kies, 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.

TO MARY

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.

A TOAST

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.

With a world full of beauty and fun for a theme,
And a glass of good wine to inspire,
E'en without thee we sometimes are bless'd with a gleam
That resembles thy spirit's own fire.

Yet still, in our gayest and merriest mood,
Our pleasures are tasteless and dim,
For the thoughts of the past and of Tom that intrude
Make us feel we're but happy with him.

Like the Triumph of old where the _absent one_ threw
A cloud o'er the glorious scene,
Are our feasts, my dear Tom, when we meet without you,
And think of the nights that have been.

When thy genius, assuming all hues