I hate to preach—I hate to prate— I’m no fanatic croaker, But learn contentment from the fate Of this East India broker. He’d everything a man of taste Could ever want, except a waist; And discontent His size anent, And bootless perseverance blind, Completely wrecked the peace of mind Of this East India broker. THE PANTOMIME “SUPER” TO HIS MASK VAST empty shell! Impertinent, preposterous abortion! With vacant stare, And ragged hair, And every feature out of all proportion! Embodiment of echoing inanity! Excellent type of simpering insanity! Unwieldy, clumsy nightmare of humanity! I ring thy knell! To-night thou diest, Beast that destroy’st my heaven-born identity! Nine weeks of nights, Before the lights, Swamped in thine own preposterous nonentity, I’ve been ill-treated, cursed, and thrashed diurnally, Credited for the smile you wear externally— I feel disposed to smash thy face, infernally, As there thou liest! I’ve been thy brain: _I’ve_ been the brain that lit thy dull concavity! The human race Invest _my_ face With thine expression of unchecked depravity, Invested with a ghastly reciprocity, _I’ve_ been responsible for thy monstrosity, I, for thy wanton, blundering ferocity— But not again! ’T is time to toll Thy knell, and that of follies pantomimical: A nine weeks’ run, And thou hast done All thou canst do to make thyself inimical. Adieu, embodiment of all inanity! Excellent type of simpering insanity! Unwieldy, clumsy nightmare of humanity! Freed is thy soul! (_The Mask respondeth_.) Oh! master mine, Look thou within thee, ere again ill-using me. Art thou aware Of nothing there Which might abuse thee, as thou art abusing me? A brain that mourns _thine_ unredeemed rascality? A soul that weeps at _thy_ threadbare morality? Both grieving that _their_ individuality Is merged in thine? THE FORCE OF ARGUMENT LORD B. was a nobleman bold Who came of illustrious stocks, He was thirty or forty years old, And several feet in his socks. To Turniptopville-by-the-Sea This elegant nobleman went, For that was a borough that he Was anxious to rep-per-re-sent. At local assemblies he danced Until he felt thoroughly ill; He waltzed, and he galoped, and lanced, And threaded the mazy quadrille. The maidens of Turniptopville Were simple—ingenuous—pure— And they all worked away with a will The nobleman’s heart to secure. Two maidens all others beyond Endeavoured his cares to dispel— The one was the lively ANN POND, The other sad MARY MORELL.