To be stitched, stitched, stitched, Yet a little more tight in her skirt, The while, with her voice disdainfully pitched, She sang the "Song of the Flirt !"" "Work, work, work. In the broiling drive and row, And work, work, work, At the stifling crush and show. And I'm so sick of it all, That to-morrow I'd marry a Turk, If he'd ask me-I would! For, after this, Yes, that would be Christian work! "Work, work, work, On the lawn in the lazy shade; Work, work, work, In the blaze of the baked parade. Tea, and tennis, and band, Band, and tennis, and tea :If I can but ogle an eldest son, They're all the same to me. "You men, do you dare to sneer, And point to your sisters and wives!Because they simper Not nice, my dear ;'As if they had ne'er in their lives Been stitched, stitched, stitched, Each prude in her own tight skirt, And wouldn't have been, without a blush, "And why do I talk of a blush? Have I much of Modesty known? Why, no. Though, at times, her crimson cheek Grows not unlike my own. Yet strange that, not for my life, Could I redden as she does, deep. I wonder why colour called up's so dear, Laid on should come so cheap. "But, work, work, work, With powder, and puff, and pad : And, work, work, work, For every folly and fad ! With Imogen's artless gaze? No?-Phryne's brazen stare! With soul undone, but body made up, I've all the fun of the fair. "So I work, work, work! My labour never fags. And what are its wages? A Spinster's doom, And a place on the roll of hags. Still I ogle away by the wall, A playful kittenish thing; Autumn well written all over my face, Though my feet have lost their spring. "So at times, when I'm out of breath, To dangle about some chit just 'out,'— I try for a short half hour To feel as I used to feel When a girl, if my boldness was all assumed, My hair, at least, was real "And at times, for a short half hour, To think of Fred, and the few bright days Had I a heart, My work? May be ! To be stitched, stitched, stitched, Yet a little more tight in her skirt ; The while with her voice disdainfully pitched (Some ears at the sound, I wis, might have itched), She sang the "Song of the Flirt !" Punch, September 18, 1880. THE JANITOR'S Song. With features sallow and grim, With visage sadly forlorn, The Janitor sat in the Janitor's room, Weary, and sleepy, and worn. 'Tis a fact, fact, fact! He sat with a visage long; And still as he sat, with a voice half cracked, He sang this Janitor's song: "Sweep, sweep, sweep, In dirt, in smoke, and in dust, And sweep, sweep, sweep, Till I throw down my broom in disgust. Stairs, and chapel, and halls, Halls, and chapél, and stairs Till my drowsy head on my shoulder falls, Far into the weary night, It's sweep, sweep, sweep, Till my broom doth a pillow seem; Till over its handle I fall asleep, And sweep away in my dream. "Oh! students of high degree, (I scorn to address a low fellow), "Oh! seniors most reverend, potent, and grave, (In the words of the great Othello), My story's a sad one indeed, Notwithstanding your laughter and sport; My life is naught but a broken reed, The Janitor sat in the Janitor's room, It's a fact, fact, fact, He sat with a visage forlorn, And still as he sat with a voice half cracked, Carmina Collegensia THE SONG OF THE SHIRK. WITH a countenance weary and worn, Read, read, read, By days, by month, by year, Reading forsooth so uncommonly hard, That you feel excessively queer. But why do I sing of them? Their hearts are like pieces of stone, I believe I ought to shun the thought It makes me almost mad To think of that awful sight; O, dear, that to some the papers are stiff, While to others they're easy and light. Read, read, read, My reading will never stop; All attired with cards, tobacco, and wine, How full my time has been. Hard Greek and odious Latin, Their very dread makes me think this bed Is the worst I ever sat in. Read, read, read, Till my brain becomes infirm; In this and the Lenten Term. O, but to get through now A "Second" I would not mind, With the "General" looming in front, And the "Littlego " left behind. Then to think of the feelings of those, Who cannot these subjects acquire, Is enough to give one the direst of woes (Not to mention the wrath of your sire). I wish, wish, wish, Till wishing becomes a whirl, For the locks with a flowing curl. I long for them each till the three become Young men with beards full grown, I shave, shave, shave, But why should I dream of beards, For the pleasure of manhood pine; Or think of the looks my soul so craves, That never may be mine? That never may be mine. Tho' my heart with hope may pant, I watch, watch, watch But no sprouting gladdens my sight. Pomatum o'er cheeks and chin, Oh! could I but only see Just the faintest dawn of down, The hours at last will enjoy, When maids no longer will deem me But I to have glossy hair, On my lips a flowing curl, A pair of whiskers to grace my cheeks, 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 ! 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! space " of time to join the "chase," 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.] Wearily wandering into the winding Maze of the filthy and festering slums, 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, Fiercer than fathomless cry of the weepers, 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- My new top, and said with fervour, I remember Billy Hawkins Came, and with his pewter squirt, I ran quaking every limb. How came you in such a mess?" Gave me several slaps behind. 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, TOM HOOD. NURSERY REMINISCENCES. I REMEMBER, I remember, One fine morning in September, 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.' 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, Philadelphia. UNEDA. A REMINISCENCE. I remember, I remember, The cell, which now I scorn, I remember, I remember, We'd been out late at night, Twain heroes who, o'er sundry cups, And then, although no blood was spilt, '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 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. 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, But now I wish the rink and skates Had been far, far away. I remember, I remember, The joy I had in buying them, 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, I bear the traces now. I remember, I remember, Look at his college cap, Didn't he study? And all this the fruit? Or Was his brain muddled, From over-working? |