Had cigarettes no ashes,
And roses ne'er a thorn,
The big trout would not ever
Escape into the river.
No gut the salmon smashes
Would leave us all forlorn,
Had cigarettes no ashes,
And roses ne'er a thorn.

But 'tis an unideal,
Sad world in which we're born,
And things will "go contrairy"
With Martin and with Mary:
And every day the real
Comes bleakly in with morn,
And cigarettes have ashes,
And every rose a thorn.



MATRIMONY



(Matrimony--Advertiser would like to hear from well-educated
Protestant lady, under thirty, fair, with view to above, who would
have no objection to work Remington type-writer, at home. Enclose
photo. T. 99. This Office. Cork newspaper.)

T. 99 would gladly hear