A PSALM OF (HOLIDAY) LIFE.

Tell me not, in Christmas Numbers,

Yule is a dyspeptic dream,

A tradition that but cumbers

What smugs call "the social scheme."

Yule is jolly, Yule is earnest!

A sick-bed is not its goal;

Prig who rich plum-pudding spurnest,

Thou art destitute of soul.

Not mere "sapping," which means sorrow,

Is youth's destined end or way:

But—to think that each to-morrow

Brings us nearer Christmas Day!

Terms are long, and Vacs. are fleeting,

And our "tums," though big and brave,

Know that there's an end to eating

When at lessons we must slave.

Oh, the railway's welcome rattle!

Oh, the feeling of fresh life!

Oh, the Christmas Show of Cattle!

Oh, the fun of fork and knife!

Blow the Future! it's unpleasant;

Put the Past clean out of head.

What I like's the (Christmas) Present,

No mere ghost, as Dickens said.

All his jolly books remind us

Christmas is a glorious time.

Don't let bilious bogies blind us

To its larks, which are sublime.

Only wish there was another

Coming—in a month—again!

Stodge is bad for boys? Oh, bother!

I can stand it, right as rain!

Let us, then, be up and doing,

(With a knife and fork and plate,)

All our tips at tuck-shops blueing,

Learn to stodge, ere 'tis too late!