I feel, feel, feel, Each morning of each week- My lips, my chin, my cheek. Moustache, imperial, beard, Imperial, beard, moustache, Could I but see signs of the three, I would give good sterling cash. I rub, rub, rub, When the shades of night set in, Rub, rub, rub, Pomatum o'er cheeks and chin, Oh! could I but only see Just the faintest dawn of down, Or hope that even I The hours at last will enjoy, When maids no longer will deem me But I to have glossy hair, On my lips a flowing curl, A pair of whiskers to grace my cheeks, With face like a maiden's bare, With hair on his head strewn thin, A youth ill at ease in an easy chair, Sat stroking his cheeks and chin. Stroke, stroke, stroke, Till he glanced at THE HOUR, and there was seen A word that brought the news that he sought'Twas the famed PILOSAGINE ! Old Advertisement. "THE SONG OF THE DIRT." (With Respectful Memories of Tom Hood.) With garments soddened and soiled, With boot-tops covered in grime, With trousers bespattered with foulest mud, Picking one's way through the slime. Slush-slush-slush! And foul-smelling filth and dirt, That clings like a kind of malodorous pitch--I sing the "Song of the Dirt." Dirt-dirt-dirt! In the January night, And dirt-dirt-dirt! While the weather is muggy though bright. Smell, and slime, and reek, Reek, and slime and smell; Till over the kerbstone I fall and slip, O! but for one short hour! A respite 'twould be so sweet! I'd bless the scavenger's shovel and broom, If he'd clear the mud 'neath my feet. THE BITTER CRY ! "Few persons have any conception of these pestilential human rookeries where tens of thousands are crowded together amidst horrors which call to mind the middle passage of the slave ship."-[The Bitter Cry of Outcast London.] Wearily wandering into the winding Maze of the filthy and festering slums, Heavenward? Hear the song that they sung: "Strive, strive, strive, With the wolf at the door, in vain, Tho' the struggle to keep alive Is worse than a hell of pain. Gin, gin, gin, Our cares we'll drown once more; 'Tis but folly to shrink from the spirit of drink, Fiercer than fathomless cry of the weepers, Where is the harpy who owneth each den ? Where are the vultures who prey on the living?" Pitiless dealers of wrong at each breath, Shedders of blood who each moment are giving Children and women and strong men to Death: Grandmamma-a shrewd observer- My new top, and said with fervour, To my mother for protection I ran quaking every limb. "Gracious goodness! look at him!” How came you in such a mess ?" Gave me several slaps behind. Said 'twas rather stony-hearted"Little rascal! sarve him right!" I remember, I remember, From that sad and solemn day, Never more in dark December Did I venture out to play. And the moral which they taught, I Well remember; thus they said"Little boys, when they are naughty, Must be whipped, and sent to bed!" The Ingoldsby Legends. A correspondent, writing to Notes and Queries as far back as June 10, 1871, mentions a parody, of which, unfortunately, only the two verses following are given : "I remember, I remember, The day that I was born, When first I saw this breathing world, All naked and forlorn. They wrapped me in a linen cloth, And then in one of frieze; And tho' I could not speak just then, Yet I contrived to sneeze. "I remember, I remember, Old ladies came from far; Some said I was like mother dear, Philadelphia. UNEDA. A REMINISCENCE. I remember, I remember, The cell, which now I scorn, I remember, I remember, We'd been out late at night, Twain heroes who, o'er sundry cups, Wound up by "getting tight;" And then, although no blood was spilt, That fiend in blue we met; "Run in " upon my natal dayOh, would I could forget. I remember, I remember, No soda would he bring, He said the air seem'd rather fresh He only said, "The place is cool," And, "Mind! don't make a row!" * The Figaro, March 7, 1874. Another parody of the same original appeared in The Figaro for August 26, 1874. It was entitled, "I Remember, I Remember, a reminiscence of Child-Hood and Thomas Hood," and consisted of four verses, but they are not now of sufficient interest to be quoted. I REMEMBER; I REMEMBER. I REMEMBER, I remember, When first I saw a rink, How fine to be a skater, I always used to think, To roll about, both in and out, But now I wish the rink and skates Had been far, far away. I remember, I remember, The joy I had in buying them, Now the rink has gone the way of rinks; I remember, I remember, When first I had a fall, How hard I found the asphalte, There were bruises on my body I bear the traces now. I remember, I remember, Look at his college cap, Didn't he study? And all this the fruit? Or Was his brain muddled, From over-working? Maybe she was poor, O'er burdened with strife, She grew weary and cried "To death's awful mystery swift to be hurled Anywhere, anywhere out of the world.” Then when the dark waters Had closed o'er her head, And this type of Eve's daughters Was told with the dead; Then when her poor body Was borne by the wave To the shore; they allowed her A wanderer's grave. Nor perfect, indeed, THE RINK OF SIGHS. One more unfortunate Lift her up tenderly- All through those wheels of hers And those high heels of hers- All things betoken, And spoilt her gay dress is, Alas, for the rarity And mournfully quivers, From window to casement, Mournful of plight. Never this history Whirled her skates boldly, Oh, but the Rink of it- Take her up tenderly Mind her back hair; Fashioned so slenderly Fetch her a chair. Can't she sit down on it? Is she in pain? True. She doth frown on it "Shan't rink again!" Funny Folks, February 26, 1876. THE LAST APPEAL, 1878. ONE more importunate Dizzy's a devil-he, What should I spare? Trip him up cleverly, Fair or unfair. Never mind arguments, Talk of him scornfully, Talk of him mournfully, Throw dirt, and try railing, Spiteful and womanly. Make no deep scrutiny Into past mutiny, Point out all slips of his, The "Daily News" blesses, Sneer at his father, Jeer at his mother, Is he a Christian? He's not an Englishman, Only a Charlatan, Worse than a murderer. Oh! for the rarity Of Christian charity To see a whole City full Countryfolk, citizens, When the lamps quiver |