_Slow strolled the weary PUNCHIUS, and saw, Betwixt the white cliff and the whiter foam, Sweet faces, rounded arms, and bosoms prest To little harps of gold. And PUNCHIUS said:_-- "Lo! I am lucky, after session long, To light upon these sirens; and their song I fear not, though I'm wary as Ulysses, Nor do I dread their kisses, (Seeing that far away PENELOPE-JUDY Abides.) Oh! hang this maudlin muck from MUDIE! I love not, I, these new, neurotic novels, In which the wild New Woman soars--and grovels. Emancipated females are _not_ sirens! There's pleasure in the peril that environs Old-fashioned witchery. A pretty English maiden at her stitchery, Or a scaled mermaid, siren, or sea-fairy, Alike have charms for me. Yet I'll be wary, 'Maidens mit nodings'--or but little--'on,' As BREITMANN hints, are dangers For weak wayfaring strangers. But Beauty never hurt _me_. Fears begone! See how the long-tressed charmers smile and beckon! I'll go and risk a chat with them, I reckon!" _And while Punch mused, They whispering to each other as in fun, Soft music reached the Unsurpassable One:_-- "Whither away, whither away, whither away? Fly no more! Whither away from the bright white cliff and the sandy siren-haunted shore? Back to town--which is horrible now--or to politics--the beastliest bore? Day and night do the printers'-devils call? Day and night do stump-orators howl and squall? Bless 'em--and let 'em be! Out from the city of singular sights, and smells. Come to these saffron sands and these silvery shells, Far from the niggers, and nursemaids, and howling swells, Here by the high-toned sea: O hither, come hither, and furl your sails! Come hither to me, and to me, Hither, come hither, and frolic and play, (Of course, in a highly-respectable middle-aged way). Good company we--if you do not object to our--tails. And the least little tiny suspicion of silver scales. We will sing to you lyrics gay, Such as LOCKER, or AUSTIN DOBSON, or LANG might pen. Oh, we know your society-singers, and now and then, When old Father Nep's in the sulks, or amusement fails, Or we're tired of the "merry carols" of rollicking gales (As young ALFRED TENNYSON said When just a weeny bit 'off his (poetical) head') We study another than _Davy Jones's_ Locker, And read your Society Novel or Shilling Shocker! Oh, spangles are sparkling in bight and bay! Come down, Old Gentleman, give us your hand. We are modern mermaids, as you may understand, And fair, and frolic, fun-loving, and blamelessly free. Hither, come hither, and see!"