I feel, feel, feel,

Each morning of each week-
Feel, feel, feel,

My lips, my chin, my cheek.
Moustache, imperial, beard,
Imperial, beard, moustache,
Could I but see signs of the three,
I would give good sterling caslı.
I rub, rub, rub,

When the shades of night set in,
Rub, rub, rub,
Pomatum o'er cheeks and chin,
Whilst Tabby, with whiskers long,
Upon the hearthrug lies,

And seems to purr contentment for

What nature me denies.

Oh! could I but only see

Just the faintest dawn of down,

Or FANCY that Nature would

In the end my wishes crown!

Or hope that even I

The hours at last will enjoy,

When maids no longer will deem me

An o'ergrown hobbledehoy.

But I to have glossy hair,

On my lips a flowing curl,

A pair of whiskers to grace my cheeks,

A moustache to turn and twirl,

Is but a dream, a gloomy gleam;
A wish without a hope,
Where fancy free may gain for me
Nothing AT ALL but scope.
With face like a maiden's bare,

With hair on his head strewn thin, A youth ill at ease in an easy chair, Sat stroking his cheeks and chin.

Stroke, stroke, stroke,

Till he glanced at THE HOUR, and there was seen

A word that brought the news that he sought'Twas the famed PILOSAGINE !

For only one short hour,

To feel as I used to feel :

The pavement free from grease and slime

In my walk that's now an ordeal.

Funny Folks, January, 1884.

THE WAIL OF A PROOF-READER.

Made During a Fearful “Spell" of Weather by One of Em.

With fingers weary and worn,

And nose quite puffy and red,

A Proof-reader sat in his old linen coat,

With a snorting "cold in 'is ead."

With handkerchief in his left,

And pen in his dexter paw,

The miserable man first blew his nose,

Then thus let loose his jaw:

Read, read, read,

With tears rolling down from my eyes,

Read, read, read,

Till I can't tell l's from i's.

Read, read, read,

In pain, confusion, and noise,

And bored by a voice of dolorous pitch

Belonging to "one of the boys."

Read, read, read,

In the story next to the roof:

Read, read, read,

Till my soul is lost in the proof.
It's oh to be a Hottentot

In the burning sand,

Where never an author sent a lot Of manuscript the "devil" could not, Nor the "reader" understand !

Read, read, read,
Till my weary spirits sink,
And mark, mark, mark,
While mind ebbs with the ink.
French, and Latin, and Greek!

Hebrew, Spanish, and Dutch !

Poring o'er all till my eyes grow weak, And I seem to be, by Fancy's freak, But a part of the pen I clutch.

Oh, but to "DELE "work!

To "transpose" toil for rest!

To "make up" life's remaining years

On smiling Nature's breast!

A "space" of time to join the "chase,"

Some "quoins" to see me through!

A good "fat take" of these I want, But a few large "notes" MIGHT do.

Oh, for a brief respite

From toilsome pen and proof!

An "out," while I might calmly seek

A "double" who would share my roof;

The "sort" that could "correct" my "forme,"

And save me from life's many traps,

And round our "table" smiling "set"

Sweet "fat-faced" MINIONS in "SMALL CAPS!"

L. F. THOMAS.

The British and Colonial Stationer, May, 1884.

THE BITTER CRY!

"Few persons have any conception of these pestilential human rookeries where tens of thousands are crowded together amidst horrors which call to mind the middle passage of the slave ship."-[The Bitter Cry of Outcast London.J

Wearily wandering into the winding
Maze of the filthy and festering slums,
Borne on the blast of the hurricane blinding,
Suddenly into my spirit there comes
Bitterest cry of the careworn and dying,
Weeping and wailing of old and of young-
Wailing of women aweary and sighing.

Heavenward? Hear the song that they sung:

"Strive, strive, strive,

With the wolf at the door, in vain, Tho' the struggle to keep alive Is worse than a hell of pain.

Gin, gin, gin,

Our cares we'll drown once more; 'Tis but folly to shrink from the spirit of drink, So, swig till our lives be o'er.” Fiercer than fathomless cry of the weepers, Wilder than wailing of women and men, Echoing ever a voice, "O ye sleepers,

Where is the harpy who owneth each den ? Where are the vultures who prey on the living ?" Pitiless dealers of wrong at each breath, Shedders of blood who each moment are giving Children and women and strong men to Death:

Grandmamma-a shrewd observer

I remember gazed upon
My new top, and said with fervour,
"Oh! how kind of Uncle John !"
While mamma, my form caressing, -
In her eye the tear-drop stood,
Read me this fine moral lesson,

"See what comes of being good !"

I remember, I remember,

On a wet and windy day,
One cold morning in December,
I stole out and went to play;
I remember Billy Hawkins
Came, and with his pewter squirt,
Squibb'd my pantaloons and stockings,
Till they were all over dirt !

To my mother for protection
I ran quaking every limb.
She exclaim'd, with fond affection,
"Gracious goodness! look at him!"
Pa cried when he saw my garment-
'Twas a newly-purchased dress-
"Oh! you nasty little Warment,
How came you in such a mess ?"
Then he caught me by the collar-
Cruel only to be kind-
And to my exceeding dolour,
Gave me several slaps behind.
Grandmamma, while yet I smarted,
As she saw my evil plight,
Said-'twas rather stony-hearted-
"Little rascal! sarve him right!"

I remember, I remember,
From that sad and solemn day,
Never more in dark December

Did I venture out to play.
And the moral which they taught, I
Well remember; thus they said-
"Little boys, when they are naughty,
Must be whipped, and sent to bed!"

The Ingoldsby Legends.

A correspondent, writing to Notes and Queries as far back as June 10, 1871, mentions a parody, of which, unfortunately, only the two verses following are given :

"I remember, I remember, The day that I was born,

When first I saw this breathing world,
All naked and forlorn.

They wrapped me in a linen cloth,
And then in one of frieze;

And tho' I could not speak just then,

Yet I contrived to sneeze.

"I remember, I remember,
Old ladies came from far;
Some said I was like mother dear,
But others thought like par;
Yet all agreed I had a head,
And most expressive eyes ;
The latter were about as large
As plums in Christmas pies.

Philadelphia.

UNEDA.

A REMINISCENCE.

I remember, I remember,
The cell, which now I scorn,
The little window where no sun
Could cheer the dreary morn.
Policeman X. no wink too soon,
Brought in my musty fare,
And, growling as he went away,
Locked me in safely there!

I remember, I remember,
We'd been out late at night,
Twain heroes who, o'er sundry cups,
Wound up by "getting tight;"
And then, although no blood was spilt,
That fiend in blue we met;
"Run in" upon my natal day-
Oh, would I could forget.

I remember, I remember,
No soda would he bring,

He said the air seem'd rather fresh

For night birds on the wing! The spirits needed feathers then, And rest my fevered brow;

He only said, "The place is cool,"

And, "Mind! don't make a row!"

It was a foolish fancy,
And now 'tis little joy,
To know I broke my fibula,
When I was a little boy.

Idyls of the Rink (Judd and Co., London, 1876).

THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.

ONE more Unfortunate,
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death!
Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;
Fashion'd so slenderly,
Young and so fair !
Loop up her tresses,
Escaped from the comb,
Her fair auburn tresses;
Whilst wonderment guesses
Where was her home?
Alas! for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun!

Oh! it was pitiful !
Near a whole city full-
Home she had none.

Another parody of the same original appeared in The Figaro for August 26, 1874. It was entitled, "I Remember, I Remember, a reminiscence of Child-Hood and Thomas Hood," and consisted of four verses, but they are not now of sufficient interest to be quoted.

I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER.

I REMEMBER, I remember,
When first I saw a rink,
How fine to be a skater,
I always used to think,
To roll about, both in and out,
Through all the livelong day,
But now I wish the rink and skates
Had been far, far away.

I remember, I remember,
The skates that first I wore,
The joy I had in buying them,
That I shall have no more;

On being a great skater

My youthful heart was set

Now the rink has gone the way of rinks;

The skates I have them yet.

I remember, I remember,
When first I had a fall,

How hard I found the asphalte,
How loudly I did bawl;
There was anguish in my bosom,
There was fever on my brow,
There were bruises on my body-
I bear the traces now.

I remember, I remember,
How oft from school I'd beg;
But my rinking days were over,
When at last I broke my leg.

ONE MORE UNFORTUNATE.

TOM HOOD.

"ATQUI SCIEBAT QUÆ SIBI BARBARUS TORTOR PARARET."

I.

ONE more unfortunate Ploughed for degree, By those importunate Questioners three.

II.

Tell it him gingerly, Break it with care, Think you he'll angry be? Or will he swear ?

III.

Look at his college cap,
Bent with its broken flap,
Whilst his hand constantly
Clutches his gown,
And he walks vacantly
Back through the town.

IV.

Didn't he study?

Wasn't he cute? or

Had he a coach? and

Who was his tutor?
Or was he a queerer one
Still, and had ne'er a one,

And all this the fruit? Or

V.

Was his brain muddled,
Addled and puddled,

From over-working?
Or did he all the day
Racquets and cricket play,
Books and dons shirking?

Maybe she was poor,
With no money or purse;
Homeless and fasting,
A vagrant, or worse-
A sport for the wind,
As it listlessly blew,
And who from her kind,
No sympathy knew.
Who knows how she died?
Perchance of her life,
O'er burdened with strife,
She grew weary and cried-
"To death's awful mystery swift to be hurled
Anywhere, anywhere out of the world."

Then when the dark waters
Had closed o'er her head,
And this type of Eve's daughters
Was told with the dead;
Then when her poor body
Was borne by the wave

To the shore; they allowed her
A wanderer's grave.
Nor perfect, indeed,
Could she enter it there;
In their terrible greed
They must clip off her hair;

In their venomous greed

They must steal off her hair.

THE RINK OF SIGHS.

One more unfortunate
Knocked out of breath-
"Rashly importunate,"
Jealousy saith.

Lift her up tenderly-
Mind her back hair;
Fashioned so slenderly-
Fetch her a chair.
Burst are her garments,
Hanging in cerements,
While buttons constantly
Fall from her clothing.
Take her up instantly
Loving, not loathing;
Scornfully touch her not-
Think of the bump she got,
All through those wheels of hers
Which she used killingly;
And those high heels of hers-
Sat she unwillingly.
She in a mess is

All things betoken,
And spoilt her gay dress is,
While wonderment guesses :
"Are the bones broken ?"
"Who is her milliner?"
"Has she a glover?-
P'raps a two-shilliner;"
"Or has she a dearer one
Still?" P'raps a nearer one-
Gifts from her lover !

Alas, for the rarity
Of Christian charity,
There isn't one

Who's a bit pitiful,
While that sad, witty fool,
Woffles, makes fun.
She, as she shivers
And mournfully quivers,
Sits bolt upright.

From window to casement,
From roof unto basement
She stares with amazement,
Mournful of plight.

Never this history
Tell-'tis a mystery.
How her wheels twirled.
Anywhere, anywhere,
Facing the world;
Whirled her skates boldly,
No matter how coldly
Regarded by man.
Oh, but the Rink of it-
Picture it-think of it,
When it began ;
Rave at it, wink at it,
Now if you can.

Take her up tenderly-
Mind her back hair;
Fashioned so slenderly-

Fetch her a chair.

Can't she sit down on it?

Is she in pain ?

True.

She doth frown on it

"Shan't rink again!"

Funny Folks, February 26, 1876.