He holds him with his trembling hand. “_There was a bird_――” quoth he. “I say, hold hard! Just drop my guard!” He droppeth it instantlee. He holds him with his watery eye, The new M.P. stands still, And listens like a man much bored; The Millinere hath his will. * * * * * “Trade brisk appeared, good profits we cleared, Merrily went the shop, For feather trimmings were all the go With dames who dressed tip-top. “Bonnets and hats with tiny plumes, From songsters pluckt were dight――――” The new M.P. slipped out a D., Big Ben boomed through the night. And W. G. was on his legs, One might catch the loud “Hear, hear!” But still prosed on that woeful man, That moist-eyed Millinere. “Anon the claims of the Fashion-fiend Grew tyrannously strong; We did not dare so much as spare The prettiest pets of song.” “Good gracious, man, what ails you now? Why this hysteric sobbin’? Compose yourself!” “For sake of pelf I WENT AND SLEW A ROBIN!!! “Since then I’ve had an awful time, Such horrid dreams o’ night! There is a WOMAN doth haunt me much, And fill me with affright. “Her lips are red, her looks are free, Her locks are yellow as gold, The Nightmare Feminine Cruelty, she, Who makes men’s blood run cold. “Dyspepsia sure, thou Millinere――” “Hush! hush! O rash M. P., _I vowed that another singing fowle Should never be slain by me_! “And then I heard two Voices speak, As I lay like one that’s dead; Two Voices sweet, yet sternly sad, And this is what they said:―― FIRST VOICE. “This is the man, the barbarous man, Who slew my favourite bird, And all to pander to Fashion’s freaks, As cruel as eke absurd.” SECOND VOICE. “True! But the man hath penance done, And taken a holy vow. Moreover, _the Women who wear such spoil Are more to blame, I trow_. * * * * * “I woke. My ghostly tale is told; But the heart within me yearns For something done to stay the shame Whereat gentle blood yet burns. “Oh, young M.P.! canst move the House With the Fashion fiend to fight, That this crime no longer our women may stain In all humanity’s sight? “He prayeth best――――” “Ah! I know the rest,” Quoth that button-holed M.P. “Damp Millinere, you are right, I fear. Good bye! ’Twere a ticklish task and queer. But, at any rate we’ll see!” That Millinere, whose eye is damp, Whose tie is tumbled sore, Is gone, and the newly-fledged M.P. Enters St. Stephen’s door. _Punch._ January 30, 1885.