In peaceful cot she passed a busy life, Secluded from the world, and all its ills; A tender mother――a deserted wife, And matchless in her doing up of frills. Oft have I marked her on a summer’s day, Prone o’er her tub, regardless of the heat With sleeves tuck’d up, she’d stand and scrub away, And then from lines suspend her work so neat. Each closing week at eve, she took the road, With vests, with shirts, with handkerchiefs, and frills Collars and socks, in parcels neatly stowed, Pinned to the parcels were her little bills. One winter’s day I passed her cottage by, And wondered where the worthy dame could be, I saw a heap of clothes disordered lie, Nor at the tub, nor at the lines was she! The piercing cold had laid her low at last, Her busy nimble hands are now at rest, They’re bleaching in the chilly northern blast, Pale as the shirts their skilful fingers press’d. Adieu! ye spotless vests of white Marseilles, So white ye gave me pleasure to put on; Ye snowy bosomed shirts, a long farewell; Alas! poor Biddy’s occupation’s gone. No laundress of the vulgar sort was she, (Cruel the fate which thus could snatch her from me,) A faithful soul, and from pretence so free, It went against her grain to wash a “Tommy.” Full many a worshipper at Fashion’s shrine, Owed half his neatness to her starch and iron; From swells who sport their shirts of cambric fine, To dandy boys with collars _a la_ Byron. Not all the symmetry of well made suits, Nor hats of silk, so exquisitely glossed, Nor spicy ties, nor jetty varnish’d boots, Console me for the treasure I have lost! Oh! Mulligan, thy shirts perfection were, Now I ne’er put one on but feeling pain, And buttoning close my waistcoat in despair, Feel I can never show their like again! Nymphs of the tub attend the fun’ral throng, Plant _mangle_ wortzel near where she is laid, And scatter snowdrops as ye press along,―― Fit emblems of the whiteness of her trade. Let no bombastic lines be carved in stone, No fulsome epitaph, no flattering hope, Be this the plain inscription――this alone―― “She never yet was badly off for soap.” C. E. TISDALL, D.D. Dublin, _The Elocutionist._ July 15, 1882. ――――:o:―――― GRAY’S ELEGY. (_In an Irish Prison._) They think to toll the knell of prisoned GRAY, The servile herd who bend to law the knee! Pooh, Pooh! the slaves will soon be “out of play,” And leave the game to DAVITT and to me! Vile Saxon scum! a Sheriff held in thrall! (It moves my soul of flame to noble fury) Because he uttered what they choose to call Injurious remarks about a jury. * * * * * _Punch._ September 2, 1882. ――――:o:―――― THE S. K. RING’S REQUIEM.