Let the Student of Nature in rapture descant,

On the Heaven's cerulean hue;

Let the Lover indulge in poetical rant,

When the eyes of his Mistress are blue.

But fill high your glasses—fill, fill to the brim,

I've a different toast to propose:

While such eyes, and such skies, still are beaming for him,

Here's a health to the jolly Blue Nose.

Let the Frenchman delight in his vine-covered vales,

Let the Greek toast his old classic ground;

Here's the land where the bracing Northwester prevails,

And where jolly Blue Noses abound.

Long—long may it flourish, to all of us dear,

Loved and honoured by hearts that are true;

But, should ever a foe chance his nose to show here

He shall find all our Noses true Blue.

Oh! blame me not, Mary, for gazing at you,

Nor suppose that my thoughts from the Preacher were straying,

Tho' I stole a few glances—believe me 'tis true—

They were sweet illustrations of what he was saying.

For, when he observed that Perfection was not

To be found upon Earth—for a moment I bent

A look upon you—and could swear on the spot

That perfection in Beauty was not what he meant.

And when, with emotion, the worthy Divine

On the doctrine of loving our neighbours insisted,

I felt, if their forms were as faultless as thine,

I could love every soul of them while I existed.

And Mary, I'm sure 'twas the fault of those eyes—

'Twas the lustre of them to the error gave birth—

That, while he spoke of Angels that dwelt in the Skies,

I was gazing with rapture at one upon Earth.

Here's a health to thee, Tom: a bright bumper we drain

To the friends that our bosoms hold dear,

As the bottle goes round, and again and again

We whisper, "We wish he were here."

Here's a health to thee, Tom: may the mists of this earth

Never shadow the light of that soul

Which so often has lent the mild flashes of mirth

To illumine the depths of the Bowl.

vWith a world full of beauty and fun for a theme,

And a glass of good wine to inspire,

E'en without thee we sometimes are bless'd with a gleam

That resembles thy spirit's own fire.

Yet still, in our gayest and merriest mood,

Our pleasures are tasteless and dim,

For the thoughts of the past and of Tom that intrude

Make us feel we're but happy with him.

Like the Triumph of old where the absent one threw

A cloud o'er the glorious scene,

Are our feasts, my dear Tom, when we meet without you,

And think of the nights that have been.

When thy genius, assuming all hues of delight

Fled away with the rapturous hours,

And when wisdom and wit, to enliven the night,

Scattered freely their fruits and their flowers.

When thy eloquence played round each topic in turn,

Shedding lustre and life where it fell,

As the sunlight, in which the tall mountain tops burn,

Paints each bud in the lowliest dell.

When that eye, before which the pale Senate once quailed

With humour and deviltry shone,

And the voice which the heart of the patriot hailed,

Had mirth in its every tone.

Then a health to thee, Tom: ev'ry bumper we drain

But renders thy image more dear,

As the bottle goes round, and again and again,

We wish, from our hearts, you were here.