I who have braved our fitful climes
And laughed when tempest drenches,
And shaken off the dust that grimes
Pews, cushioned stalls and benches,
Survived the counterblasting Row,
And Summer gales that roar so--
I ne'er imagined such a foe
Could trounce me to a torso.
* * * * *
THE POTATO AND THE HEPTARCHY.
(_A SENSIBLE SONG FOR THE SILLY SEASON._)
["Even the Potato and the Heptarchy will not leave us
perfectly equipped."--_The Daily News on "Why Young Men Don't
Marry."_]
The Tater and the Heptarchy
Were walking hand-in-hand;
They wept like "first-night" Stalls to see
The folly of the land;
"If fools would not talk fiddlededee,"
They said "it _would_ be grand!"
"If modest maids with towzled mops
On _you_ and _me_ were clear,
Do you suppose," the Tater said,
"More men would wed each year?"
"I doubt it," said the Heptarchy--
"They only mean to sneer!
"'O Maidens, come and cook for us!'
They--shamming love--beseech.
'Oh, tell us about Saxon times!
The course of history teach!'
But what they really want is 'tin;'
A thumping share for each.
"A girl may cook like any _chef_,
And know all HALLAM through,
May be a dab at darning socks,
Or making Irish stew;
But what young cubs care for is cash,
And not for me _or_ you.
"They want to lead an easy life,
And have good weeds and wine.
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