Blithely and gaily they laid them down, Nor heard was a sob nor a sigh there; And they carved not a line and they raised not a stone-- For the Mashers were worthy of neither! _Truth_, March 22, 1883. * * * * * NEVER JOHN MOORE; OR, THE REJECTED SUITOR. (An old story by an Old Bachelor.) (_With sincere apologies to the Rev. Charles Wolfe--for the sheep's clothing._) I. He felt highly absurd, as he put on his coat, And, of course, exceedingly worried; He swore he'd never return to the spot, As out of the front door he scurried. II. He tried to banish her face from his sight, She for whom he was yearning; Hadn't Fred said, he knew he was right, And that she was fond of spurning. III. But who'd have thought--ah, even guessed-- That after she had caught and bound him; It was to be but a flirting jest. An impartial joke to sound him. IV. Few and short were the words he had said, Only this--only this, "love be mine." She gave him a rap with her fan on his head, And laughingly left him to pine V. What was he to do? should he hate her instead? Or weeping wail, waly willow; Or wiping away the tears he had shed, Launch in some fresh peccadillo? VI. Lightly they'd talked in the days that were gone, In arbours and in kitchen gardens; Only to find _his_ poor heart torn By devotion, which her hard heart hardens. VII. L'ENVOI. The moral of this I hope you won't shun, Don't be in your mind too enquiring, Don't fall in love, or as sure as a gun, You're not cared for by her you're admiring. VIII. Talk to them civilly and leave them alone, And this is the end of my story. And as I don't mean to alter my tone, I drink to all flirts "con amore." From _Cribblings from the Poets_ (Jones & Piggott), Cambridge, 1883. A FUNERAL AFTER SIR JOHN MOORE'S, FURNISHED BY AN UNDERTAKER. Not a mute one word at the funeral spoke Till away to the pot-house we hurried, Not a bearer discharged his ribald joke O'er the grave where our "party" we buried. We buried him dearly with vain display, Two hundred per cent. returning, Which we made the struggling orphans pay, All consideration spurning. With plumes of feathers his hearse was drest, Pall and hatbands and scarfs we found him; And he went, as a Christian, unto his rest, With his empty pomp around him. None at all were the prayers we said, And we felt not the slightest sorrow, But we thought, as the rites were perform'd o'er the dead, Of the bill we'd run up on the morrow. We thought as he sunk to his lowly bed That we wish'd they'd cut it shorter. So that we might be off to the Saracen's Head, For our gin, and our pipes, and our porter.