I only said, the House was dreary! Wit cometh not, with help to keep One's eyes awake; but I can sleep Like others there that grow aweary! I hold it true whate'er befall. That, though in bed more quiet kept, 'Tis better to have sat and slept Than never to have slept at all. But yet should faction gather head, Till by degrees to fullness wrought, Men speak much louder than they ought; I'll take the train, and go to bed. Yes, waft me from the brainless mouth, Wild wind! I seek a calmer sky, And I will reach before I die My old home island in the South! * * * * * A DREAM OF QUEER WOMEN. (_With Apologies to the Poet Laureate._) I READ, before mine eyelids dropt their shade, The last romance from MUDIE'S lately writ By one who is considered--in the trade-- The flower of female wit. Miss BLANK, the famous writer, whose wild way Of fiction-weaving was the first to fill The startled times of good VICTORIA With ghosts which haunt them still. And for awhile I tumbled on my bed, Her Art from slumber held me, as strong gales Hold driven birds from lighting, and my head, Chock-full of her strange tales. * * * * * Sudden I heard a voice that cried, "Come here! I want to look at you." I, turning, saw, curled in an easy chair, One sitting well wrapped up, as if from cold, Her cheeks were peachy, and her fluffy hair Was of the tawny gold. She, flashing forth a Circe smile, began: "I murdered men for fun--it was my trade; But, oh, 'tis long since I have slain a man. Once, panther-like I played "With many husbands, and then shed their blood, But life in this dim place is vastly slow; I have no men to murder in my mood-- That makes my only woe! "The men, my lovers, how they bowed their necks 'Neath the neat boots wherewith my feet were shod! I witched them, and the sturdiest of the sex Were vassals to my nod. "At last the sly detective tracked me down; I tried to coax _him_, but the brute was cold. They found the last poor fool I tried to drown, And for the rest--behold!" With that she tore her robe apart, and half The polished ivory of her shoulders grand Laid bare. Thereto she pointed with a laugh, Showing the convict's brand. * * * * * From _Punch_, October 12, 1878. * * * * * A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN AND OTHERS. I read, before such things had lost their spice, _Les Jolies Femmes de Paris_--a sweet work, Devoted to the furtherance of vice-- A sort of Devil's _Burke_.