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.

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.

THE LAST APPEAL, 1878.

ONE more importunate
Struggle for place!
One more unfortunate
Slap in the face!

Dizzy's a devil - he, What should I spare? Trip him up cleverly,

Fair or unfair.

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 failing.

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?

Point out all slips of his,
Sneer at his family;
Closed are those lips of his,
He must bear silently.
Fear not excesses,
Only hit home.

The "Daily News" blesses,
While wonderment guesses
What next may come.

Sneer at his father,

Jeer at his mother,

Is he a Christian?
Nay, I'll go further.

He's not an Englishman,

Only a Charlatan, Worse than a murderer.

Oh! for the rarity

Of Christian charity
Under the sun!
Oh! it was pitiful

To see a whole City full
Greet such an one.

Countryfolk, citizens,
Foreigners, denizens,
Greetings combined!
Yet may such eminence,
Spite of such evidence,
By my malevolence,
Be undermined.

When the lamps quiver
Over the river,
With many a light
From many a casement,

THOMAS HOOD (continued).

THE SONG OF THE LINES.

WITH Gradus dirty and worn,

With heavy and weary eyes,

A Freshman sat who had written an ode For the last Vice-Chancellor's prize. Wait, wait, wait,

'Mid Grinders, Lectures, and fines, And thus on a lyre of dolorous chord He sang the Song of the Lines.

Wait, wait, wait,

When the bell is ringing aloof,

And wait, wait, wait,

When we leave our Grinder's roof,

And it's oh to be a Jib

In the Godless College of Cork,

Where never Vice-Chancellor gives a prize, If this be Christian's work.

Oh, Fellows with pupils dear,

Oh, Fellows with nephews and sons,

It is not paper you're tearing up,
But Senior Freshman's Duns,
For the Duns are growing rude,
Because of the Bills I owe,

Madden and Roe, Kinsley and Jude,
Jude and Kinsley and Roe.

Wait, wait, wait,

Till term after term fulfils,

And wait, wait, wait,

As minors wait for wills,

Week after week in vain

We've looked at the College gate,

For how many days? I would hardly fear To speak of ninety-eight.

With Gradus dirty and worn,

With heavy and weary eyes,

A Freshman sat who had written an ode
For the last Vice-Chancellor's prize.
Wait, wait, wait,

'Mid Grinders, Lectures, and fines, And thus on a lyre of dolorous chord, (Would that its tones could reach the Board), He sang the Song of the Lines.

C. P. MULVANY.

Kottabos, Dublin (William McGee), 1873.

The following imitation was written by Father McCarthy, and appeared in The Catholic Herald (Jersey), about forty years ago :

THE SONG OF THE DRUNKARD.

With body shrivelled and worn,

With eyeballs bloodshot and red,

A man in plight forlorn,

Lay moaning sore in bed.

Drink, drink, drink,

In poverty, fever, and pain,

And still he sang of his favourite drink,
'Mid the whirlings of his brain.

Drink, drink, drink,

Oh! there's nothing like drink for man,

Drink, drink, drink,

Till the head reel round again.

It's oh! to be a beast,

Without a soul to save,

With no fear to stay the drunken feast,
And no Hell beyond the grave.

Brandy, and gin, and rum,

Rum, and brandy, and gin, 'Till wild delirium come,

And we rave in the pit of sin.
Oh! men with children dear,

Oh! men with starving wives,
It is not gin you are drinking there,
But your wives and children's lives.
Drink, drink, drink,

Let them all be ragged and bare,
Drink, drink, drink,

Is the drunkard's only care.

Drink, drink, drink,

Our guzzling never flags,

And our wages go, and our homes are woe,
And our children skulk in rags.

Forced by day to starve or steal,
By night a floor their bed,
And all their life is a life of vice,
And where are they when dead?
Drink, drink, drink,

Let us fight and curse and swear,
Drink, drink, drink,

'Till our breath pollute the air. Brandy, and gin, and rum,

Rum, and brandy, and gin, 'Till wasted frame and fever come, And the sorrows of Hell begin.

Drink, drink, drink,

'Till staggering home we go,

Drink, drink, drink,

'Till we blast that home with woe.

Drink, curses, murder, and shame,

Make up the drunkard's life,

With the rags and vice of a starving child,
And the groans of a sickly wife.
With body shrivelled and worn,
With eyeballs glaring and red,
A savage man in plight forlorn,
Lay, raving loud on his bed.
Drink, drink, drink,

In racking fever and pain, And still he raved of his murderous drink, 'Mid the frenzies of his brain.

A distinguished officer writes that the recent spell of warm weather has reminded him of a parody he read in India twenty-five years ago. It describes, in no exaggerated manner, a very disagreeable complaint to which Anglo-Indians are liable in the hot season :

THE SONG OF "THE PRICKLY HEAT." I.

With fingers never at rest,

With cuticle measly red,

A heat-oppress'd victim capered about,
Itching from ankles to head-