SANS SOUCI

I cannot tell what this love may be That cometh to all but not to me.

It cannot be kind as they'd imply, Or why do these gentle ladies sigh?

It cannot be joy and rapture deep, Or why do these gentle ladies weep?

It cannot be blissful, as 'tis said, Or why are their eyes so wondrous red?

If love is a thorn, they show no wit Who foolishly hug and foster it.

If love is a weed, how simple they Who gather and gather it, day by day!

If love is a nettle that makes you smart, Why do you wear it next your heart?

And if it be neither of these, say I, Why do you sit and sob and sigh?

THE BRITISH TAR.

A British tar is a soaring soul, As free as a mountain bird, His energetic fist should be ready to resist A dictatorial word His nose should pant and his lips should curl, His cheeks should flame and his brow should furl, His bosom should heave and his heart should glow, And his fist be ever ready for a knock-down blow.

His eyes should flash with an inborn fire, His brow with scorn be rung; He never should bow down to a domineering frown, Or the tang of a tyrant tongue.

His foot should stamp and his throat should growl, His hair should twirl and his face should scowl: His eyes should flash and his breast protrude, And this should be his customary att.i.tude!

[Ill.u.s.tration]

THE COMING BYE AND BYE.

Sad is that woman's lot who, year by year, Sees, one by one, her beauties disappear; As Time, grown weary of her heart-drawn sighs, Impatiently begins to "dim her eyes!"

Herself compelled, in life's uncertain gloamings, To wreathe her wrinkled brow with well saved "combings"-- Reduced, with rouge, lipsalve, and pearly grey, To "make up" for lost time, as best she may!

Silvered is the raven hair, Spreading is the parting straight, Mottled the complexion fair, Halting is the youthful gait.

Hollow is the laughter free, Spectacled the limpid eye, Little will be left of me, In the coming bye and bye!

Fading is the taper waist-- Shapeless grows the shapely limb, And although securely laced, Spreading is the figure trim!

Stouter than I used to be, Still more corpulent grow I-- There will be too much of me In the coming bye and bye!

THE SORCERER'S SONG.

Oh! my name is John Wellington Wells-- I'm a dealer in magic and spells, In blessings and curses, And ever filled purses, In prophecies, witches and knells!

If you want a proud foe to "make tracks"-- If you'd melt a rich uncle in wax-- You've but to look in On our resident Djinn, Number seventy, Simmery Axe.

We've a first cla.s.s a.s.sortment of magic; And for raising a posthumous shade With effects that are comic or tragic, There's no cheaper house in the trade.

Love-philtre--we've quant.i.ties of it; And for knowledge if any one burns, We keep an extremely small prophet, a prophet Who brings us unbounded returns: For he can prophesy With a wink _of_ his eye, Peep with security Into futurity, Sum up your history, Clear up a mystery, Humor proclivity For a nativity.

With mirrors so magical, Tetrapods tragical, Bogies spectacular, Answers oracular, Facts astronomical, Solemn or comical, And, if you want it, he Makes a reduction on taking a quant.i.ty!

Oh!

If any one anything lacks, He'll find it all ready in stacks, If he'll only look in On the resident Djinn, Number seventy, Simmery Axe!

He can raise you hosts Of ghosts, And that without reflectors; And creepy things With wings, And gaunt and grisly spectres!

He can fill you crowds Of shrouds, And horrify you vastly; He can rack your brains With chains, And gibberings grim and ghastly.

Then, if you plan it, he Changes organity, With an urbanity, Full of Satanity, Vexes humanity With an inanity Fatal to vanity-- Driving your foes to the verge of insanity!

Barring tautology, In demonology, 'Lectro biology, Mystic nosology, Spirit philology, High cla.s.s astrology, Such is his knowledge, he Isn't the man to require an apology!

Oh!

My name is John Wellington Wells, I'm a dealer in magic and spells, In blessings and curses, And ever filled purses In prophecies, witches and knells!

If any one anything lacks, He'll find it all ready in stacks, If he'll only look in On the resident Djinn, Number seventy, Simmery Axe!

SPECULATION.

Comes a train of little ladies From scholastic trammels free, Each a little bit afraid is, Wondering what the world can be!

Is it but a world of trouble-- Sadness set to song?

Is its beauty but a bubble Bound to break ere long?

Are its palaces and pleasures Fantasies that fade?

And the glories of its treasures Shadow of a shade?

Schoolgirls we, eighteen and under, From scholastic trammels free, And we wonder--how we wonder!-- What on earth the world can be!

THE DUKE OF PLAZA-TORO.

In enterprise of martial kind, When there was any fighting, He led his regiment from behind, He found it less exciting.

But when away his regiment ran, His place was at the fore, O-- That celebrated, Cultivated, Underrated n.o.bleman, The Duke of Plaza-Toro!

In the first and foremost flight, ha, ha!

You always found that knight, ha, ha!

That celebrated, Cultivated, Underrated n.o.bleman, The Duke of Plaza-Toro!