(A Memory.)

We’ve been married ten years to-day, dear; Ah, me, how the time has flown Since I whispered in church one morning, “I will,” in an undertone. You’ve changed a little, my darling; Your figure is not so slim As it was when you won the medal That night at the German Gym.

You’re stouter, and threads of silver Now shine in the curly locks That were black as the wing of raven The night that I saw you box. I can see you now with the gloves on, In the pride of your strength and limb, As you fought your man to his corner, That night at the German Gym.

I noticed your socks of scarlet And your jersey of dainty cream, And I said to myself, “How handsome!” And I fell in a blissful dream. But, O! when your nose was bleeding My eyes with the tears grew dim, And I hated the man who punched you That night at the German Gym.

And when, as the fight grew fiercer, He gave you a bad black eye, And the hard-hearted people cheered him, I felt I should have to cry; But, pulling yourself together, You hammered away at him, Till he reeled like a drunken gaby That night at the German Gym.

And, O, when the nice kind judges Declared you had won the fight, And the people rose up and shouted, I trembled with wild delight. I felt so proud of my lover, That my eyes began to swim; I never knew how I loved you Till that night at the German Gym.

And now we’ve been ten years married, And Johnny our boy is eight; His daddy’s too stout for boxing, And has doubled his fighting weight. But I hope that in years to come, dear-- It is only a mother’s whim-- Our Johnny will put the gloves on, And box at the German Gym.

I should like to sit there with you, dear, The night that our boy competes, And see him upholding bravely The fame of his father’s feats. It will carry us back in fancy To the past that no time can dim, When his dad was the champion boxer Of the dear old German Gym.

Tottie.

BY OUR LUNATIC RHYMING SLANGSTER.

As she walked along the street With her little “plates of meat,” And the summer sunshine falling On her golden “Barnet Fair,” Bright as angels from the skies Were her dark blue “mutton pies,” In my “East and West” Dan Cupid Shot a shaft and left it there.

She’d a Grecian “I suppose,” And of “Hampstead Heath” two rows In her “sunny south” that glistened Like two pretty strings of pearls; Down upon my “bread and cheese” Did I drop and murmur, “Please Be my ‘storm and strife,’ dear Tottie, O, you darlingest of girls!”

Then a bow-wow by her side, Who till then had stood and tried A “Jenny Lee” to banish, Which was on his “Jonah’s whale,” Gave a hydrophobic bark (She cried, “What a Noah’s ark!”), And right through my “rank and riches” Did my “cribbage-pegs” assail.

Ere her bull-dog I could stop She had called a “ginger-pop,” Who said, “What the ‘Henry Neville’ Do you think you’re doing there?” And I heard, as off I slunk, “Why, the fellow’s ‘Jumbo’s trunk!’” And the “Walter Joyce” was Tottie’s With the golden “Barnet Fair.”

The Welshman in London.

He came with his harp from the mountains of Wales-- The spirit of poetry flowed in his blood; Declining the engine that runs on the rails, He tramped to the fortified City of Lud.

For him had the universe paused in its course, For him had all progress been nipped in the bud; He came as a bard, haughty, hoary, and hoarse, To sing in the fortified City of Lud.

He sought for a mountain to sit on its brow, And give off his lay after chewing the cud; And he found, after searching, the mount that is now “Snow Hill,” in the fortified City of Lud.

He called on the Britons who gathered to jeer To list to a lay which would curdle their blood; But a bobby came up, and said, “None o’ that here!” Strange! in the fortified City of Lud.

He saw no policeman--such things could not be-- But the words of invective came forth in a flood And so the policeman 092 C Ran him in, in the fortified City of Lud.

With his harp he was placed in the dock the next day, When the magistrate brought down his fist with a thud, And told him ten shillings he’d have for to pay For obstructing the road in the City of Lud.

The bard has gone back to his mountain in Wales With his national vanity dragged through the mud, And his faith rudely shaken in Taffy-told tales Of the ancient and fortified City of Lud.

The Magistrate.