"OUT FOR AN OTTER-DAY!"
Reading edition
MY PRETTY JANE AT A LATER SEASON.
(Respectfully submitted for the consideration of Mr. Sims Reeves.)
My pretty Jane, my pretty Jane, You still, you still are looking shy! You never met me in the evening When the bloom was on the rye. The year is waning fast, my love; The leaves are in the sere; The fog-horns now are humming, love; And the moonshine's "moonshine," dear. But, pretty Jane, my dearest Jane, I never will "say die";— Come, meet me, meet me in our parlour, Where the bloom is on the fly.
Just name your day, that mother may Produce her best in china things, And stop yon man in apron white, Whose muffin-bell, whose muffin-bell now rings. The year is waning fast, &c.
"A Triple Bill."—"The Home Rule Bill," said Mr. Chamberlain to his American friends, "is not scotched. It is killed." Of course our Joe knows that were it "scotched" it would be only "half kilt." But the idea of an Irish Bill being Scotched! Our only Joe might have added that it was "Welsh'd" in the Lords.
Phœbus, what a Name!—Sir Comer Petheram, Chief Justice of Bengal, is coming home. Welcome, Sir Home-Comer Petheram. Or, why not Sir Homer Petheram for short?
TO A YOUNG COUNTRY FRIEND, AGED SEVEN.
(Who whistled of Monte Carlo not wisely, but too well.)
Sweet youth! I wonder if you'll feel much pain To know that that sweet soul-inspiring strain You whistle at so wonderful a rate Is now in point of fact quite out of date. Down in the country pr'aps you hardly know At what a pace these street-songs come and go. At present you're a day behind the fair, And want (as I myself) a change of air. You should protest you're being driven crazy By waiting for the answer of fair Daisy; Or else ask sadly what was she to do Who, "silly girl," got taken on to Crewe. Whistle that charming ditty, if you must, Until, (forgive the phrase) until you bust, But do not whistle, if you wish to rank As in the know, "The Man who broke the Bank."
UPON JULIA'S MOTHER.
(To depart presently.)
Julia, I deemed that I had wed Not thine, but only thee; A child I wept my mother sped, Thou'st given thine to me. She came as wandering sea-birds come To rest upon a spar Of ships that trail the lights of home Where homeless billows are. From Aix-les-Bains to Harrogate, From Bath to Tunbridge Wells, She's sojourned in Imperial state, Yet here content she dwells. Content—and yet no truce with truth Such Roman mothers know; Quick to detect the faults of youth, And prompt to tell us so. I knew not I possess'd the charms Her wandering will to bind, To keep me from my Julia's arms, And mould the baby's mind. When first I held thee to my breast I little dreamt the day Another bird would share the nest As there content to stay. Thy kindred, dear, I wooed not them, Such wealth I'd fain resign; Since I have won the brightest gem I covet not the mine.
Mrs. R. says that when she thinks the drains are likely to be offensive she invariably uses "bucolic."
A CRISIS IN CONJUGAL LIFE.
Fond Husband. "Look here, Ethel, I see you daily getting Thinner and Paler; you cannot Eat, you cannot Sleep, while I find Life a burden to me. I can bear it no longer! Let us make a Bargain. If you promise not to give me a Christmas Present, I'll promise not to give you one. There!"
FAREWELL!
(On hearing that snow had fallen in the North.)
Snow has fallen, winter's due; In the months that now ensue Smoky fogs will hide the view, Mud will get as thick as glue, Rain, snow, hail will come in lieu Of the warmth to which we grew Quite accustomed, and will brew Colds, coughs, influenza, rheumatism to thrill us through. Gone the sky of southern hue, Cloudless space of cobalt blue! Gone the nights so sultry—phew! Quite without rheumatic dew. Gone the days, when each anew Seemed yet finer! In Corfu, California, Peru, This would not be strange, but true; But the weatherwise at Kew Say in England it is new. Peerless summer, in these few Lines we bid farewell to you! Or as cockneys say, "Aydew!"
A "Shakspearian Student" wants to know "if, when Richard the Third calls out 'A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse!' he is not alluding to the Night-Mare from which he is only just recovering." [Can't say. Highly probable. So like Shakspeare.—Ed.]
Dear Mr. P.,—I believe you do not know that Mrs. R. recently visited Rome. She tells me that she thinks it an excellent thing that the Tontine Marshes have been planted with Apocalypses.