To shave, or not to shave? that is the question, Whether ’tis comfortable most to cover One’s face all over with outrageous lather, Or by outrageous hair, s(h)ave so much trouble, And thus soap――pose we end it! To shave――to swear What for? when by moustache and beard we end The nuisance thus encouraging the locks That flesh is _hair_ to――’tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To shave? To swear? To swear! perchance, an oath――ay, there’s the rub; For as we shave, perhaps the razor slips, And as we _barber_ously hack our chin, Must we then pause; in every respect There is calamity in such a shave. Oh, who would bear shivering in the cold Ten minutes long to be in misery? The pangs of getting up, with much delay, The razor wanting strapping, and the time The patient shaver usually takes, When he himself might get on very well Without a razor?――or who would be shaved, Tweak’d by the nose as pigs for singeing are, To groan and sweat under the barber’s hand, And as the dread of something happening―― A pleasant slice, perhaps, taken off one’s nose; Of course entirely against one’s will. It makes us rather wear the honest beard, Than fly to barbers whom we know not of. Thus custom makes Gorillas of us all; Although we falter in our resolution, As lathered over with best Windsor soap, Expecting a severe cut every moment, We contemplate our beard with jaundiced eye, And so prepare for action―― Soft I vow――’tis done――_Oh, feel here!_ T. F. DILLON CROKER. _Vagrant Leaves_, Number 2.――November 1, 1866. “My occupation is no more!” _exclaimed Sylvester Daggerwood, on assuming the vile occupation of waiter at a country inn where, on contemplating the preparations for a parish feast he made the following complaint_: