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Pomatum o'er cheeks and chin,
Whilst Tabby, with whiskers long,
Upon the hearth rug 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 !

Old Advertisement.


(With Respectful Memories of Tom Hood.)

With garments soddened and soiled,

With boot-tops covered in grime, With trousers bespattered with foulest mud, Picking one's way through the slime. Slush-slush-slush!

And foul-smelling filth and dirt, That clings like a kind of malodorous pitch-. I sing the "Song of the Dirt."


In the January night,

And dirt-dirt-dirt!

While the weather is muggy though bright. Smell, and slime, and reek,

Reek, and slime and smell;

Till over the kerbstone I fall and slip,
And smother myself as well.

O! but for one short hour!

A respite: 'twould be so sweet!

I'd bless the scavenger's shovel and broom, If he'd clear the mud 'neath my feet.

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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.

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"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:

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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.

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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."




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!"


The Figaro, March 7, 1874.

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,

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.

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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.

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

Was his brain muddled,
Addled and puddled,

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

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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.

What do we care

That this long flowing curl,
Such a charm to a girl,
Is a dead woman's hair?
Our changeable sex,
Do as fashion directs;
And so long as the hair
Is a grace to the head,
So long will we wear
The locks of the dead.

The Figaro, May 5, 1875. (At that date ladies were wearing very large chignons).

On the occasion of an inebriated "swell" being expelled from the Prince of Wales's Theatre, by P. C. 22 Z.:—

Take him up tendahly,

Lift him with caah ;
Clothes are made slendahly
Now, and will taah!
Punch not that nob of his,
Thus I imploah;

Pick up that bob of his,
Dropped on the floah!

Pwaps he's a sister,

Pwaps he's a bwother,

Come to the play with him

Let 'em away with him

One or the other.

Ram his hat lightly,

Yet firmly and tightly,

Ovah his head.

Turn his coat-collah back,
Get his half-dollah back.
22 Z.


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.

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