RAILWAY RHYMES.
When books are pow'rless to beguile
And papers only stir my bile,
For solace and relief I flee
To Bradshaw or the A. B. C.,
And find the best of recreations
In studying the names of stations.
There is not much among the A's
To prompt enthusiastic praise,
But B is infinitely better,
And there are gems in ev'ry letter.
The only fault I have with Barnack
Is that it rhymes with Dr. Harnack;
Barbon, Beluncle Halt, Bodorgan
Resound like chords upon the organ,
And there's a spirit blithe and merry
In Evercreech and Egloskerry.
Park Drain and Counter Drain, I'm sure,
Are hygienically pure,
But when æsthetically viewed
They seem to me a little crude.
I often long to visit Frant,
Hose, Little Kimble and Lelant;
And, if I had sufficient dollars,
Sibley's (for Chickney) and Neen Sollars;
Shustoke and Smeeth my soul arride
And likewise Sholing, Sole Street, Shide,
But I'm afraid my speech might go
Awry on reaching Spooner Row.
In serious mood I often bend
My thoughts to Ponder and his End,
And when I'm feeling dull and down
The very name of Tibshelf Town
Rejoices me, while Par and Praze
And Pylle and Quy promote amaze.
Of all the Straths, a numerous host,
Strathbungo pleases me the most,
While I can court reluctant slumber
By murmuring thy name, Stogumber.
Were I beginning life anew
From Swadlincote I'd take my cue,
But shun as I would shun the scurvy
The perilous atmosphere of Turvey.
But though the tuneful name of Horbling
Incites to further doggerel warbling,
And Gallions, Goonbell, Gamlingay
Are each deserving of a lay,
No railway bard is worth his salt
Who cannot bear to call a "Halt."