And though to make the heedless wise, He cheats in all he sells or buys, To work a moral purpose tries My Uncle. Who, when our friends are quite withdrawn, And hypocrites no longer fawn Takes all but honour into pawn My Uncle. JOHN TAYLOR. ――――:o:―――― THE PAWNBROKER BEFORE CONGRESS. (_Of Social Science, Represented by_ MR. ATTENBOROUGH.) Who is the Poor Man’s constant friend, Aid ever ready to extend, And sums at moderate usance lend? My Uncle. Who’s the philanthropist, maligned By thoughtless, ignorant, unkind Perverters of the people’s mind? My Uncle. Who stolen goods will ne’er receive, In fact, is shunned by them that thieve For pledges they’re afraid to leave? My Uncle. Who, when a Nephew, or a Niece, Would pawn a doubtful gem, or piece Of plate, apprises the Police? My Uncle. Who keeps the shop whose “Two-to-one,” Denotes that you shall not be done, For all that has been said in fun? My Uncle. Who is particular about All articles put “up the spout,” Again, (almost all,) taken out? My Uncle. The false suspicion, therefore, drop, That Nunky keeps a Fence’s shop, Who’d lose by prey which thieves might pop, My Uncle. _Punch_, October 21, 1871. ――――:o:―――― MY VALENTINE. In furs and velvets orthodox, With laughing eyes and sunny locks, And, oh! the very shortest frocks, My Valentine. With lips like full ripe cherries bright, With eyes ablaze with inward light, With dainty frills all gleaming white, Sweet Valentine. Her voice but like the rippling stream, Her face but like an artist’s dream, Her form but fit for poet’s theme, My Valentine. In silk her shapely limbs encased, With tiny _bottines_ deftly laced, On modelled feet so fitly placed, Dear Valentine. Her merry tricks, her roguish ways, Her playful pranks, her earnest gaze, Her gleeful laugh, her well-turned phrase, My Valentine. Who is there bold enough to dare With her sweet beauty to compare, Or even claim her throne to share? Loved Valentine. The chief she is of all coquettes, The prettiest of pretty pets; What thoughts her memory begets! My Valentine. Could I but hope her heart to fix!―― Ah me! old Time plays cruel tricks, For I, alas! am fifty-six;――She’s only nine, My Valentine. _Judy_, February 2, 1880.