A Lay Of The "Lion."

At the "Red Lion," Henley-on-Thames, Shenstone scratched the following well-known lines upon the window-pane:

"Whoe'er has travell'd life's dull round, Where'er his stages may have been, May sigh to think that he has found His warmest welcome at an inn!"

'TIS joyful to run from the turmoil of town, To flee from its worry and bustle; To put on your flannels and get your hands brown Is good for the mind and the muscle. When Goodwood is done and the Season is o'er, 'Tis pleasant the river to ply on, Or lounge on the lawn, free from worry and bore, At the "Lion"!

'Tis a finely toned, picturesque, sunshiny place, Recalling a dozen old stories; With a rare British, good-natured, ruddy-hued face, Suggesting old wines and old Tories: Ah, many's the magnum of rare crusted port, Of vintage no one could cry fie on, Has been drunk by good men of the old-fashioned sort At the "Lion"!

O, sweet is the exquisite lime-scented breeze Awaft o'er the Remenham reaches! What lullaby lurks in the music of trees, The concert of poplars and beeches! Shall I go for a row, or lounge in a punt, The stream--half asleep--throw a fly on? Or watch pretty girls feed the cygnets in front Of the "Lion"!

I see drifting by such a smart little crew, Bedight in most delicate colours, In ivory-white and forget-me-not blue-- A couple of pretty girl-scullers. A pouting young puss, in the shortest of frocks-- A nice little nautical scion-- The good ship she steers, like a clever young "cox," Past the "Lion"!

I lazily muse and I smoke cigarettes, While rhymes I together am stringing; I listen and nod to the dreamy duets The girls on the first-floor are singing. The sunshine is hot and the summer-breeze sighs, There's scarcely a cloudlet the sky on-- Ah! were it but cooler, how I'd moralize At the "Lion"!

But who can be thoughtful, or lecture, or preach, While Harry is flirting with Ella, Or the red lips of Rosie pout over a peach, Half hid by her snowy umbrella? The Infant is drifting down in her canoe, The Rector his cob canters by on; The church clock is chiming a quarter-past two, Near the "Lion"!

Shall I drop off to sleep, or moon here all day, And drowsily finish my ballad? No! "Luncheon is ready," I hear some one say; "A lobster, a chicken, a salad:" A cool silver cup of the beadiest ale, The white table-cloth I descry on-- So clearly 'tis time I concluded my tale Of the "Lion"!

JENNIE.

SKETCHED BY GAINSBOROUGH.

AH! thrice happy the crumpled red rose leaves Asleep on her bosom so warm and white! And the turquoise ribbon half lost to sight, In the silken tresses it interweaves! Thrice happy the mortal who once receives, From her fathomless eyes so brown and bright, The radiant glances of inner light, That glitter and gleam 'neath their drooping eaves.

Ah! sweet are those eloquent lips a-pout, Whose pleadings a stoic could scarce resist, Now rounded in rapture, now drooped in doubt, But daintily red as if newly kist. 'Tis joy to believe in the truth that lies Far down in the depths of those sweet brown eyes!

A FAVOURITE LOUNGE.

THE Season is now at its height, And crowded each street and each square; At nightly receptions we fight, And pant for a place on the stair! If you're getting as cross as a bear, If life you consider a bore, If not quite the man that you were-- O, toddle down Bond Street at Four!

The scene is bewitching and bright, The street is beyond all compare; The shops are all richly bedight, The jewellers' windows are rare. If money you've plenty to spare, And want to buy presents galore, Or wish to burk trouble and care-- O, toddle down Bond Street at Four!

In Art if you take a delight, Of pictures you'll find plenty there; And stalls you may get for to-night, Or visit your artist in hair. If dulness you hope to forswear, And wish to meet friends by the score, Or revel in sunshine and air-- O, toddle down Bond Street at Four!

If driven by duns to despair, If snubbed by the girl you adore; If feeling quite out of repair, O, toddle down Bond Street at Four!

SPRING CLEANING.

ALL peace and all pleasure are banished: Abroad now I gladly would roam, My quiet and comfort have vanished, A desolate wreck is my home! The painters are all in possession, And charwomen come by the score; The whitewashers troop in procession, And spatter from ceiling to floor. I own I must make a confession-- Spring Cleaning's a terrible bore!

They come in the morning at daybreak, Just when I'm forgetting my cares, And into my slumbers how they break! With bustle and tramp on the stairs. They laugh, and they whistle, and chatter; They paint, and they varnish, and size; They thump, and they wrangle, and clatter, And drive away sleep from my eyes. They make me as mad as a hatter, And cause me quite early to rise!

The staircase is all barricaded, The handle removed from each door; My own sacred Den is invaded-- My papers all strewn on the floor! My books and my letters are scattered, My pens are nowhere to be found; My blue-and-white china is shattered, My songs have no space to resound; My hat with pink priming's bespattered, My Banjo is crushed on the ground!

I dare not complain, notwithstanding-- I'm faint with the fumes of whitelead; And trip over pails on the landing, And paint-pots fall down on my head! When right through my hall I go stumbling-- I'm sick, and I'm sorry, and sore; O'er planks and o'er ladders I'm tumbling, And get my great-coat painted o'er. To myself I can scarcely help mumbling-- Spring Cleaning's a terrible bore!

TAKEN IN TOW.

How blithely the beauties break into a canter, And over the sward how their feet pit-a-pat! The limber young lass in a white Tam o' Shanter, The pouting young puss in a sailor-boy hat!

O, PANGBOURNE is pleasant in sweet Summertime, And Streatley and Goring are worthy of rhyme: The sunshine is hot and the breezes are still, The River runs swift under Basildon Hill! To lounge in a skiff is delightful to me, I'm feeling as lazy as lazy can be; I don't care to sail and I don't care to row-- Since I'm lucky enough to be taken in tow!

Though battered am I, like the old Teméraire, My tow-ers are young and my tow-ers are fair: The one is Eleven, the other Nineteen, The merriest maidens that ever were seen. They pull with a will and they keep the line tight, Dimpled Dolly in blue and sweet Hetty in white; And though you may think it is not comme il faut, 'Tis awfully nice to be taken in tow.

I loll on the cushions, I smoke and I dream, And list to the musical song of the stream; The boat gurgles on by the rushes and weeds, And, crushing the lilies, scroops over the reeds. The sky is so blue and the water so clear, I'm almost too idle to think or to steer! Let scullers delight in hot toiling, but O!-- Let me have the chance to be taken in tow!

The dragon-fly hums and the skiff glides along, The leaves whisper low and the stream runneth strong: But still the two maidens tramp girlfully on, I'll reward them for this when we get to the "Swan;" For then shall be rest for my excellent team, A strawberry banquet, with plenty of cream!-- Believe me, good people, for I ought to know, 'Tis capital fun to be taken in tow!