A LOVE GAME.

'T was after a game of tennis;
My service had won the set,
And, in merry congratulation,
Our hands met over the net.

I said, half-jesting, half-earnest, "When Jacob so long ago

Served fourteen years for a wife, he won in the end, you know;

Now, how many years of service would you ask from the man you'd wed?"

Though the glance of her eyes belied her, "Fifteen-love," was what she said.

A trifle piqued at her answer, I said,

would then be old,

"He

And your love for your faithful server would perchance have grown a-cold;

Pray tell me what age would suit you in the man you would care to wed?"

Though the glance of her eyes belied her, Thirty-love," was what she said.

66

"You speak as if you'd decided to marry a man of that age,

But your eyes tell a different story, in spite of their look so sage,

Now how many men of that age have you seen whom you'd care to wed?"

Though the glance of her eyes belied her, Forty-love," was what she said.

Half in anger I turned to leave her; but she was a true coquette,

And ere I was out of hearing a whisper came

over the net :

"Don't you know, you silly fellow, that you are the man I'd wed,

And all that I've said was only 'Game
love,'" she laughingly said.

'T was after a game of tennis ;
My service had won the set,

And, in reconciliation,

Our lips met over the net.

W. B. ANDERSON.

FROM "TRISTRAM OF LYONESSE"

AND mightier grew the joy to meet full-faced Each wave, and mount with upward plunge, and taste

The rapture of its rolling strength, and cross
Its flickering crown of snows that flash and toss
Like plumes in battle's blithest charge, and
thence

To match the next with yet more strenuous sense;

Till on his eyes the light beat hard and bade His face turn west and shoreward through the glad

Swift revel of the waters golden-clad,

And back with light reluctant heart he bore
Across the broad-backed rollers in to shore.

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.

BALLADE OF THE ROYAL GAME OF GOLF.

(East Fifeshire.)

THERE are laddies will drive ye a ba'
To the burn frae the farthermost tee,
But ye mauna think driving is a',

Ye may heel her, and send her ajee,
Ye may land in the sand or the sea;
And ye 're dune, sir, ye 're no worth a preen,
Tak' the word that an auld man 'll gie,
Tak' aye tent to be up on the green!

The auld folk are crouse, and they craw
That their putting is pawky and slee;
In a bunker they 're nae gude ava',

But to girn, and to gar the sand flee.
And a lassie can puttony she,
Be she Maggy, or Bessie, or Jean,

But a cleek-shot 's the billy for me,
Tak' aye tent to be up on the green!

I hae played in the frost and the thaw,
I hae played since the year thirty-three,
I hae played in the rain and the snaw,
And I trust I may play till I dee;
And I tell ye the truth and nae lee,
For I speak o' the thing I hae seen —
Tom Morris, I ken, will agree

Tak' aye tent to be up on the green!

Prince, faith you 're improving a wee,
And, Lord, man, they tell me you 're keen;
Tak' the best o' advice that can be,
Tak' aye tent to be up on the green!

ANDREW LANG.

HEALTH.

AH! what avail the largest gifts of Heaven,
When drooping health and spirits go amiss?
How tasteless then whatever can be given!
Health is the vital principle of bliss,
And exercise, of health. In proof of this,
Behold the wretch, who slugs his life away,
Soon swallowed in disease's sad abyss;

While he whom toil has braced, or manly

play,

Has light as air each limb, each thought as clear as day.

Oh, who can speak the vigorous joys of health!

Unclogged the body, unobscured the mind: The morning rises gay, with pleasing stealth, The temperate evening falls serene and kind. In health the wiser brutes true gladness find: See, how the younglings frisk along the meads,

As May comes on, their joy all joy exceeds! Yet what but high-strung health this dancing pleasaunce breeds? JAMES THOMSON.

THE SAIR STROKE.

O waly, waly, my bonnie crew
Gin ye maun bumpit be!
And waly, waly, my Stroke sae true,
Ye leuk unpleasantlie!

O hae ye suppit the sad sherrie
That gars the wind gae soon;
Or hae ye pu'd o' the braw bird's e'e,
Ye be sae stricken down?

I hae na suppit the sad sherrie,
For a' my heart is sair;

For Keiller 's still i' the bonnie Dundee,
And his is halesome fare.

But I hae slain our gude Captain,
That c'uld baith shout and sweer,
And ither twain put out o' pain –
The Scribe and Treasurere.

There's ane lies stark by the meadow-gate, And twa by the black, black brig:

And waefu', waefu', was the fate

That gar'd them there to lig!

They waked us soon, they warked us lang,

Wearily did we greet;

"Should he abrade was a' our sang,

Our food but butcher's-meat.