I know not--only this I know, They're getting overstrained, my ditties, This kind of poem ought to flow Less like a solemn "_Nunc Dimittis_." 'Twas jaunty when I struck my lyre, And jaunty seems this yearling baby; But, as both year and song expire They're sadder, each, and wiser, maybe. * * * * * POPULAR SONGS RE-SUNG. "_Hi-tiddley-hi-ti; or, I'm All Right_" is heard, "all over the place," as light sleepers and studious dwellers in quiet streets are too well aware. Why should it not be enlisted in the service of Apollo and Momus as well as of the Back Slum Bacchus? As thus:-- NO. V.--I-TWADDLEY-HIGH-DRY-HIGH-TONED-I! OK, I'M ALL RIGHT! AIR--"_HI-TIDDLEY-HI-TI!_" [Illustration] I'm a young writer grimly gay, My volumes sell, and sometimes pay. First log-rollers raised a rumour of a rising Star of Humour, Who had faced the Sphinx called Life, With amusing misery rife, So with sin, and woe, and strife, I thought I'd have a lark. With pessimistic pick I pottered round Pottered round, A new "funny" trick I quickly found, Smart and sound, Life's cares in hedonistic chuckles drowned, You be bound! The cynic lay I found would pay, In a young Man of Mark! _CHORUS._ All of you come along with me! I'm for a rare new fine new spree! Everybody is delighted when the Philistines are slighted, All of you come my books to try! I-twaddley-I-ti I-I-I, Ego for ever! Buy! Buy! Buy! And _I_'m all right! Down with the West I go; my pen Is bound to "fetch" the Upper Ten, With the aid of some "log-rolling," my "distinction" much extolling. Smart little scribes from near and far Say, with a sniff, "O here's a Star!" DICKENS on fine souls doth jar, THACKERAY is too dry, But _his_ pessimistic air, rich and rare, Subtle, fair, Makes Philistia to stare, in a scare, And to blare; Whilst true Critics _débonnaire_, who are rare, With a _flaire_, For true humour, Swell of rumour The gregarious cry. _CHORUS._ All of you come along with me! You'll have a rare new fair new spree! Paradox with "sniff" united, Poor Humanity snubbed and slighted. Humour's new _cuvée_, extra-dry. I-twaddley--high-dry-high-toned I! Come and worship the pessimist "I" For _that's_ all right!