Careless of Town and all in it,

With some one to soothe and to still you ;I shall go mad in a minute;

Bluebottle, then I shall kill you!

With some one to soothe and to still you,
As only one's feminine kin do,—
Bluebottle, then I shall kill you:

There now! I've broken the window!

As only one's feminine kin do,

Some muslin-clad Mabel or May!— There now! I've broken the window! Bluebottle's off and away!

Some muslin-clad Mabel or May,
To dash one with eau de Cologne ;—
Bluebottle's off and away;

And why should I stay here alone!

To dash one with eau de Cologne,

All over one's eminent forehead ;And why should I stay here alone! Toiling in Town now is "horrid."

✔A SONNET IN DIALOGUE

FRANK (on the Lawn).

OME to the Terrace, May, the sun is low.

COME

MAY (in the House).

Thanks, I prefer my Browning here instead.

FRANK.

There are two peaches by the strawberry bed.

MAY.

They will be riper if we let them grow.

FRANK.

Then the Park-aloe is in bloom, you know.

MAY.

Also, her Majesty Queen Anne is dead.

FRANK.

But surely, May, your pony must be fed

MAY.

And was, and is. I fed him hours ago. 'Tis useless, Frank, you see I shall not stir.

FRANK.

Still, I had something you would like to hear

MAY.

No doubt some new frivolity of men.

FRANK.

Nay, 'tis a thing the gentler sex deplores
Chiefly, I think . . .

MAY (coming to the window).

What is this secret, then?

FRANK (mysteriously).

There are no eyes more beautiful than yours!

✔ GROWING GRAY

"On a l'âge de son cœur."-A. D'HOUDETOT.

A LITTLE more toward the light;

Me miserable! Here's one that's white,
And one that's turning;

Adieu to song and "salad days";
My Muse, let's go at once to Jay's,
And order mourning.

We must reform our rhymes, my Dear,-
Renounce the gay for the severe,——
Be grave, not witty;

We have no more the right to find
That Pyrrha's hair is neatly twined,—
That Chloe's pretty.

Young Love's for us a farce that's played;
Light canzonet and serenade

No more may tempt us;

Gray hairs but ill accord with dreams;
From aught but sour didactic themes
Our years exempt us.

Indeed! you really fancy so?

You think for one white streak we grow

At once satiric?

A fiddlestick!

Each hair's a string

To which our ancient Muse shall sing
A younger lyric.

The heart's still sound. Shall "cakes and ale" Grow rare to youth because we rail

At schoolboy dishes?

Perish the thought! 'Tis ours to chant
When neither Time nor Tide can grant
Belief with wishes.