Volume 103 — SONGS OUT OF SEASON.

Still in London now you'll find me, Still detained against my will; And I wish, distinctly, mind me, To accentuate the "still;" It's a sort of consolation, As I sit, and fume, and frown, That the greatest botheration Of my life is out of town. He who used to grind "She Wore a Wreath of Roses" every day, And "Selections from Dinorah," And—"Ta-ra-ra-Boom-de-ay." With his execrable smiling, And exasperating din, Must, I needs infer, be riling Some one else with grind and grin. He who seemed, in fact, delighted, And a kiss—the fiend!—would blow, When I got a bit excited, And exclaimed "Al Diavolo!" Who, with unabashed assurance, Only beamed the more, and kissed, If, incensed beyond endurance, In his face I shook my fist. He has earned his little outing, This excruciating cove, And his instrument is flouting Bath, or Scarborough, or Hove. For the moment I can get a Peaceful interim, and free— But he cherishes vendetta, This Italian count, to me. Yes! Perhaps, indeed, 'twere kinder, Had he ne'er relaxed his track; He'll return, that grinning grinder, Reinvigorated, back! Then, as I remarked before, a Spell of doom for me remains, With "Selections from Dinorah," And his other worse refrains.