rudged the dame upon her way,
And sure enough their chime went so,--
"Don't have that knave, that knave Guillot!"

"Too true," she cried, "there's not a doubt:
What could my ears have been about?"
She had forgot, that, as fools think,
The bell is ever sure to clink.

Song of the Ennuye.

I'm weary, and sick, and disgusted
With Britain's mechanical din;
Where I'm much too well known to be trusted,
And plaguily pestered for tin;
Where love has two eyes for your banker,
And one chilly glance for yourself;
Where souls can afford to be franker,
But when they're well garnished with pelf.

I'm sick of the whole race of poets,
Emasculate, misty, and fine;
They brew their small-beer, and don't know its
Distinction from full-bodied wine.
I'm sick of the prosers, that house up
At drowsy St Stephen's,--ain't you?
I want some strong spirits to rouse up
A good revolution or two!

I'm sick of a land, where each morrow
Repeats the dull tale of to-day,
Where you can't even find a new sorrow
To chase your stale pleasures away.
I'm sick of blue-stockings horrific,
Steam, railroads, gas, scrip, and consols;
So I'll off where the golden Pacific
Round Islands of Paradise rolls.

There the passions shall revel unfettered,
And the heart never speak but in truth,
And the intellect, wholly unlettered,
Be bright with the freedom of youth!
There the earth can rejoice in her blossoms,
Unsullied by vapour or soot,
And there chimpanzees and opossums
Shall playfully pelt me with fruit.

There I'll sit with my dark Orianas,
In groves by the murmuring sea,
And they'll give, as I suck the bananas,
Their kisses, nor ask them from me.
They'll never torment me for sonnets,
Nor bore me to death with their own;
They'll ask not for shawls nor for bonnets,
For milliners there are unknown.

There my couch shall be earth's freshest flowers,
My curtains the night and the stars,
And my spirit shall gather new powers,
Uncramped by conventional bars.
Love for love, truth for truth ever giving,
My days shall be manfully sped;
I shall know that I'm loved while I'm living,
And be wept by fond eyes when I'm dead!

The Death of Space.

[Why has Satan's own Laureate never given to the world his marvellous
threnody on the "Death of Space"? Who knows where the bays might have
fallen, had he forwarded that mystic manuscript to the Home Office? If
unwonted modesty withholds it from