At night with that vile Lady Frances (_Je faisais moi tapisserie_), You danced every one of the dances And never once thought of poor me! _Mon pauvre petit cœur!_ what a shiver I felt as she danced the last set, And you gave, oh, _mon Dieu!_ to revive her, My beautiful _vinegarette_. Return, love! away with coquetting; This flirting disgraces a man! And ah! all the while you’re forgetting The heart of your poor little Fan! _Reviens!_ break away from those Circes, _Reviens_, for a nice little chat; And I’ve made you the sweetest of purses, And a lovely black satin cravat! W. M. THACKERAY. ―――― ADVICE TO OLD WOMEN. (_Of both sexes._) Your money will never be safe, _Punch_ declares, While you keep with it parting for rotten Bank shares: It more safe in old stockings or teapots had lain, Or in some carpet-bag or box marked with your name. Not a bubble now bursts, not a Bank falls to ground, But shows how directors keep robbing around; How the company’s funds to their own use they take, Then suspend their cash payments, and scarce themselves make. * * * * * _Punch._ March 21, 1857. ――――:o:―――― TOM BOWLING. Here a sheer hulk lies poor Tom Bowling, The darling of our crew; No more he’ll hear the tempest howling, For death has broach’d him to. His form was of the manliest beauty, His heart was kind and soft; Faithful below he did his duty, But now he’s gone aloft. Tom never from his word departed, His virtues were so rare; His friends were many, and true-hearted, His Poll was kind and fair: And then he’d sing so blithe and jolly, Ah! many’s the time and oft; But mirth is turned to melancholy, For Tom is gone aloft. Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather, When he who all commands, Shall give (to call life’s crew together) The word to pipe all hands, Thus death, who kings and tars despatches, In vain Tom’s life has doff’d; For tho’ his body’s under hatches His soul is gone aloft. CHARLES DIBDIN. ―――― A CAROL FOR CRICKETERS. Here a sheer hulk from fierce round bowling, We mourn a batsman true; No more he’ll send the ball a-rolling; He’s battered black and blue. Long at the stumps he did his duty, And puzzled many a scout, For though swift balls might spoil his beauty, They rarely put him out.