Recaptured Rhymes. By H. D. Traill. (Blackwood and Sons.)— Mr.

Traill will not be surprised, if we express the opinion that his non-political verses are the more successful of the "rhymes." He can anyhow be read with a more general and a more unalloyed pleasure when he deals with neutral subjects. His satire, indeed, is. not spiteful, though we cannot think it always fair ; but then, was a satirist over fair ? He reproves ourselves very severely for the harmless remark that "no one gives us any fun." Why should we want fun, when things are so dismally bad in Ireland ? But Mr. Train has supplied our want in a 'really admirable way, though things are not much improved ; and we are immensely obliged to him. But surely, it is a little unreasonable for a professional humourist to complain of our wanting the very article that he sup- plies. Of the political poems, the best is "An Enfant Terrible,"— democracy, to wit. Here is the conclusion :— "Yet about thy feet light chatterers meet, Politician and pamphleteer ;

And they learnedly prose on the form of thy toes, Or the tee which may elianoi to be near.

Not oaring to raise their amyl:wont gaze So high that a glance may fall

On the hands laid at ease o'er the monstrous knees,—

Those Lands which could cover us all!

Not caring to trace on the stone-hewn face, With its distauceluestioning. eyes,

That him-nimble smile of the Head by the Nile That is dumb till the sun shall rise.

When its first rays smite, what chord of affright Will it sound for the world's new song P

What ground-tone of fear P—Who lives, he shall hear: May he not have lived too long!"

But nothing in the volume quite equals the admirable fun that Mr. Traill makes of the Brighton police in the matter of Lefroy :—

" InarreTor: Offer a air ugglo with hirnee7,0.

.• Pardon, Sir, the strong desire I Vainly labour to restrain ; But the' old Adam of inquiry Rises in my breast again.

Tell me (thee a weakness lingers!) How and when you tore your coat; And are those not marks of fingers

That I see upon your throat?

Where's your &liar ? where your necktie ? Where—but why the question press ? If your mons be eunscia reeti, What's a collar more or less ?

ALL.

What, indeed P Away, suspicion! Get thee, Satan's child, behind ; Let us each in his position Shun that ourse,—apynie mind.

(Yet another pause. They still continue eyeing the stranger.) INSPECTOR (d(fildently). I despise the art of angling

For disolosnres,—mean pursuit But I notice something dangling (Not a b mt-latie) from your boot.

Ha a watoh-elmin I I declare, it Seems a funny place to—eh?

What I 'The way you always wear it?' Bay no more ; forgive me, pray I

True-born Britons, never hoed 'em, Casual trifles such as these ; Heirs to centuries of freedom, Wear their watch-chains how they please."