I must go _my_ ways (others shall follow), Filling myself, till I rise replete, With fugitive things not good to swallow, Drink as my friends drink, eat what they eat; But if I could hear that sound (O squish!) Of the 'roly-poly' leaving its dish, My heart would be lighter, my life less hollow, At sight of my childhood's favourite sweet! Ah, why do I live in an age that winces At 'shape' (blanc-mange) of a bygone brand, At tripe and trotters, at stews and minces, At hash or at haggis, heavy in hand? Come lunch, come dinner, no word is said Of the jam that in suet so veils its head. I shall never eat it again, for at Princes' If I cry for it there, will they understand? EGREGIOUS EASTBOURNE [A recent by-law of the Eastbourne Town Council renders the owner of any dog who barks upon the beach liable to a fine of forty shillings.] Never more shall I and Ponto Traverse the Marine Parade, Pass the Pier and wander onto Eastbourne's Esplanade; Never more, with lungs like leather, And a heart as light as feather, Shall we stray and play together Where we strayed and played! On the cruel Council's shingle Man and beast no more may mingle! With what never-ending rapture Ponto would retrieve a stone, Leap into the sea and capture Sticks, wherever thrown; Issue dripping from the ocean, With his tail in constant motion, And express his true devotion In a strident tone, Till the Judge, his license marking, Fined him forty bob for barking! Still, upon the sands, sopranos Topmost notes in anguish reach, Masked musicians thump pianos, Negro minstrels screech; German bandsmen blare and bellow, But my Ponto, poor old fellow, May not raise his loud but mellow Bark upon the beach! 'Dumb,' indeed, is every beast born In the neighbourhood of Eastbourne! SARAH OWEN [A provincial schoolmaster wrote to the _Daily Mail_ to say that he had canvassed his employees on the subject of the Insurance Bill and found that out of forty-two domestics only one--'Sarah Owen, sewing-maid'--was in favour of the Servant Tax.] Come, children, gather round and hark To my entrancing tale! For though you've heard of Joan of Arc, Of brave Grace Darling in her barque, Of Florence Nightingale, Not one of these such nerve displayed As Sarah Owen, sewing-maid! Her master ranged his forty-two Domestics in a row. As from his breast the Bill he drew, 'Shall this be borne,' he asked, 'by you?' Though forty-one said 'No!' '_My_ threepence will be gladly paid!' Said Sarah Owen, sewing-maid. [Illustration] In vain his head the butler shook, The gard'ner's grins grew broad, The housemaids wore a scornful look, 'What imperence!' exclaimed the cook, The 'handy man' guffawed. Serene, intrepid, unafraid, Stood Sarah Owen, sewing-maid!