Against relentless fate you strove, But strove in vain—and yet, and yet God shapes in storm and fire his plan, And moulds a world or makes a man. Good luck be yours on that bleak shore, Some fortunate, some golden prize; Then be it mine to see once more Those friendly, lustrous, Irish eyes. Return and face with us your fate, The world is small and England great. You shall return and fill your place, But never shall I clasp his hand, Whose bright and smiling boyish face Makes sunshine in the shadowland. Yet shall the night my heart beguile, And let me dream I see him smile. Your voice I may not hear again, Oh dear and unforgotten friend, Beloved, but ah! beloved in vain, Whom love could mourn, but not defend. Still take, though far and lost you dwell, My love, dear Hugh, and so farewell. And thus before the fireside's glow I sit and let my thoughts fly free; Lo, these my Christmas greetings go To three good friends beyond the sea; To Frank, to Fred, and ah, to you, Beloved, irrevocable Hugh.

MR. PUNCH'S CHRISTMAS BOXES. To Japan.—A piece of china. To China.—A japanned hot-water can. To Russia.—A slice of turkey. To Turkey.—A russia bag. To the French Republic.—A napoleon or a louis. To Hawaii.—A sovereign. To the King of Spain.—Half a sovereign. To Don Carlos.—A crown. To King Milan.—Half a crown. To the German Emperor.—A few notes, and a good mark (for attention to harmony). To Mr. Labouchere.—An antique noble.

TO PHILADELPHIA. To Resolve his Doubt. I have no passion to bestow, My heart no more can beat Like the caged bird that to and fro Flutters your hand to greet. In a sad peace no raptures stir My twilight years have set, Embalming but in bitter myrrh All I cannot forget. When hope is dead, and sweet desire And love's brief April rains, Only the spirit to inquire Unconquered still remains. 'Tis that that bows my soul; although I'm prostrate at your feet, Only because I want to know— That's why I ask you, sweet!

A DOG ON HIS DAY. (A Pitiful Epistle from Pongo to Mr. Punch at Christmastide.) Every dog has his day—so they say,— And mine it seems comes round once a year. When all the painter fellows mix their blacks and browns and yellows, And paint me, in some attitude that's queer, And unnatural, and silly; spilling milk or supping skilly; With a bonnet or a bib on, or tied up in bows of ribbon! Oh, the Dogs' "Decline and Fall" might inspire a doggish Gibbon! And they make me most unhappy, and my temper sharp and snappy, Do these pictures poor and pappy. I'm a decent doggish chappie, But in gaudy Christmas Numbers, watching o'er the sloppy slumbers Of a baby pink and podgy; or squatting scared and stodgy, Like a noodle of a poodle—oh! its really wretched foodle!— At a beetle or a frog staring wildly, in a fog, Or lapping baby's custard, or refusing baby's mustard, Or dress'd up like a guy, or winking t'other eye, In a gown, trimmed with down, like a clown, Or coquetting with a cat, Or chasing that old rat Down that everlasting hole in the stable! On my soul, A dog as is a dog, and not a duffer, When the Yuletide pictures come is bound to suffer Endless agonies of shame at the loss of his good name As the sonsie friend of man, and a watchful guar-di-an, Not an adjunct of the nursery! At this happy anniversary (Mr. Punch) I could cr-r-r-runch! The daubers who malign me, and such stupid rôles assign me. Why, it's worse than hydrophoby!!! Mr. Punch, do turn on Toby, As our champion canine to request each painter chap To turn off the old stale tap of the porridge and the pap, and the baby in the cap, or the kid (who needs a slap) and the pug (not worth a rap) in an apoplectic nap, the toy-terrier on the snap, or a-sniffing at a trap, or essaying milk to lap, like a small pot-bellied Jap; and all the old clap-trap Which makes a decent doggy in sheer desperation say That he'd rather be a kitten with a ball and string to play, Or live on clockwork rats, or make breakfast on chopped hay, Or be smeared all o'er with mustard like a cold beef sandwich,—Aye! Or—whisper!—Bite a Baby!!—on the nose!! in nursery play!!! Better dare renewed distemper than another Christmas Day!! For unless I have your promise—and dear Toby's—I much fear I must spend a pappy Christmas and a yappy New Year!