POETRY.

TIIE MAP.

No, 'tis no use, I can not sleep, my feet are cold as lead,

And Corporal Stubbs he breathes and snores enough to wake the dead.

In truth it's difficult to doze—his feet upon my lap—

So I'll take a trip to Dorset, on Bartholomew, his map.

A rummy thing to get sent out—and yet I'd rather part With both my extra pair o' socks than this old tattered chart.

Oh, those •' altitudes in colour "—how each bill my fancy claims—

Those " tumuli " and " circles "—those stately Dorset names.

From Dorchester the road was straight—(the Roman knew his job) To Winterborne and Nine Stones Inn—I mind I swiped with Bob, Then down to Little Brody, with the sheep on either side, And here's the midget lake that marks the birthplace of the Bride; She Imen't far to flow, dear Lass, to meet her Lord the Sea— Long Bredy, Litton Cheney, Burton-Bradetock, and she's free! But, oh, the wealth of beauty that's thrown upon the screen By just that little inch or so of printed brown and green.

Here's Cattistoek (I hear the bells—far famed in all the shire); A little north is Rampisham, dear home of my desire. Then o'er the brow to Beaminster, and Lewesdon Hill I greet; From there I see the county round—seems close beneath my feet. I mind I climbed up Pilsdon Pen beside my fairest lass, Lord, but how burning hot it was, how slippery the grass. We argued which was Chermouth way, and which was North and

South, Till I stopped her contradicting with a kiss upon the mouth.

I guess when it's all over, and the weary work is done,

— Provided I'm not on the grill—along with Brother Hun— I'll make the tour o' Dorsetshire, marching order (knapsack, stick)—

And see again those well-loved scenes, going gently at the quick, And feast my gladdened eyes a while on church and copse and farm.

Each wood shall be a mystery, each hamlet prove its charm.

I seem to see old Golden Cap and the sunset on the cliff . . . .

— Hallo! Yes. That's me, Sergeant, I'll he up in half a jiff. J. B.