"They both are here to bid you shun The other one's society, For Total Abstinence is one, The other, Inebriety."

He waved his hand--a vapour came - A wizard POLTER reckoned him; A bogy rose and called his name, And with his finger beckoned him.

The monster's salient points to sum, - His heavy breath was portery: His glowing nose suggested rum: His eyes were gin-and-WORtery.

His dress was torn--for dregs of ale And slops of gin had rusted it; His pimpled face was wan and pale, Where filth had not encrusted it.

"Come, POLTER," said the fiend, "begin, And keep the bowl a-flowing on - A working man needs pints of gin To keep his clockwork going on."

BOB shuddered: "Ah, you've made a miss If you take me for one of you: You filthy beast, get out of this - BOB POLTER don't wan't none of you."

The demon gave a drunken shriek, And crept away in stealthiness, And lo! instead, a person sleek, Who seemed to burst with healthiness.

"In me, as your adviser hints, Of Abstinence you've got a type - Of MR. TWEEDIE'S pretty prints I am the happy prototype.

"If you abjure the social toast, And pipes, and such frivolities, You possibly some day may boast My prepossessing qualities!"

BOB rubbed his eyes, and made 'em blink: "You almost make me tremble, you!

If I abjure fermented drink, Shall I, indeed, resemble you?

"And will my whiskers curl so tight?

My cheeks grow smug and muttony?

My face become so red and white?

My coat so blue and b.u.t.tony?

"Will trousers, such as yours, array Extremities inferior?

Will chubbiness a.s.sert its sway All over my exterior?

"In this, my unenlightened state, To work in heavy boots I comes; Will pumps henceforward decorate My tiddle toddle tootsic.u.ms?

"And shall I get so plump and fresh, And look no longer seedily?

My skin will henceforth fit my flesh So tightly and so TWEEDIE-ly?"

The phantom said, "You'll have all this, You'll know no kind of huffiness, Your life will be one chubby bliss, One long unruffled puffiness!"

"Be off!" said irritated BOB.

"Why come you here to bother one?

You pharisaical old sn.o.b, You're wuss almost than t'other one!

"I takes my pipe--I takes my pot, And drunk I'm never seen to be: I'm no teetotaller or sot, And as I am I mean to be!"

Ballad: THE STORY OF PRINCE AGIB.

Strike the concertina's melancholy string!

Blow the spirit-stirring harp like anything!

Let the piano's martial blast Rouse the Echoes of the Past, For of AGIB, PRINCE OF TARTARY, I sing!

Of AGIB, who, amid Tartaric scenes, Wrote a lot of ballet music in his teens: His gentle spirit rolls In the melody of souls - Which is pretty, but I don't know what it means.

Of AGIB, who could readily, at sight, Strum a march upon the loud Theodolite.

He would diligently play On the Zoetrope all day, And blow the gay Pantechnicon all night.

One winter--I am shaky in my dates - Came two starving Tartar minstrels to his gates; Oh, ALLAH be obeyed, How infernally they played!

I remember that they called themselves the "Ouaits."

Oh! that day of sorrow, misery, and rage, I shall carry to the Catacombs of Age, Photographically lined On the tablet of my mind, When a yesterday has faded from its page!

Alas! PRINCE AGIB went and asked them in; Gave them beer, and eggs, and sweets, and scent, and tin.

And when (as sn.o.bs would say) They had "put it all away,"

He requested them to tune up and begin.

Though its icy horror chill you to the core, I will tell you what I never told before, - The consequences true Of that awful interview, FOR I LISTENED AT THE KEYHOLE IN THE DOOR!

They played him a sonata--let me see!

"Medulla oblongata"--key of G.

Then they began to sing That extremely lovely thing, Scherzando! ma non troppo, ppp."

He gave them money, more than they could count, Scent from a most ingenious little fount, More beer, in little kegs, Many dozen hard-boiled eggs, And goodies to a fabulous amount.

Now follows the dim horror of my tale, And I feel I'm growing gradually pale, For, even at this day, Though its sting has pa.s.sed away, When I venture to remember it, I quail!

The elder of the brothers gave a squeal, All-overish it made me for to feel; "Oh, PRINCE," he says, says he, "IF A PRINCE INDEED YOU BE, I've a mystery I'm going to reveal!

"Oh, listen, if you'd shun a horrid death, To what the gent who's speaking to you saith: No 'Ouaits' in truth are we, As you fancy that we be, For (ter-remble!) I am ALECK--this is BETH!"

Said AGIB, "Oh! accursed of your kind, I have heard that ye are men of evil mind!"

BETH gave a dreadful shriek - But before he'd time to speak I was mercilessly collared from behind.

In number ten or twelve, or even more, They fastened me full length upon the floor.

On my face extended flat, I was walloped with a cat For listening at the keyhole of a door.

Oh! the horror of that agonizing thrill!

(I can feel the place in frosty weather still).

For a week from ten to four I was fastened to the floor, While a mercenary wopped me with a will

They branded me and broke me on a wheel, And they left me in an hospital to heal; And, upon my solemn word, I have never never heard What those Tartars had determined to reveal.

But that day of sorrow, misery, and rage, I shall carry to the Catacombs of Age, Photographically lined On the tablet of my mind, When a yesterday has faded from its page

Ballad: ELLEN McJONES ABERDEEN.