"Mona Lisa"

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So he called to them a cheery call and he said he would make

haste,

But first he must go back to his wife and button up her

waist,

Which would only take him an hour or so and then he would fetch a boat.

And the man who invented the backstairs waist, he groaned in his swollen throat.

The hours passed by on leaden wings and they saw another

man

In the window of a bungalow, and he held a tin meat can In his bleeding hands, and they called to him, not once but twice and thrice,

And he said: "Just wait till I open this and I'll be there in a trice!"

And the man who invented the patent cans he knew what the promise meant,

So he leaped in air with a horrid cry and into the sea he went, And the bubbles rose where he sank and sank and a groan choked in the throat

Of the man who invented the backstairs waist and he sank with the leaky boat!

J. W. Foley.

"MONA LISA"

MONA LISA, Mona Lisa!

Have you gone? Great Julius Cæsar!
Who's the Chap so bold and pinchey
Thus to swipe the great da Vinci,
Taking France's first Chef d'oeuvre
Squarely from old Mr. Louvre,
Easy as some pocket-picker
Would remove our handkerchicker
As we ride in careless folly
On some gaily bounding trolley?

Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa,

Who's your Captor? Doubtless he's a
Crafty sort of treasure-seeker-
Ne'er a Turpin e'er was sleeker-
But, alas, if he can win you
Easily as I could chin you,

What is safe in all the nations
From his dreadful depredations?
He's the style of Chap, I'm thinkin',
Who will drive us all to drinkin'!

Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa,

Next he'll swipe the Tower of Pisa,
Pulling it from out its socket
For to hide it in his pocket;
Or perhaps he'll up and steal, O,
Madame Venus, late of Milo;
Or maybe while on the grab he
Will annex Westminster Abbey,
And clope with that distinguished
Heap of Ashes long extinguished.

Maybe too, O Mona Lisa,
He will come across the seas a-
Searching for the style of treasure
That we have in richest measure.
Sunset Cox's brazen statue,
Have a care lest he shall catch you!
Or maybe he'll set his eye on
Hammerstein's, or the Flatiron,
Or some bit of White Wash done
By those lads at Washington-

Truly he's a crafty geezer,

Is your Captor, Mona Lisa!

John Kendrick Bangs.

THE SIEGE OF DJKLXPRWBZ

BEFORE a Turkish town

The Russians came.

And with huge cannon

Did bombard the same.

THE poet is, or ought to be, a hater of the city, And so, when happiness is mine, and Maud becomes my wife,

We'll look on town inhabitants with sympathetic pity,

For we shall lead a peaceful and serene Arcadian life.

Then shall I sing in eloquent and most effective phrases, The grandeur of geraniums and the beauty of the rose; Immortalise in deathless strains the buttercups and daisies— For even I can hardly be mistaken as to those.

The music of the nightingale will ring from leafy hollow, And fill us with a rapture indescribable in words;

And we shall also listen to the robin and the swallow

. (I wonder if a swallow sings?) and . . . well, the other birds.

Too long I dwelt in ignorance of all the countless treasures Which dwellers in the country have in such abundant

store;

To give a single instance of the multitude of pleasures-
The music of the nighting-oh, I mentioned that before.

And shall I prune potato-trees and artichokes, I wonder, And cultivate the silo-plant, which springs (I hope it springs?)

In graceful foliage overhead?-Excuse me if I blunder, It's really inconvenient not to know the name of things!

No matter; in the future, when I celebrate the beauty Of country life in glowing terms, and "build the lofty rhyme "

Aware that every Englishman is bound to do his duty,

I'll learn to give the stupid things their proper names in time!

Meanwhile, you needn't wonder at the view I've indicated,
The country life appears to me indubitably blest,
For, even if its other charms are somewhat overstated,
As long as Maud is there, you see,-what matters all the
rest?

Anthony C. Deane.

AN OLD BACHELOR

'TWAS raw, and chill, and cold outside,
With a boisterous wind untamed,

But I was sitting snug within,

Where my good log-fire flamed.
As my clock ticked,

My cat purred,

And my kettle sang.

I read me a tale of war and love,

Brave knights and their ladies fair;
And I brewed a brew of stiff hot-scotch
To drive away dull care.

As my clock ticked,

My cat purred,

And my kettle sang.

At last the candles sputtered out,
But the embers still were bright,

When I turned my tumbler upside down,
An' bade m'self g' night!

As th' ket'l t-hic-ked,

The clock purred,

And the cat (hic) sang!

Tudor Jenks.

Song

SONG

THREE score and ten by common calculation
The years of man amount to; but we'll say
He turns four-score, yet, in my estimation,
In all those years he has not lived a day.

Out of the eighty you must first remember
The hours of night you pass asleep in bed;
And, counting from December to December,

Just half your life you'll find you have been dead.

To forty years at once by this reduction

We come; and sure, the first five from your birth, While cutting teeth and living upon suction, You're not alive to what this life is worth.

From thirty-five next take for education
Fifteen at least at college and at school;
When, notwithstanding all your application,
The chances are you may turn out a fool.

Still twenty we have left us to dispose of,

But during them your fortune you've to make; And granting, with the luck of some one knows of, 'Tis made in ten-that's ten from life to take.

Out of the ten yet left you must allow for
The time for shaving, tooth and other aches,
Say four-and that leaves, six, too short, I vow,
Regretting past and making fresh mistakes.

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Meanwhile each hour dispels some fond illusion;
Until at length, sans eyes, sans teeth, you may
Have scarcely sense to come to this conclusion-
You've reached four-score, but haven't lived a day!
J. R. Planché.