"So at times, when I'm out of breath, And the men go off in a pack To dangle about some chit just 'out,'-- Who smirks like a garrison hack,-- I try for a short half hour To feel as I used to feel When a girl, if my boldness was all assumed, My hair, at least, was real. "And at times, for a short half hour, It seems a sort of relief To think of Fred, and the few bright days Before he came to grief. My work? May be! Had I a heart, My tears might flow apace; But tears must stop--when every drop Would carry away one's face!" In the loudest things that are known, 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 (Some ears at the sound, I wis, might have itched), She sang the "Song of the Flirt!" _Punch_, September 18, 1880. * * * * * THE JANITOR'S SONG. With features sallow and grim, With visage sadly forlorn, The Janitor sat in the Janitor's room, Weary, and sleepy, and worn. 'Tis a fact, fact, fact! He sat with a visage long; And still as he sat, with a voice half cracked, He sang this Janitor's song: "Sweep, sweep, sweep, In dirt, in smoke, and in dust, And sweep, sweep, sweep, Till I throw down my broom in disgust. Stairs, and chapel, and halls, Halls, and chapel, and stairs-- Till my drowsy head on my shoulder falls, And sleep brings release from my cares." "From the very first crack of the gong, From the earliest gleam of daylight, Day after day and all day long, Far into the weary night, It's sweep, sweep, sweep, Till my broom doth a pillow seem; Till over its handle I fall asleep, And sweep away in my dream. "Oh! students of high degree, (I scorn to address a low fellow), "Oh! seniors most reverend, potent, and grave, (In the words of the great Othello), My story's a sad one indeed, Notwithstanding your laughter and sport; My life is naught but a broken reed, And my broom is my only support." With features sallow and grim, With visage sadly forlorn, The Janitor sat in the Janitor's room, Weary, and sleepy, and worn. It's a fact, fact, fact, He sat with a visage forlorn, And still as he sat with a voice half cracked, He sang the Janitor's song. _Carmina Collegensia._ * * * * * THE SONG OF THE SHIRK.