The cynosure of wondering _beaux_, I boast a soul above thee; No fate can mar my calm repose, Or make me cease to love thee; Supreme above the common tile, My own affronts unheeding, I bow and compliment and smile, The Chesterfield of breeding. Out on thee, trinket idly swayed! Could any courtier dare see, Through such perfections so displayed, The mere "_Belle Dame sans merci_"? Could man believe a thing so soft, So framed for gentle passion, Might wound, and wound not once but oft The jaunty glass of fashion? Yet sooth it is; and here I stand A martyr to my tenets-- That orthodoxy smooth and grand Of LINCOLN's fane and BENNETT's; Unruffled once and unperplexed, Collapsing now like jelly, And but a sermon on the text _Sic transit lux capelli_. I who have braved our fitful climes And laughed when tempest drenches, And shaken off the dust that grimes Pews, cushioned stalls and benches, Survived the counterblasting Row, And Summer gales that roar so-- I ne'er imagined such a foe Could trounce me to a torso. * * * * * THE POTATO AND THE HEPTARCHY. (_A SENSIBLE SONG FOR THE SILLY SEASON._) ["Even the Potato and the Heptarchy will not leave us perfectly equipped."--_The Daily News on "Why Young Men Don't Marry."_] The Tater and the Heptarchy Were walking hand-in-hand; They wept like "first-night" Stalls to see The folly of the land; "If fools would not talk fiddlededee," They said "it _would_ be grand!" "If modest maids with towzled mops On _you_ and _me_ were clear, Do you suppose," the Tater said, "More men would wed each year?" "I doubt it," said the Heptarchy-- "They only mean to sneer! "'O Maidens, come and cook for us!' They--shamming love--beseech. 'Oh, tell us about Saxon times! The course of history teach!' But what they really want is 'tin;' A thumping share for each. "A girl may cook like any _chef_, And know all HALLAM through, May be a dab at darning socks, Or making Irish stew; But what young cubs care for is cash, And not for me _or_ you. "They want to lead an easy life, And have good weeds and wine. Without these luxuries, a wife They scornfully decline. For _Benedick's_ life of manly strife The fops are far too fine." "The Season's come," the Tater said, "To write of many things: Of frocks--and socks--and needle-work-- And babes--and bonnet-strings; But all the lot talk utter rot. Let the fools have their flings! "Their jibes at girls, their games, their curls, Their wastefulness, their waist, Their yearnings to hook Dukes and Earls, Their matrimonial haste, Are the crude chat of cubs and churls, And in the vilest taste.