The live-long day, around my thigh Ye cling: and seldom turn away; With me ye trudge through wet and dry, My Stockings. At night, _one_ serves to stop a gap I’th’ wall――I sink in Somnus’ lap, And _t’other_ serves me for a cap, My Stockings! Let none their various deeds decry: For ever as the week goes by, They’re washed, and then I hang to dry, My Stockings! About 1800. _Anonymous._ ――――:o:―――― THE MAN OF FASHION. Who made this moving piece of clay, So bright, and beautiful and gay As though life were one holiday? My Tailor. Whose magic shears, and cloth, and tape, Gave to my ugly neck a nape, And brought my bow-legs into shape? My Tailor. Who all deformity effaced, And beautified, and stuffed and laced, And stamp’d Adonis on my waist? My Tailor. Who made the coat, the pantaloon, That in the gay and bright saloon, Won me a spouse and honey-moon? My Tailor. Reverse the picture; who was it, That taught me wisdom was unfit A beau, a gentleman, and wit? My Tailor. Whose magic shears, and cloth, and tape, Made me in bearing, form, and shape, The very mockery of an ape? My Tailor. Who bound me to a worthless wife, Whose vanity, and spleen, and strife Will be the nightmare of my life? My Tailor. Who passes me with threatening looks? Who’s got me deepest in his books? Who’ll nab me yet? Why, Mr. Snooks―― My Tailor. _The Maids, Wives, & Widows Penny Magazine_, May 25, 1833. ――――:o:―――― MY TICKER. Old friend that once with me did dwell Vouchsafing all the hours to tell, Where art thou gone? I know too well, My Ticker! Thou art not gone to artists’ care To try the good of change of air Or undergo a slight repair, My Ticker. No! thou art gone――no fault of thine―― Unto a relative of mine, Entitled “Uncle,” I opine, My Ticker. And there must thou remain awhile, Spite of thyself, in durance vile, Accompanied by my best tile, My Ticker. And much I fear thou must remain Until a shower, _not of rain_, Impels thee down the spout again, My Ticker. _Punch_, 1842. ――――:o:―――― MY UNCLE. (_By Louis Napoleon Bounaparte._) Who raised our race up from the dregs, And set us youngsters on our legs, Putting us up so many pegs? My Uncle!