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,
Had she had the chance-a Flirt!

"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,
And the men go off in a pack

To dangle about some chit just 'out,'—
Who smirks like a garrison hack,-

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,
It seems a sort of relief

To think of Fred, and the few bright days
Before he came to grief..

Had I a heart,

My work? May be !
My tears might flow apace;
But tears must stop-when every drop
Would carry away one's face !"
In the loudest things that are known,
With her cheek a peculiar red,
A maiden sat, in a gentleman's vest,-
This one idea in her head:

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,
And sleep brings release from my cares.'
"From the very first crack of the gong,
From the earliest gleam of daylight,
Day after day and all day long,

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,
And my broom is my only support."
With features sallow and grim,
With visage sadly forlorn,

The Janitor sat in the Janitor's room,
Weary, and sleepy, and worn.

It's a fact, fact, fact,

He sat with a visage forlorn,

And still as he sat with a voice half cracked,
He sang the Janitor's song.

Carmina Collegensia

THE SONG OF THE SHIRK.

WITH a countenance weary and worn,
With eyelids all heavy and red,
An Undergrad sat, in his nightgown torn,
Reading his Paley in bed.

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
Of Examiners when I'm alone.

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;
And what's its reward? a name in a list,
Where the bottom's as good as the top.
This tumbled bed, with its shaky legs,
Yon room in disorder so great,

All attired with cards, tobacco, and wine,
It shows that I kept it up late.
Read, read, read,

How full my time has been.
My reading I bless (?) for I possess
No leisure to read Light Green.
Hard Latin and odious Greek,

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;
Read, read, read,

In this and the Lenten Term.
And then the men who have passed,
As I see them in the street,
Will laugh at me, and twit, and jeer,
Whenever them I meet.

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,
Wish, wish, wish,

For the locks with a flowing curl.
Imperial, beard, moustache,
Moustache, imperial, beard,

I long for them each till the three become
Wove into a triad weird.

Young men with beards full grown,
Young men with moustaches neat ;
Say, is it not your lot to own,
The joys of life complete?

I shave, shave, shave,
My cheeks with lather besmeared,
Scraping the skin with razor keen,
To make it utter a beard.

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,
And mourn that some with such are blest,
Whilst I of such am scant.

I watch, watch, watch
My glass each morning and night;
Watch, watch, watch,

But no sprouting gladdens my sight.
That shaving glass, that razor keen,
That strop I so often whet;
Betray the desire that ne'er may tire
Of what I ne'er may get.

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 !

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.]

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:

"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 re.nember,
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.

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.

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.'

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!"

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,
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.

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?