A betting-book he’d started, When next this youth I saw; And hourly he was lounging at Some Betting-office door; Or standing treat to stable-boys, With a “weed” between his lips, And listening to their sage discourse Of “great events” and “tips.” He told me then he stood to win A fi’ pun’ note or two, Upon a “certain” prophecy―― I doubt if it came true. And once again I see this youth, No betting-book is there: The prison scissors close have cropped His once luxuriant hair. They tell that “cleaned” completely “out,” He closed his short career By bolting with his master’s till, When “settling” time drew near. I see him shipped――the Government His passage out will pay: And at some penal settlement, He’ll spend his Settling Day. _Punch._ ―――― THREE VISIONS OF ONE HEAD. She wore a wreath of roses The night that first we met; Her lovely face was smiling, Beneath her curls of Jet. Her curls of jetty brightness, Were charmingly in tone, With the colour on her features, For the hue was Nature’s own. I saw her but a moment, Yet methinks I see her now; With the hair that Nature gave her, Above her snowy brow. A head of Paris fashion When next we met, she wore; The expression of her features, Was sharper than before. And standing by her side was one, Who seemed to give her pain, As he rubbed the reddening fluid on What should have held a brain. I saw her but a moment, Yet methinks I see her now, With the barber’s nasty liquid, Smeared on her snowy brow. And once again I met her, No radiant locks were there; An unmistaken wig she wore Instead of lovely hair. She weeps in silent solitude, Because she looks so queer! The barber’s poison has destroyed Her hair from ear to ear. I saw her but a moment, Nor want to see her now, With those ugly proofs of folly Above her snowy brow. SHIRLEY BROOKS. 1866. ―――― HE WORE A PAIR OF “MITTENS.”[7] He wore a pair of “mittens,” That day when first we met, His stony face was smiling As on himself he bet; He stood with saucy firmness, Or danced upon his feet, In token of a confidence That had not known defeat. I saw him but a moment, Yet methinks I see him now, With his hands well up for boxing, All eager for the row.