But I to have glossy hair, On my lips a flowing curl, A pair of whiskers to grace my cheeks, A moustache to turn and twirl, Is but a dream, a gloomy gleam; A wish without a hope, Where fancy free may gain for me Nothing AT ALL but scope. With face like a maiden's bare, With hair on his head strewn thin, A youth ill at ease in an easy chair, Sat stroking his cheeks and chin. Stroke, stroke, stroke, Till he glanced at THE HOUR, and there was seen A word that brought the news that he sought-- 'Twas the famed PILOSAGINE! _Old Advertisement._ * * * * * "THE SONG OF THE DIRT." (_With Respectful Memories of Tom Hood._) With garments soddened and soiled, With boot-tops covered in grime, With trousers bespattered with foulest mud, Picking one's way through the slime. Slush--slush--slush! And foul-smelling filth and dirt, That clings like a kind of malodorous pitch-- I sing the "Song of the Dirt." Dirt--dirt--dirt! In the January night, And dirt--dirt--dirt! While the weather is muggy though bright. Smell, and slime, and reek, Reek, and slime and smell; Till over the kerbstone I fall and slip, And smother myself as well. O! but for one short hour! A respite: 'twould be so sweet! I'd bless the scavenger's shovel and broom, If he'd clear the mud 'neath my feet. For only one short hour, To feel as I used to feel: The pavement free from grease and slime In my walk that's now an ordeal. _Funny Folks_, January, 1884. * * * * * THE WAIL OF A PROOF-READER. _Made During a Fearful "Spell" of Weather by One of 'Em._ With fingers weary and worn, And nose quite puffy and red, A Proof-reader sat in his old linen coat, With a snorting "cold in 'is ead." With handkerchief in his left, And pen in his dexter paw, The miserable man first blew his nose, Then thus let loose his jaw: Read, read, read, With tears rolling down from my eyes, Read, read, read, Till I can't tell l's from i's. Read, read, read, In pain, confusion, and noise, And bored by a voice of dolorous pitch Belonging to "one of the boys." Read, read, read, In the story next to the roof: Read, read, read, Till my soul is lost in the proof. It's oh to be a Hottentot In the burning sand, Where never an author sent a lot Of manuscript the "devil" could not, Nor the "reader" understand! Read, read, read, Till my weary spirits sink, And mark, mark, mark, While mind ebbs with the ink. French, and Latin, and Greek! Hebrew, Spanish, and Dutch! Poring o'er all till my eyes grow weak, And I seem to be, by Fancy's freak, But a part of the pen I clutch.