The unhealthy Homes of England! How jauntily they stand Among their long-untended drains By crafty builders planned! The deer would shun them like the pest, Though beautiful they seem, And the Doctor’s face, in passing by, Lights with a sickly gleam. The drainy Homes of England! In Summer’s sultry heat What sniffs of not unmixed delight Each varied odour greet! Then woman’s voice is heard to say She thinks there’s something wrong, While manly lips the landlord bless In language rather strong. The typhoid Homes of England! How pleasant ’tis to know That liquid _microbes_ of disease Keep up a constant flow! Simple, yet sure, the plan whereby The sewer-gas ascends; They’re perfect masters of their art, Our homicidal friends. The fever-dens of England! By thousands on her plain, They smile at the defective pipes Which link them with the “main.” Through glowing orchards forth they peep, And gardens all abloom, And hygienic dullards sleep Unconscious of their doom. The scamping rogues of England! Long, long in hut and hall May heads of wisdom still be reared To circumvent them all! And trapped for ever be the drains, And pure the watery store Where first the child’s glad spirit learns What lurks beneath the floor. _Punch_, August 30, 1884. ―――― COTTAGE HOMES _Theoretical_―― Ye Cottage Homes of England! How pleasantly ye stand, With bees and bowers and birds and flowers, And rich allotment land! How happy, too, each owner, As fearless, free, and frank, He thanks his landlord that he has His “oven, porch, and tank!” _Practical_―― Ye Cottage Homes of England, That reek with filth and smells; There’s rheumatism in your roofs, There’s typhus in your wells; And many an ill-fed tenant―― His landlord’s helpless fief―― Looks forward to his workhouse home With positive relief! _Truth Christmas Number_, 1885. [Illustration] CASABIANCA, THE HEROIC BOY. The boy stood on the burning deck, Whence all but he had fled; The flame that lit the battle’s wreck Shone round him o’er the dead; Yet beautiful and bright he stood As born to rule the storm; A creature of heroic blood, A proud though child-like form! The flames rolled on――he would not go Without his father’s word; That father faint in death below, His voice no longer heard. He called aloud――“Say, father, say. If yet my task is done!” He knew not that the chieftain lay Unconscious of his son.