It matters not how the time passes,
So you do but make racket enough!
Though fashion such sports has exploded,
Its firman ne'er think upon now,
But bring, with its pretty pearls loaded,
The mistletoe's mystical bough;
Oh! why should we forfeit such blisses,
To follow the taste of a few?
Though some people may not like kisses,
I honestly own that I do.

Round a good wassail-bowl of rich fluids,
Would quench e'en a Tantalus' thirst,
Libations let's pour to the Druids,

Who gathered the mistletoe first!

And next, to the sweet girls who've bless'd it,
Wherever the pretty rogues be,

Who though they must seem to detest it,
Would live and die under the tree.
And surely it won't be deemed treason,
Here met as we are round the hearth,
Of one who ne'er stands upon season

To add to our comfort or mirth,
To wish him and his every blessing
Man knows in this unstable sphere,
And all the good friends I'm addressing,
An old-fashioned happy New Year!
J. R. PLANCHÉ.
Songs and Poems. (Chatto and Windus.)
[By kind permission of the Publishers.]

A CHRISTMAS-EVE IN ST. GILES'S.
It's Chrismus, is it ?-Well, what o' that?
It's a despurd sight colder, that's all;
An' the chances is it comes on to freeze
An' the snow 'll begin to fall.

Cuss Chrismus ! says I, when a bloke's so bad
He can't 'ardly walk nor crawl.
Chrismus! get out with yer rot! says I,
A talkin' o' hall its mirth-

I ain't got a crust to gnawr, I a'n't,

Nor a friend throughout all God's earth;
An' I a❜n't no fire, an' I a'n't no clothes,
So, come, what's yer Chrismus worth?
I just creeped out last night, an' I slunk
Along thro' the gas an' glare;

I looked in the windows-it made me wince
To see all the plenty there :

An' I wos 'alf-dead for want of a loaf,
An' too weak for to groan a prayer.

I passed a church; they wos singin' hinside O' peace an' good will to men

I wondered if I wos one wot they meaned, An' where the good-will wos thenGod knows, I wanted it bad enough

As I creeped away back to my den.

Good Heav'ns! It is Christmus Heve to-night,
An' the joy o' the world is supreme;
They're all so jolly an' gay an' glad,

My sorrer they cannot hesteem ;
An' yet I'm so 'ungry I cannot sleep,
An' I haven't the chance to dream.

There-hark! I can hear Big Ben quite plain, An' his boom is a ter'ble shock,

For ev'ry stroke that his clapper strikes

Seems my mis'rable life to mock"It's Chrismus day, an' you ain't gone dead;" So clangs out that awful clock.

Oh! you that 'as time and wealth to spare,
And is drones in the human 'ives,
Do yer think, as the days goes merrily on,
What a change 'ood come over your lives
If 'unger and sickness was holdin' yer fast,
Like a pair o' ghastly gyves?

Don't 'ee rest, good souls, with singin' at church,
An' wishin' yer neighbours well;

Find out who's the ones wot want yer 'elp
An' is sunk in a hearthly 'ell-
Go to 'em yourselves for to raise 'em up,
An' the tale of peace for to tell.

I'm goin'-I feel it-I can't last long;

Death's gettin' the best of the fight-
It makes me shiver to think he'll come
An' carry me off in the night.

O Lord! have mercy upon my soul !
An' let me live till 'tis light!

A. A. DowTY. (O. P. Q. Philander Smiff.)
Coster Ballads. (Weldon and Co.)

Unheeding, for the winter day was spent, And sought their chamber. As they lay awake, The jangling bells clanged forth a sudden peal Of strangest music, and they seemed to feel The Old Year die upon the night, and break The links of Past and Future; and below There was a noise of trampling in the snow, And clamorous angry voices: but they heard The strife all idly, turned them round and slept,

Slept even in my dream, and something kept A watch above them that nor spoke nor stirred.

Then one awoke, and started to his feet,

And spoke his fellow: "Christ is in the street!" And forth they went to meet Him, but they found The street all empty, save a shivering heap Of frozen sack-cloth, where one seemed to weep Stretched by a threshold on the wintry ground. Then one said: "Speak, O Lord!" and bent him o'er

The moaning outcast. But I dreamed no more. SEBASTIAN EVANS. Brother Fabian's Manuscript. (Macmillan and Co.)

A PARTING.

FAREWELL, old year; we walk no more together;
I catch the sweetness of thy latest sigh,
And, crowned with yellow brake and withered
heather,

I see thee stand beneath this cloudy sky.

Here in the dim light of a grey December

We part in smiles, and yet we met in tears; Watching thy chilly dawn, I well remember

I thought thee saddest-born of all the years.

I knew not then what precious gifts were hidden
Under the mist that veiled thy path from sight;
I knew not then that joy would come unbidden
To make thy closing hours divinely bright.

I only saw the dreary clouds unbroken,
I only heard the plash of icy rain,
And in that winter gloom I found no token
To tell me that the sun would shine again.
Oh, dear old year, I wronged a Father's kindness,
I would not trust Him with my load of care;
I stumbled on in weariness and blindness,
And lo, He met me with an answered prayer!
Good-bye, kind year, we walk no more together,
But here in quiet happiness we part ;
And from thy wreath of faded fern and heather
I take some sprays, and wear them on my heart.

SARAH DOUDNEY.