“Next day I found I lov’d her not, And then she wept and sigh’d full sore, Went to her lawyer, on the spot, And talked it o’er “She brought an action, too, for breach Of promise――’tis the fashion――zounds! The jury brought in damages Five thousand pounds! “And this is why I sojourn here Alone, and idly loitering, Tho’ all the season’s through and tho’ No ‘stars’ now sing!” _The Figaro._ September 15, 1875. ――――:o:―――― A SONG AFTER SUNSET. The breeze o’er the bridge was a-blowing, O’er wicked and wan Waterloo, The busses buzzed, coming and going, As busses will do. Amid the cold coigns of the causeway. I secretly, silently sat, Aloof, out of laughter’s and law’s way, Hard-holding my hat. In crowds that seemed never to cease, men Heaved, hurtled, home-hurried and howled, While pestilent prigs of policemen, Persistently prowled. From pockets that penniless sounded Two tickets I’d drearily drawn, They prated of pledges impounded In pitiless pawn. They seemed with a cynical sorrow, To sing the same sedulous strain: “Pay up, and redeem us to-morrow, Your watch and your chain! We know you of old, sworn tormentor! You thriver on thriftless and thief! Spout-spider!――on spoiling intent, or Rapacious relief! Avuncular author of anguish, We damn you with deepest disdain! We linger, we long, and we languish For freedom again.” I smiled on the speakers unheeding, I grinned at their garrulous games―― When the breeze blew them, splendidly speeding, Right into the Thames. They scattered, as seed that is sown, or The fringe of the fast flowing foam, And their hungry, hysterical owner Went hopelessly home. _Judy._ June, 16, 1880. ――――:o:―――― THE MAD, MAD MUSE. Out on the margin of moonshine land, Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs, Out where the whing-whang loves to stand, Writing his name with his tail on the sand, And wipes it out with his oogerish hand; Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs. Is it the gibber of gungs and keeks? Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs, Or what is the sound the whing-whang seeks, Crouching low by winding creeks, And holding his breath for weeks and weeks? Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs. Anoint him the wealthiest of wealthy things! Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs. ’Tis a fair whing-whangess with phosphor rings, And bridal jewels of fangs and stings, And she sits and as sadly and softly sings; As the mildewed whir of her own dead wings; Tickle me, dear; tickle me here; Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs. ROBERT J. BURDETTE. From S. Thompson’s _Collection of Poems_. Chicago. 1886. ――――