Poetry.

Lyttelton Times, Volume VIII, Issue 536, 23 December 1857, Page 3

Poetry.

THE TOWN OF CHRISTCHURCH. Air— Groves of Blarney. Oh! the Town of Christchurch. Is an elegant mixture Of roads arid pasture And swamp and sand; Sowidely stretching In each direction, From Brittan's section To Caulfield's land. Oh! fifty twenties The whole extent is Of English acres, ; All in a square; And plenty of space is In the vacant places, With patches of praties Lying here and there. Oh! when you enter You're in the centre Of houses in plenty On every hand; " There's more than twenty, Both full and empty, And the Superintendent's Is very grand.' And there's public houses, Where whoever chooses Walks in and carouses On the best of fare; But the distant Royal Is, without denial, • The biggest of all, Beyond compare. Arid there's many a mansion Of grand expansion; And some I could mention, - That could not be beat; And there's tidy villas With weeping willows, And one vcith.pillars In Casher Street. Oh! that's the location That's the admiration Ot the population Both far and wide; For in two rows neatly, AH down the street, the Houses stand in it, On every side. And there's loud resounding From the iron foundry Arid the Union Bank Has an office there; And there's Mister Packer And there once was Thacker; But Doctor Barker Is in Cathedral Square. Now them that governs This noble province Has a gorgeous office That you'll quite admire; But the way into the building Is riiost bewildering, So the officials and children Slip through the wires; And there there's verandahs Above two of the windows; But the other end is Entirely bare; And there's a big sun-dial Stuck up for a trial How long the sky will Continue fair. Now the rooms are spacious And multifarious; The chief secretary's is Under the tiles; But the elegant chamber Of the legislature Is the grandest feature Of this noble pile. And a new and grand set Stands over against it, (Though they're not commenced yet,) On the other side Of the River Avon, That through flax leaves all waving Is the water-cresses laving With her silver tide. But long is the narration Of the situation, Which my poor genius Can not entwine: But were I the writer Of the Christchurch paper, ' Tis in every feature I would make it shine.