Volume 158 — THE SORROWS OF A SUPER-PROFITEER.

And so you thought we simply steered Great motor-cars to champagne dinners And bought tiaras and were cheered By hopes of breeding Epsom winners; Eh, lad, you little knew the weird Dreed by the Yorkshire spinners. How hollow are those marble halls, The place I built and deemed a show-thing, Its terraces, its waterfalls— Once more I hear that sound of loathing, The bell rings and a stranger calls To speak of underclothing. They've bashed my offices to wrecks, They've broke their way beyond the warders, And now my country seat they vex, They trample my herbaceous borders; They chase me up and down with cheques, They flummox me with orders. They bolt me to the billiard-room, Where chaps are playing five-bob snooker; They see me dodging from the doom, They heed no threats and no rebuker; "We've got thee now," they say, "ba goom!" And pelt me with their lucre. Vainly I put the prices up To stem that flowing tide of riches; The horror haunts me as I sup; The unknown guest arrives and pitches His ultimatum in my cup:— "The people must have breeches." I shall not see the skylark soar Nor hear the cuckoo nor the linnet, When Springtime comes, above the roar Of folk a-hollering each minute For yarn at thirty-two times more Than what I spent to spin it. Eh me, I cannot help but pine For days departed now and olden, When I could drink of common wine, To powdered flunkeys unbeholden; Do peas taste better when we dine Because the knife is golden? Often I wish I might repair To haunts that once I used to enter, Like "The Old Fleece" up yonder there, Of which I was a great frequenter, Not yet a brass-bound millionaire, But just a cent-per-center. Evoe.