With lips all livid and blue, And purple and swoll'n feet, A woman, in rags, sat crouch'd on the flags, And sang the Song of the Street. As she ceased the doleful strain, My homeward path I trod; And the cry and the prayer, Of that lost one there Went up to the Throne of God. W. H. B. _The Standard_, February 16th, 1865. * * * * * THE SONG OF THE STUMP. Stump--stump--stump-- Through market-place, pothouse, and dirt; Stump--stump--stump-- With a greasy mob fast to his skirt; Having changed his coat to secure their vote, Mr. Gladstone now changes his shirt. And if he but ends as he does begin, There is little doubt he will change his skin, On the stump--stump--stump. Stump--stump--stump-- Through Ormskirk, St. Helen's and Newton, Whilst after him shout a rabble rout Of electors "Ain't he a cute 'un?" Stump--stump--stump-- With the aid of rhetorical steam, Till over his speeches we fall asleep, And hear him stump in a dream; Stump--stump--stump-- For ever upon our ear. Alas! that principle's so cheap, And office is so dear! Stump--stump--stump. _The Tomahawk_, November, 1868. * * * * * THE SONG OF THE FLIRT. With bosom weary and worn, With eyelids painted and red, A lady, just from a Duchess's ball, Sat on the side of her bed. Her sapphires were gleaming and rich, And faultless her lace and her skirt, And yet with a voice of dolorous pitch, She sang the "Song of the Flirt." "Flirt, flirt, flirt! When the lunch is scarcely begun! Flirt, flirt, flirt! Till the sickening supper is done Ball and dinner, and rout, Rout, and dinner, and ball, Till I long for my bed to rest my head, And in a wakeless slumber to fall." "Flirt, flirt, flirt! Till the room begins to swim; Flirt, flirt, flirt, Till the eyes are starting and dim: Beam, and falsehood, and frown, Frown, and falsehood, and beam, Till over my lyings I fall asleep, And flirt my fan in a dream!" "Flirt, flirt, flirt! My labour never ends; And what are its wages? all true men's scorn, And a dreary dearth of friends. That shattered life--and this broken heart-- And yon smile that shrines a sneer; And a house so blank, my cousin I thank For sometimes calling here!" "Oh! but to scent the breath Of an honest man on my brow-- To feel the throb of a worthy arm Winding around me now; For only one brief hour To feel as the pure can feel, To staunch with the power of hearty love The wounds that refuse to heal!"