POETRY.
PADDINGTON.
THERE'S a West that's London's folly ; there's a West that's London's pride;
But the West that fills my senses is the oozy countryside, Where the fat cows crush the daisies, and you can reach it best From Paddington, from Paddington, the gateway of the West. Oh! it's North you go from Boston, but you'll have to go alone; From Charing Cross you reach queer lands where English ian'h known ; But if you want to hear the tongue that Alfred used to speak, Go down by train from Paddington—it isn't far to seek.
Some think the Golden West is hid in San Francisco Bay, Some seek it sailing seaward out of Liverpool away ; But the West of clinging vapours and of warm, delicious rain Is waiting out of Paddington—oh ! do not miss that train.
There's mystery in Yucatan—and ants in plenty too ; The tangled tropic woods and swamps are haunted and taboo; But the dreamy ghosts of England flit across the Severn sand, Oh ! hasten down to Paddington—the gate of Fairyland.
OSCAR LLOYD.
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