Volume 146 — THE TRAGEDY OF MIDDLE AGE.

When I was a mid-Victorian nut With a delicate taste in ties, A highly elegant figure I cut, At least in my own fond eyes, And used to regard unwaxed moustaches As one of the worst of social laches. But now I find in my youngest son The sternest of autocrats. He tells me the things that must be done And orders my collars and spats; Prescribes mild exercise on the links And advises me on the choice of drinks. I've faithfully striven to imitate My Mentor in dress and diction, And loyally laboured to cultivate A taste for the latest fiction; Though I still read DICKENS upon the sly, And even SCOTT, when nobody's by. It's true I've managed to draw the line At going to tango teas, For, after all, I am fifty-nine And a trifle stiff in the knees; But I've had to give up billiards for "slosh," And pay laborious homage to "squash." Long since my whiskers I had to shave To please this young barbarian, But still for a while I stealthily clave To the use of Pommade Hungarian; But now my tyrant has made me snip The glory and pride of my upper lip. "My dear old man," he recently said, "If you go on waxing the ends, You're bound to be cut, direct and dead, By all of my nuttiest friends. For it's only done, so The Mail discovers, By Labour leaders and taxi-shovers." So the deed was done, but whenever I gaze On my face in the glass I moan As I think of the mid-Victorian days When my upper lip was my own. For now, of length and of breadth bereft, The ghost of a tooth-brush is all that's left.

"MISSING NAVY PAYMASTER ARRESTED." "Evening Standard" Poster.