Volume 104 — CRINOLINE.

Rumour whispers, so we glean From the papers, there have been Thoughts of bringing on the scene This mad, monstrous, metal screen, Hiding woman's graceful mien. Better Jewish gabardine Than, thus swelled out, satin's sheen! Vilest garment ever seen! Form unknown in things terrene; Even monsters pliocene Were not so ill-shaped, I ween. Women wearing this machine, Were they fat or were they lean— Small as Wordsworth's celandine, Large as sail that's called lateen— Simply swept the pavement clean: Hapless man was crushed between Flat as any tinned sardine. Thing to rouse a Bishop's spleen, Make a Canon or a Dean Speak in language not serene. We must all be very green, And our senses not too keen, If we can't say what we mean, Write in paper, magazine, Send petitions to the Queen, Get the House to intervene. Paris fashion's transmarine— Let us stop by quarantine Catastrophic Crinoline!