Ye milliners of England, Who clothe so many shes, Whose stuffs have never found their peers, Oh, listen if you please. Your standard prices pray keep down, To hold the trade in tow, For thus you’ll reap and you’ll keep Of customers a flow; Though you make toilettes loud and long Now trains have ceased to grow. The spirits of your tailors Shall start with every fold, For Paris ’twas from whence they came, And their reward was gold; Where Worth and mighty Felix dwell There is a better show, Where they _do_ reap and _do_ keep Of customers a flow, And say you haven’t the “haut ton,” And are most sadly slow. Britannia needs no bustles, No heels of slender height, Her walk should e’er be straight and sure, Her dresses not too tight. With simple taste _do_ loop them up And trim them down below: Ah! but you say, “that’s not the way O’er other firms to crow!” Well, then――(_despairingly_)――make your toilettes loud and long, We will not say you “No!” (_Sarcastically_――) May the ladies fair of England Ever live and learn To be extra grateful for your deeds And give you some return! We sing to _you_, fair modistes, To Messrs. Worth and Co., To the fame of your name, And may fools of fashion flow, While you make dresses more and more, And bows and buttons grow. From _Cribblings from the Poets_, by Hugh Cayley (Jones and Piggott, Cambridge, 1883.) ―――― TORPEDO TERRORS. _Our Poet has revised Campbell’s Lyric in accordance with the New System of Naval Warfare_). Ye mariners of England, Be vigilant to seize The flag that braved a thousand years, The battle and the breeze; And if your ships be launched again To meet a foreign foe, Ere ye sweep through thöe deep Send your divers down below, For that dread explosive swift and strong, The sneaking Tor-pe-dö. When your heroic fathers Their foes a thrashing gave, On the deck above they sought for fame, Not _underneath_ the wave. When Blake and mighty Nelson fought They dealt no dastard blow, But now we sweep o’er the deep, Both cautiously and slow, Fearing the din and the secret fire Of the Brigand Tor-pe-dö. Britannia needs new bulwarks, New towers along the steep, If far below the mountain wave These hidden reptiles creep; No thunders from our broadsides now May quell the floods below, If when the proud ships float along The swift steam launches throw Beneath the keels of ironclads strong The coward Tor-pe-dö.