he dusk are creeping
Out of the marshes in wan, white waves?
Darling, I know you're a slave to sorrow;
Dearie, I _know_ that the world is cruel;
But _you'll_ be in bed with a cold to-morrow,
_I_ shall be running upstairs with gruel.

Why do you weep on a tombstone, Mammy,
Sobbing alone in the drizzling sleet,
When the chill mists rise, and the wind strikes clammy?
Think of your bones, and your poor old feet!
Darling, I know that you feel lugubrious;
Dearie, I _know_ you must work this off;
But graveyards are not, as a rule, salubrious,
Whence the expression, a 'churchyard cough.'

[_The Old Lady explains her eccentric behaviour._]

Why do I ululate, dear my dearie,
Coiled on a nastily mildewed tomb,
When the horned owl hoots, and the world is weary,
Weary of sorrow, and swamped in gloom?
Childie my child, 'tis a cogent question;
Dearie my dear, if you wish to know,
Tis not that I suffer from indigestion,
But that the Public ordains it so.

Babies, and Aunties, and dying brothers,
Boom for a season, as 'loves' may part;
But the old shop-ballad of Morbid Mothers
Dives to the depths of the Public's heart.
Dearie, with booms, at the best, precarious,
All but the permanent needs must fail;
And Childie, if Mammy became hilarious,
Mammy would never command a sale.

THE STORY OF RUD.

Once for a tight little Island, fonder of ha'pence than kicks,
Rud., a maker of verses, sang of an Empire of Bricks,
Sang of the Sons of that Empire--told them they came of the Blood--
Rubbing it under their noses. _Read ye the Story of Rud_!

Pleased was the Public to hear it--rose in their hundreds to sing--
Swallowed it, chewed it, and gurgled: 'Verily, this is the thing!
Thus do we wallop our foemen--roll 'em away in the mud--
This is the People that _we_ are. Glory and laurels for Rud.!'

Later he pictured a Panic--later he pictured a Scare,
Pictured the burning of coast towns--skies in a reddening glare--
Pictured the Mafficking Million--collared, abortive, alone--
Out of the duty he owed them, pictured them down to the bone.

Sick was the Public to read it--passed it along to 'the Sports'--
'Fools in the full-flannelled breeches, oafs in the muddy-patched
shorts'--
Loafers and talkers and writers, furtiv