Oh, but for one short hour! A period however brief!-- No blessed leisure for Power or Hope, But only time for grief! A little writing eases my mind-- A pamphlet, a postcard, a note-- Yet my pen must stop, for each hot ink-drop May cost my party a vote. With statements tattered and worn, With facts distorted and cooked, The statesman may hope that his share in the war Will perchance be overlooked, Turk, Turk, Turk! 'Tis vain the truth to shirk, While thousands of bleeding corpses cry, "Your pamphlets and speeches have made us die, And we hope you are proud of your work." _They are Five_, by W. E. G. (David Bogue), London. * * * * * THE SONG OF THE FLIRT. (_Hood's Own--for Somebody Else._) In the loudest things that are worn, With her cheek a peculiar red, A maiden sat, in a gentleman's vest,-- This one idea in her head: To be stitched, stitched, stitched, Yet a little more tight in her skirt, The while, with her voice disdainfully pitched, She sang the "Song of the Flirt!" "Work, work, work. In the broiling drive and row, And work, work, work, At the stifling crush and show. And I'm so sick of it all, That to-morrow I'd marry a Turk, If he'd ask me--I would! For, after this, Yes,--_that_ would be Christian work! "Work, work, work, On the lawn in the lazy shade; Work, work, work, In the blaze of the baked parade. Tea, and tennis, and band,-- Band, and tennis, and tea:-- If I can but ogle an eldest son, They're all the same to me. "You men, do you dare to sneer, And point to your sisters and wives!-- Because they simper 'Not nice, my dear;'-- As if they had ne'er in their lives Been stitched, stitched, stitched, Each prude in her own tight skirt, And wouldn't have been, without a blush, Had she had the chance--a _Flirt!_ "And why do I talk of a blush? Have I much of Modesty known? Why, no. Though, at times, her crimson cheek Grows not unlike my own. Yet strange that, not for my life, Could I redden as she does, deep. I wonder why colour called up's so dear,-- Laid on should come so cheap. "But, work, work, work, With powder, and puff, and pad: And, work, work, work, For every folly and fad! With Imogen's artless gaze? No?--Phryne's brazen stare! With soul undone, but body made up, I've all the fun of the fair. "So I work, work, work! My labour never fags. And what are its wages? A Spinster's doom, And a place on the roll of hags. Still I ogle away by the wall,-- A playful kittenish thing; Autumn well written all over my face, Though my feet have lost their spring.