"In me, as your adviser hints, Of Abstinence you've got a type-- Of MR. TWEEDIE'S pretty prints I am the happy prototype. "If you abjure the social toast, And pipes, and such frivolities, You possibly some day may boast My prepossessing qualities!" BOB rubbed his eyes, and made 'em blink. "You almost make me tremble, you! If I abjure fermented drink, Shall I, indeed, resemble you? "And will my whiskers curl so tight? My cheeks grow smug and muttony? My face become so pink and white? My coat so blue and buttony? "Will trousers, such as yours, array Extremities inferior? Will chubbiness assert its sway All over my exterior? "In this, my unenlightened state, To work in heavy boots I comes-- Will pumps henceforward decorate My tiddle toddle tootsicums? "And shall I get so plump and fresh, And look no longer seedily? My skin will henceforth fit my flesh So tightly and so TWEEDIE-ly?" The phantom said, "You'll have all this, You'll have no kind of huffiness, Your life will be one chubby bliss, One long unruffled puffiness!" "Be off," said irritated BOB, "Why come you here to bother one? You pharisaical old snob, You're wuss, almost, than t'other one! "I takes my pipe--I takes my pot, And drunk I'm never seen to be, I'm no teetotaller or sot, And as I am I mean to be!" [Illustration] THE MERRYMAN AND HIS MAID HE. I have a song to sing, O! SHE. Sing me your song, O! HE. It is sung to the moon By a love-lorn loon, Who fled from the mocking throng, O! It's the song of a merryman, moping mum, Whose soul was sad, whose glance was glum, Who sipped no sup, and who craved no crumb, As he sighed for the love of a ladye. Heighdy! heighdy! Misery me--lackadaydee! He sipped no sup, and he craved no crumb, As he sighed for the love of a ladye! SHE. I have a song to sing, O! HE. Sing me your song, O! SHE. It is sung with the ring Of the song maids sing Who love with a love life-long, O!