I know not when your bill I’ll see, I know not when that bill fell due What interest you will charge to me, Or will you take my I.O.U.? It may not be till years have passed, Till chubby children’s locks are grey; The tailor trusts us, but at last His reckoning we must meet some day Some day――some day――some day I must meet it, Snip, I know not when or how, Snip, I know not when or how; Only this――only this――this that once you _did_ me―― Only this――I’ll do _you_ now――I’ll do you now―― I’ll do you now. I know not are you far or near―― Are you at rest? or cutting still? I know not who is held so _dear_! Or who’s to pay your “little bill!” But when it comes, some day――some day―― These eyes an awful tote may see; And don’t you wish, my tailor gay, That you may get your _£_ _s._ _d._? Some day――some day――some day I must meet it, Snip, I know not when or how, Snip, I know not when or how, Only this――only this――this that once you _did_ me―― Only this――I’ll do you now――I’ll do you now―― I’ll do you now! From _Sketches in Prose and Verse_, by F. B. Doveton, author of _Snatches of Song_. London: Sampson Low & Co., Fleet Street. 1886. (This amusing volume also contains a number of Parodies on the poems of Moore, Alfred Tennyson, Campbell, Hood, Byron, Coleridge, Southey, Poe, and Swinburne.) ――――:o:―――― MY MOTHER BIDS ME FIND AN HEIR. My mother bids me find an heir And give up Cousin Hugh, Who came so often to the square, Poor cornet――Horse Guards Blue. “For why,” she cries, “a younger son, While plainer girls win peers, Alas! another season’s done, And still you’re all _Miss Veres_.” The _Post_ announces _he_ has gone To shoot and stalk the deer; I canter through the lanes alone, And wish it was next year: And as I draw the amber thread, _His_ slippers to adorn, No novel that I ever read, Had heroine so forlorn. _Punch_ September 22, 1866. ―――― SONG. My mother bids me spend my smiles, On all who come and call me fair, As crumbs are thrown upon the tiles To all the sparrows of the air. But I’ve a darling of my own For whom I hoard my little stock,―― What if I chirp him all alone And leave mamma to feed the flock? THOMAS HOOD. ――――:o:―――― O! ’TIS LOVE! ’TIS LOVE!