POETRY.

TO LALAGg DEPARTING.

Dulce ridentenz Lalagen amabo Duke loquentenz.

So, Lalage, you're really starting ; You've sprinkled with the tears of parting Your mother's breast.

And other—ab, that twinkle tells— Would-be affectionate farewells Have been—repressed ?

Cheer up, my Lalage ; to-day The trip from London to Bombay Is just a ferry.

Not that upon the whole I fear You'll droop and pine; indeed, my dear, Duu't be too merry. For too much laughing gives you wrinkles, And many dread an eye that twinkles Who'd face Afridis.

Your valiant captain's valour sinks Before a maiden who, he thinks, Laughs where no need is.

He'll be delighted if you poke Fun at his neighbours ; at the joke He fairly bellows.

B . L lien he meditates : Might she—

Might she—oh monstrous ! laugh at Me With other fellows?

For, Lalage, remember this, Each man, although his value is The barest zero, Minds not so much his brother men, But every cock to every hen Would be a hero.

So curb your laughing eyes and tongue, Especially where men are young, And when you've tried it, If you are grateful to me after, Though nearly choked with bubbling laughter, Write and confide it.

Shine on the stage with acclamation, A twinkling star in every station, Sweep all before you.

Enliven amateurish dramas, Till simple subs and grandest Lamas Simply adore you.

Sure such a sweet and dainty rogue, With that alluring touch of brogue That wins the stranger, To homesick youth in parched-up places, Among the queer outlandish faces, Must prove a danger.

Of course, you're going not alone ; But that too youthful chaperon Won't watch you wisely. So mind, wherever you may go, Be just the Lalage I know, And you'll do nicely.

As for this broken-down professor, Your far too lenient confessor, Ah, you'll forget me ; I say my say now while you pack, Because I know when you come back, He will not let me. STEPHEN GWYNN..