My mother bids me dye my hair The fashionable hue; And change my _chataigne_ locks with care To red――through green, or blue! “You can’t,” she cries, “my dear, do less―― Or what will people say?” But, ah! I only wish that PIESSE And LUBIN were away! [_An interval of two years is supposed to elapse._] ’Tis sad to think the colour’s gone. That men have called so dear; I leave unturned, I’m sure, no stone, But sigh for my head-gear! How I shall look, I dare not guess. Perhaps quite white or grey! And folks will laugh aloud when PIESSE And LUBIN _are_ away. _Fun._ May 30, 1868. ―――― THE “LANCET” BIDS ME BE A PEER. [The _Lancet_ urges, on medical grounds, that Mr. Gladstone should accept a peerage, and thus avoid the continued fatigue which leadership of the Commons necessarily involves.] The _Lancet_ bids me be a Peer, With robes of gorgeous hue, Tie up my form in lordly gear, And act on Beaky’s cue―― Tie up my form in lordly gear, And act, and act on Beaky’s cue. For why, it hints, sit still and bear The tease of Tories gay? Alas! I own it has me there, And long to get away―― Alas! I own it has me there. And long, and long to get away. ’Tis sad to think how Randies clown, And Wolffs and Wartons jeer; I gulp this horrid cough-drop down, And sigh when none can hear―― I gulp this horrid cough-drop down, And sigh, and sigh when none can hear. And while the gargle I apply, Which really isn’t nice. “The counsel’s good,” I _almost_ cry To _Lancet_-framed advice―― “The counsel’s good,” I _almost_ cry To _Lan_, to _Lancet_-framed advice. _Funny Folks._ April 5, 1884. ―――― _Song._――CINDERELLA. My mother bids me pinch my waist Another inch or two, For, though already tightly laced, She says it will not do! And, oh! she says that I must wear A body cut so low―― My cheeks will flame with honest shame As through the streets I go! She says I must expose my charms, And cause the roughs rare sport. And leave quite bare my neck and arms, Because we’re going to Court; But I have heard our Court is pure―― I know our Queen is so―― She cannot, then, require, I’m sure, Poor me half-dressed to go! _Truth._ Christmas Number, 1884. ――――:o:―――― LOVE NOT. Love not, love not, ye hapless sons of clay; Hope’s gayest wreaths are made of earthly flow’rs―― Things that are made to fade and fall away. When they have blossom’d but a few short hours. Love not, love not.