ALTHOUGH of native maids the cream, We’re brought up on the English scheme— The best of all For great and small Who modesty adore. For English girls are good as gold, Extremely modest (so we’re told), Demurely coy—divinely cold— And we are that—and more. To please papa, who argues thus— All girls should mould themselves on us, Because we are, By furlongs far, The best of all the bunch; We show ourselves to loud applause From ten to four without a pause— Which is an awkward time because It cuts into our lunch. Oh, maids of high and low degree, Whose social code is rather free, Please look at us and you will see What good young ladies ought to be! And as we stand, like clockwork toys, A lecturer papa employs To puff and praise Our modest ways And guileless character— Our well-known blush—our downcast eyes— Our famous look of mild surprise (Which competition still defies)— Our celebrated “Sir!!!” Then all the crowd take down our looks In pocket memorandum books. To diagnose, Our modest pose The kodaks do their best: If evidence you would possess Of what is maiden bashfulness, You only need a button press— And _we_ do all the rest. LIFE FIRST you’re born—and I’ll be bound you Find a dozen strangers round you. “Hallo,” cries the new-born baby, “Where’s my parents? which may they be?” Awkward silence—no reply— Puzzled baby wonders why! Father rises, bows politely— Mother smiles (but not too brightly)— Doctor mumbles like a dumb thing— Nurse is busy mixing something.— Every symptom tends to show You’re decidedly _de trop_— Ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! he! ho! ho! Time’s teetotum, If you spin it, Give its quotum Once a minute: I’ll go bail You hit the nail, And if you fail The deuce is in it!