SELECTED POETRY.

Cromwell Argus, Volume V, Issue 248, 11 August 1874, Page 7

SELECTED POETRY.

FATHER, STOP HOME. (From London Punch.) Respectfully dedicated to the 1.0. G.T. Father, dear father, corne home.with me, pray, You uever stop home with us now ; 'Tis always the " Lodge" or " Lodge business," you say, . That will not home pleasures allow. Poor mother says temperance is all very well, And your efforts would yield her delight, If they did not take up quite so much of your time, And keep you from home every night. Chorus— . Hear the sweet voice of the child, All you Good Templar fathers who roam ; Oh, who could resist that most plaintive of prayers, Please, father, dear father, come home I Father, dear father, stop home with us, pray, Poor mother's' deserted, she said, And she wept o'er your absence one night till away From our home to your f< Lodge Room" I sped. A man with a red collar came up and smiled, And patted my cheeks, co'd and blue. And I told him that I was a Good Templar's child, And waiting, dear father, for you. Father, dear father, come home with me now, You left us before half-past seven, Don't say you'll come "soon," with a frown on your brow, 'Twill soon, father dear, be eleven ! Your supper.is cold, for the fire is cpiite dead, And mother htr bed is gone to, And these were the very last words that she said, " I hate those Good Templars, I do !"

A Varnished Tale.—All the pews in our chai)el were painted and varnished during the past month, and while fixing Dr Clamm's pew the workmen accidentally left a large splotch of varnish on the back of it. Last Sunday, Dr Clamm's son, Johnny, had had his hair pulled once or twice during service by Bullet's boy in the pew in the rear. After awhile young Mr Clatnm became quiet, and placed his head against this one mass of undried varnish. Presently he attempted to move, but the varnish had got among his hair, and it held him tight. After making one or two desperate but ineffectual efforts to release himself, he became very angry, and supposing that Bullet's boy was holding him he said, in a loud whisper, 'Let go o' my hair ! Let go o' my hair, I tell you !" The minister paused just as he had entered upon the consideration of " thirdly," and the congregation looked round in amazement, just in time to see young Clamm, with his head in statu quo, aiming dreadful blows with his fist at some unseen, person behind him. And every time he struck out in this manner he vociferated, " I'll punch the head on you after church ! I'll go for yqu, Bill Bullet, when I ketch you aloue ! Let go o' my hair, I tell you, or I'll mash your nose !" &c. The deacon, who came running up,.thought the boy had the nightmare and was talking in bis sleep, and old Mrs Jones, in the pew in front, screamed for the doctor, under the impression that Clamm junior was invoked in a series of frightful convulsions, while Bullet's boy sat up at the end of his pew looking as solemn as if the Finally the sexton took out his jack-knife, and sawed off enough of Mr Clamm's hair to reI sermon had made a deep impression on him. I lease him, and then dragged him out into the vestibule, while the victim kept glancing around at Bullet's boy and shaking his fist at that urchin as if to indicate that he cherished deadly desims upon young Bullet. The contest, however, has been averted by an explanation, nnd we were cla-l to seo, on Thursday, young Clamm playing hip-scotch with Bullet's boy, ip apparent forI getfulness of recent sorrows.— Danbury News.