Now, here's a pretty prize, indeed, On which De Vinne's art is lavished; Harkee! the bonny, dainty thing Is simply waiting to be ravished! And you have that for which I pine As you should pine for this fair creature: Come, now, suppose we make a trade-- You take this gem, and send the Beecher! Surely, these graceful, tender songs (In samite garb with lots of gilt on) Are more to you than those dull tome? Her pastor gave to Lizzie Tilton! FRANCOIS VILLON. If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I, What would it matter to me how the time might drag or fly? _He_ would in sweaty anguish toil the days and night away, And still not keep the prowling, growling, howling wolf at bay! But, with my valiant bottle and my frouzy brevet-bride, And my score of loyal cut-throats standing guard for me outside, What worry of the morrow would provoke a casual sigh If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I? If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I, To yonder gloomy boulevard at midnight I would hie; "Stop, stranger! and deliver your possessions, ere you feel The mettle of my bludgeon or the temper of my steel!" He should give me gold and diamonds, his snuffbox and his cane-- "Now back, my boon companions, to our brothel with our gain!" And, back within that brothel, how the bottles they would fly, If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I! If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I, We both would mock the gibbet which the law has lifted high; _He_ in his meager, shabby home, _I_ in my roaring den-- He with his babes around him, _I_ with my hunted men! His virtue be his bulwark--my genius should be mine!-- "Go fetch my pen, sweet Margot, and a jorum of your wine!" * * * * * So would one vainly plod, and one win immortality-- If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I! LYDIA DICK. When I was a boy at college, Filling up with classic knowledge, Frequently I wondered why Old Professor Demas Bently Used to praise so eloquently "Opera Horatii." Toiling on a season longer Till my reasoning power got stronger, As my observation grew, I became convinced that mellow, Massic-loving poet fellow Horace knew a thing or two Yes, we sophomores figured duly That, if we appraised him truly, Horace must have been a brick; And no wonder that with ranting Rhymes he went a-gallivanting Round with sprightly Lydia Dick! For that pink of female gender Tall and shapely was, and slender, Plump of neck and bust and arms; While the raiment that invested Her so jealously suggested Certain more potential charms. Those dark eyes of her that fired him-- Those sweet accents that inspired him, And her crown of glorious hair-- These things baffle my description; I should have a fit conniption If I tried--so I forbear!