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.

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 !

Old Advertisement.

Made During a Fearful “Speil" 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 !

“THE SONG OF THE DIRT." (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.” Dirt-dirt-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.

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 And save me from life's many traps,

And round our "table" smiling
Sweet“ fat-faced ” Minions in SMALL CAPS !"

L. F. THOMAS.

“ forme,”

set”

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.]

Wearily wandering into the winding

Maze of the filthy and sestering 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:

“Here, here, here,"

Is the loud and bitter cry. “Oh, heed our sob of fear,

And save us ere we die.
“Rent, rent, rent,

Our cares we'll drown once more,
For there's nothing but gin when the bailiffs are in,
And the baby's dead on the floor."

G. B. BURGIN. Ashley House, High Barnet, Herts, England.

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,

I 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.

I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER.
I REMEMBER, I remember,
The house where I was born,
The little window where the sun
Came peeping in at morn ;
He never came a wink too soon,
Nor brought too long a day,
But now, I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away!

TOM Hood.

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.”

UNEDA. Philadelphia.

NURSERY REMINISCENCES.
I REMEMBER, I remember,

When I was a little Boy,
One fine morning in September,

Uncle brought me home a toy.
I remember how he patted

Both my cheeks with kindliest mood; “Then,” said he, “you little fat head,

There's a top because you're good.”

It was a foolish fancy,
And now 'tis little joy,
To know I broke my sibula,
When I was a little boy.
Idyls of the Rink (Judd and Co., London, 1876).

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 !"

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 fullHome she had none.

The Figaro, March 7, 1874.

TOM Hoon.

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 setNow 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 bodyI 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. “ATQUI SCIEBAT QUÆSIBI BARBARUS Tortor P'ARARET.”

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 Rap,
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 ?

VI.
His Greek was a mystery,
So was his history,

His throbbing brain whirled, And through his shaggy hair, Both his hands twirled.

VII.
He goes at it boldly,
No matter how coldly

Examiners scan
Him over the table,
And say, “ If you're able,
Construe it, man ;

Look at it, think of it,
Do what you can.”

VIII. Now they stare frigidly, Calmly and rigidly, Courteously, slily ;

How well he knows them,

Who could suppose them Witty and wily?

IX. Helplessly staring,

He looks at it long, Then with the daring Last look of despairing, Construes it wrong.

X. Failing most signally, Construing miserably ; Frequent false quantity, But as they want it, he

Must do his best, Until they tell him he Need not decidedly

Construe the rest.

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.

XI.

Full of urbanity
And inhumanity,
See what they've done;

Out of each couple,

They with tongues supple

Ploughed at least one. Lay's of Modern Oxford, by Adon (Chapman and Hall, 1874).

THE HAIR OF THE DEAD.

Pile it up,

Pile it up,
Till it towers above;
Pile it up,
Pile it up,
'Tis a labour of love :
Pin it so carefully,
Cannot be known
Of that temple of hair fully
Hall's not your own.
That dark plaited mass,
So dear and so rare :
That highly-prized mass,
Is a dead woman's hair.

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,

List 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 Grmly and tightly,

THE LAST APPEAL, 1878. ONE more importunate Struggle for place ! One more unlortunate Slap in the face !

Dizzy's a devil – he, What should I spare ? Trip him up cleverly, Fair or unfair.

a

Never mind arguments,
Tear up his Pargaments
(While the ink's scarcely dry,
Easy is blotting),
Honour and decency
Wholly forgotten.

Talk of him scornfully,
Talk of him mournfully,
Treat him inhumanly.
Arguments sailing.
Throw dirt, and try railing,
Spiteful and womanly.

Make no deep scrutiny
Into past mutiny,
Rash and undutiful,
England's dishonour,
While I heap on her
Won't it be beautiful ?

a

THE RINK Of Sighs.
One more unfortunate
Knocked out of breath-
“Rashly importunate,"
Jealousy saith.
List 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, noi 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
or 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.