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Page 12
Around my chamber-floor I sped.
Harangued the book-case on each head;
DEMOSTHENES and CICERO
On hearing me had cried a go.
Then I must own that I was nettled--
Out of Court the case was settled.
All my points were left unmade,
And the fee is left unpaid.
* * * * *
POLITE LEARNING.
[Professor LOMBROSO writes in the _Revue des Revues_ that all
women are liars. Mr. VICTOR HORSLEY writes in the _Times_ that
one of Miss COBBE's statements is a lie.]
Shameful, shocking, rude Professor!
CRICHTON BROWNE--your predecessor
In attacks, would-be suppressor
Of the higher
Education--once compared them
To the Pantaloon, and scared them,
But he was polite, and spared them
Words like "liar."
Lie, indeed! There is a middle
Course--say "fib" or "tarradiddle,"
"Not quite true," "A sort of riddle
Facts to smother."
We, who love the fair romancer--
Be she talker, singer, dancer,
What you will, she's sweet--we answer,
"You're another!"
As for you, rough Mr. HORSLEY,
Arguing so very coarsely,
May I say yours is a worse lie,--
Rhyming badly?
You, so skilled in vivisection,
Could cut up Miss COBBE's objection,
With your tongue in some subjection,
Not thus madly.
Why, LOMBROSO would despise you,
Though he is so rude. These "lies" you
Freely write make folks surmise you
An impostor,
Not the lady. You've not "licked" her.
(Slang to suit you) though you're VICTOR.
Since you stoop to contradict her
Like a coster.
* * * * *
[Illustration: MR. PUNCH'S SHOOTING-PARTY.]
* * * * *
SONGS OUT OF SEASON.--MY CARETAKER.
[Illustration]
A mysterious thing
For our commonplace day,
Is the lady I sing
In the following lay.
While I'm shooting the grouse,
Or enjoying the sea,
She takes care of my house
For a nominal fee.
For ten shillings a-week
Does this wonderful woman
Undertake, so to speak,
An existence inhuman.
Like their dwellings the rabbits
Deep in darkling retreats,
This weird widow inhabits
Subterranean seats.
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