NEW YEAR REFLECTION.
Reading edition
(By an Old-fashioned Fellow.)
"Goodwill to man!" the dear old carol saith. Ah me! Then why so much mean personal pother? We're credulous of aught that means the scathe Of a sad sister, or a stumbling brother. Men are like stout John Bunyan's "Little Faith,"— Save in believing evil of each other! There faith indeed is strong; but 'tis a rarity That such strange Faith is found combined with Charity!
Mem. by a Muser.—Many a spouting member of the "Independent Labour Party" is a "party" who wishes to be independent of labour. Hardie Norsemen, please note!
PREPARING FOR THE PARLIAMENTARY PANTOMIME. THEATRE ROYAL, ST. STEPHEN'S.
Party Colourists at work on the Properties.
TO JULIA'S POCKET.
[The ideal lady's pocket, that shall at once be accessible to its owner and defy the footpad's art, has yet to be invented.—Wears of Tautologus.]
My Julia's chaste and winsome cheer, Her comely lip, her coral ear, And eke her knickerbocker gear,— These be the theme of rhyming folk, Whereof the skill I here invoke In malediction of her poke; In that it passeth human wit By sleight of hand withal to hit Upon the pathless track of it. Though Julia's self therein dispose' That napkin with the which she blows For sorry rheum her Greekish nose, Not if she search with heavy pain Shall she by taking thought attain To look upon the thing again; To him alone of mortal clay That picketh pokes beside the way Their deeps are open as the day. Whenas her alms she would disburse, In vain she probeth for her purse, Whereat the beggars shrewdly curse; Even so their teeth do felons gnash That lightly lift her ready cash, Which he that stealeth stealeth trash. Oft-times she doth full bravely hold Her breezy reticule of gold Within her digits' dainty fold; As certain maids, I well believe, Do wear th' affections on their sleeve For any worthless wight to reave. But though her purse not suffer rape, Mischance is like in other shape To put on her a saucy jape;— If so my lady at the mart For very joyaunce of her heart Do purchase her a pasty tart, Let her not make essay to bring So beauteous and frail a thing Within her poke's encompassing; Lest, sitting down with weary stress, Unheedful of its buxomness, She make a right unseemly mess! Certes a man purblind may see For these offences needs must be Some comfortable remedy; Whoso deviseth such an one, I trow that his inventiòn Shall soothly pouch the peerless bun.
Gertrude. "My dear Jessie, what on earth is that Bicycle Suit for?"
Jessie. "Why, to wear, of course."
Gertrude. "But you haven't got a Bicycle!"
Jessie. "No; but I've got a Sewing Machine!"