Now Con he climbed on a moonbeam grey To the dusk of the god's great shop, And he stole the Elixir of Life away, And he drank it, every drop; He poured the draught in a golden cup On a wonderful day that's gone, And he swilled it round and he tossed it up, And that was the curse of Con. And the old king died at ninety-six And his son he reigned instead; But Con he conjured the same old tricks, And his hair crow-black on his head; And the new king died, and another king, And another king after he, But Con went on with his conjuring The same as it used to be. When the fifth king came (he was long of limb And a hasty man) he swore, When Con he conjured his tricks for him, And he kicked Con through the door; For that's in the songs the minstrels sung, And thus is the story told, For "Con," said the king, "you're none so young, And your tricks are plaguey old!" * * * Now Con he tramps from shire to shire, And he must till the crack of doom; He takes the road in the dust and mire, And he sleeps in the windy broom; He's no address and he's no abode, And his jacket's the worse o' wear; And I've met him once on the Portsmouth Road, And once at a Wicklow fair. When the roundabouts and the swings are slow And a conjuring chap draws near, And there's nothing about his mug to show That it's seen five thousand year (For that's the way that the songs were sung, And thus is the story told), You'll know it's Con and he's none so young For his tricks are plaguey old. * * * * * [Illustration: _Retired M.F.H._ "AND WHEN WE CAME TO THE SEVENTEENTH, JUST AS I WAS GOING TO DRIVE, WHAT SHOULD I SEE BUT AN OLD DOG FOX STARING AT ME OUT OF THE HEDGE!" _Sympathetic Friend._ "YE-E-E-S?" _Retired M.F.H._ "NOW, DON'T YOU THINK THAT WAS A MOST REMARKABLE THING?" _Sympathetic Friend._ "WELL, YES, I SUPPOSE IT WAS; BUT THEN, YOU SEE, I DON'T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT GOLF."] * * * * * From a list of new books:-- "Woman and Crime (Adam)." Well, he ought to know. * * * * * From a pamphlet on "The 'King's Own' Mission":-- "MADAM ADA BACON, Soloist for Easter Sunday Evening. Please send some eggs." The writer has been carried away by the association of ideas. The singing will not really be so bad as that. * * * * * Two conflicting announcements from _The Observer_:-- "VILLA'S VICTORY. FOUR DAYS OF FURIOUS FIGHTING." "HOW THE VILLA WERE BEATEN. LIVERPOOL'S SUPERIOR PACE." * * * * * EXILE. "And how long," said the lady of the house from behind her rampart of breakfast things, "shall you want to be away?" "Away?" I said. "Who said anything about being away?"