Volume 100 — MY LADY.

She is not fair to outward view As many maidens be; (And into such a rage she flew On learning this from me;) And yet she's lovely, nay divine, Judged by her own peculiar line. She's deeply read. She knows as much As average sixth-form boys; But not the greatest sage could touch The high, aggressive joys That imp her wing, like bird of prey, When in my dates I go astray. Not only learning's pure serene Her soaring mind can charm; The tradesman, shrinking from a scene, Regards her with alarm, And many a 'bus conductor owns The pow'r of her metallic tones. Contentiously content, she takes Her strident way through life, And goodness only knows what makes Her choose to be my wife. Courage, poor heart! Thy yearnings stifle. She's not a girl with whom to trifle.