IS LUNCH WORTH LUNCHING?

(BY A-FR-D A-ST-N.)

  Is Lunch worth lunching?  Go, dyspeptic man,
    Where in the meadows green the oxen munch. 
  Is it not true that since our land began
    The horned ox hath given us steaks for lunch?

  Steaks rump or otherwise, the prime sirloin,
    Sauced with the stinging radish of the horse. 
  Beeves meditate and die; we pay our coin,
    And though the food be often tough and coarse,

  We eat it, we, through whose bold British veins
    Bold British hearts drive bubbling British blood. 
  No true-born Briton, come what may, disdains
    To eat the patient chewers of the cud.

  Or seek the uplands, where of old Bo Peep
    (So runs the tale) lost all her fleecy flocks;
  There happy shepherds tend their grazing sheep
    (Some men like mutton, some prefer the ox).

  Ay, surely it would need a heart of flint
    To watch the blithe lambs caper o’er the lea,
  And, watching them, refrain from thoughts of mint,
    Of new potatoes, and the sweet green pea.

  Is Lunch worth lunching?  The September sun
    Makes answer “Yes;” no longer must thou lag. 
  Forth to the stubble, cynic; take thy gun,
    And add the juicy partridge to thy bag.

  Out in the fields the keen-eyed pigeons coo;
    They fill their crops, and then away they fly. 
  Pigeons are sometimes passable in stew,
    And always quite delicious in a pie.

  Or pluck red-currants on some summer day,
    Then take of raspberries an equal part,
  Add cream and sugar—­can mere words convey
    The luscious joys of this delightful tart?

  Is Lunch worth lunching?  If such cates should fail,
    Go out of country bread a solid hunch,
  Pile on it cheese, wash down with country ale,
    And, faring plainly, yet enjoy thy lunch.

  Yea, this is truth, the lunch of knife and fork,
    The pic-nic lunch, spread out upon the earth,
  Lunches of beef, bread, mutton, veal, or pork,
    All, all, without exception all, are worth!

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NINETY-NINE OUT OF A HUNDRED CANDIDATES MUST BE “PILLED.”—­The Living of “Easington-with-Liverton, Yorkshire, worth L600 per annum,” is vacant.  Is it in the gift of the celebrated Dr. COCKLE? or of Dr. CARTER, of Little-Liverpill-Street fame?

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[Illustration:  “BACK!”]

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PLAYFUL HEIFERVESCENCE AT HAWARDEN.

[Mr. GLADSTONE met with an extraordinary adventure in Hawarden Park one day last week.  A heifer, which had got loose, made for Mr. GLADSTONE as he was crossing the park, and knocked him down.  Mr. GLADSTONE took refuge behind a tree.  The heifer scampered off, and was subsequently shot.]

[Illustration]