Experience by thee, my friend, Thy country has been taught; Hadst though been doomed to silent life, As reckless talkers ought, Then had thy native land escaped Much evil thou hast wrought. SPHINX. _The Globe_, September 10, 1884. ―――――――― THE LOW BOHEMIAN. Before the _Cheshire Cheese’s_ bar The low Bohemian stands; A sallow, seedy man is he, With dirty nails, and hands; And ’tis in a gin-sodden voice He “four of Cork” demands. His nose is large and very red, His mouth ’twere hard to span; His daily work he likes to shirk, He borrows when he can, And he scans new comers anxiously, For he owes to many a man. Week in, week out, from morn to night, He loiters bars before; He knows the barmaids’ Christian names (A fact they much deplore;) Now here, now there, he, with a leer, Slinks in at the swinging door! He glories in the _Referee_, And reads the _Weekly Times_, In _Reynolds’_ finds congenial stuff, And sends it jokes and rhymes; For he’s a writer for the press, When liquor duly primes. Loafing――and loitering――liquoring―― Down to his grave he goes; Each morning finds him “coppery,” He’s “screw’d” ere night doth close; Something attempted――some one “done,” Whilst liquor always flows. He dies at length, and round his grave His boon companions tread, Then go and drink at various bars Till maudlin tears are shed―― Whilst their dead friend has left a wife And children lacking bread! But his lost life and early death, Do they no sermon preach? His doom, self-sought, has it no power A lesson strong to teach? No; his friends’ brains too sodden are, The message them to reach. _Truth_, Christmas Number, 1878. ―――――――― THE VILLAGE SCHOOLBOY. Under the garden apple-tree The village schoolboy stands; The boy, a nasty boy is he, With muddy, filthy hands; And the mussel-shells he’s playing with Are pick’d from dirty sands. His hair is short, and red, and straight, His face is like the tar; He cries and bawls when mother calls, You hear him near and far, And when he gets a chance he steals The sugar from the jar. Week in, week out, from morn till night, He bellows and he cries, And in the village there’s not one So good at telling lies; Big stones he throws at other boys, And hits them in the eyes. He goes on Sunday to the church, And every one annoys; He pinches all the kids he’s near, And asks them for their toys; And when they sing up in the choir He shouts out, “_Hold your noise!_”