"You're a turbaned old Turk, and malignant-- Your daughter LENORE I intensely adore, And I cannot help feeling indignant. A fact that I hinted before; "To see a fond father employing A deuce of a knout For to bang her about, To a sensitive lover's annoying." Said the bagman, "Crusader, get out." Says GUY, "Shall a warrior laden With a big spiky knob, Sit in peace on his cob While a beautiful Saracen maiden Is whipped by a Saracen snob? "To London I'll go from my charmer." Which he did, with his loot (Seven hats and a flute), And was nabbed for his Sydenham armour At MR. BEN-SAMUEL'S suit. SIR GUY he was lodged in the Compter, Her pa, in a rage, Died (don't know his age), His daughter, she married the prompter, Grew bulky and quitted the stage. IS LIFE A BOON Is life a boon? If so, it must befall That Death, whene'er he call, Must call too soon. Though fourscore years he give, Yet one would pray to live Another moon! What kind of plaint have I, Who perish in July? I might have had to die Perchance in June! Is life a thorn? Then count it not a whit! Man is well done with it: Soon as he's born He should all means essay To put the plague away; And I, war-worn, Poor captured fugitive, My life most gladly give-- I might have had to live Another morn! [Illustration] HAUNTED Haunted? Ay, in a social way, By a body of ghosts in a dread array: But no conventional spectres they-- Appalling, grim, and tricky; I quail at mine as I'd never quail At a fine traditional spectre pale, With a turnip head and a ghostly wail, And a splash of blood on the dicky! Mine are horrible social ghosts, Speeches and women and guests and hosts, Weddings and morning calls and toasts, In every bad variety: Ghosts that hover about the grave Of all that's manly, free, and brave: You'll find their names on the architrave Of that charnel-house, Society. Black Monday--black as its schoolroom ink-- With its dismal boys that snivel and think Of nauseous messes to eat and drink, And a frozen tank to wash in. That was the first that brought me grief And made me weep, till I sought relief In an emblematical handkerchief, To choke such baby bosh in. First and worst in the grim array-- Ghosts of ghosts that have gone their way, Which I wouldn't revive for a single day For all the wealth of PLUTUS-- Are the horrible ghosts that schooldays scared If the classical ghost that BRUTUS dared Was the ghost of his "Cæsar" unprepared, I'm sure I pity BRUTUS.