GEORGE THOMAS LANIGAN (1845-1886): The Ahkoond of Swat 61 The Amateur Orlando 64 The Plumber's Revenge 71 The Merchant of Venice 77 The Unfortunate Elephant 78 The Coroner and the Banana Peel 79 The Rhinoceros and the Dromedary 80 The Hen and the Tailor 82 The Glow-worm and the Famished Nightingale 83 The Centipede and the Barbaric Yak 85 The Honest Newsboy 87 The Villager and the Snake 88 The Ostrich and the Hen 90
JAMES DEMILLE (1836-1880): The Senator's Laundry 91
Let the Student of Nature in rapture descant, On the Heaven's cerulean hue; Let the Lover indulge in poetical rant, When the eyes of his Mistress are blue.
But fill high your glasses--fill, fill to the brim, I've a different toast to propose: While such eyes, and such skies, still are beaming for him, Here's a health to the jolly Blue Nose.
Let the Frenchman delight in his vine-covered vales, Let the Greek toast his old classic ground; Here's the land where the bracing Northwester prevails, And where jolly Blue Noses abound.
Long--long may it flourish, to all of us dear, Loved and honoured by hearts that are true; But, should ever a foe chance his nose to show here He shall find all our Noses true Blue.
Oh! blame me not, Mary, for gazing at you, Nor suppose that my thoughts from the Preacher were straying, Tho' I stole a few glances--believe me 'tis true-- They were sweet illustrations of what he was saying.
For, when he observed that Perfection was not To be found upon Earth--for a moment I bent A look upon you--and could swear on the spot That perfection in Beauty was not what he meant.
And when, with emotion, the worthy Divine On the doctrine of loving our neighbours insisted, I felt, if their forms were as faultless as thine, I could love every soul of them while I existed.
And Mary, I'm sure 'twas the fault of those eyes-- 'Twas the lustre of them to the error gave birth-- That, while he spoke of Angels that dwelt in the Skies, I was gazing with rapture at one upon Earth.
Here's a health to thee, Tom: a bright bumper we drain To the friends that our bosoms hold dear, As the bottle goes round, and again and again We whisper, "We wish _he_ were here."
Here's a health to thee, Tom: may the mists of this earth Never shadow the light of that soul Which so often has lent the mild flashes of mirth To illumine the depths of the Bowl.