But, my dear boy, when I have answered thee, Ask me no more.

Ask me no more: what answer should I give, I love not pickled pork nor partridge pie; I feel if I took whisky I should die!

Ask me no more--for I prefer to live: Ask me no more.

Ask me no more: unless my fate is sealed, And I have striven against you all in vain.

Let your good butler bring me Hock again: Then rest, dear boy. If for this once I yield, Ask me no more!

_Unknown._

CREMATION

BY A BURNING ADMIRER OF SIR HENRY THOMPSON

To Urn, or not to Urn? that is the question: Whether 'tis n.o.bler for our frames to suffer The shows and follies of outrageous custom, Or to take fire--against a sea of zealots And by consuming, end them? To Urn--to keep-- No more: and while we keep, to say we end Contagion and the thousand graveyard ills That flesh is heir to--'tis a consume-ation Devoutly to be wished! To burn--to keep-- To keep! Perchance to lose--aye, there's the rub: For in the course of things what duns may come, Or who may shuffle off our Dresden urn, Must give us pause. There's the respect That makes inter-i-ment of so long use.

For who would have the pall and plumes of hire, The tradesman's prize--a proud man's obsequies, The chaffering for graves, the legal fee, The cemetery beadle and the rest, When he himself might his few ashes make With a mere furnace? Who would tombstones bear, And lie beneath a lying epitaph, But that the dread of simmering after death-- That uncongenial furnace from whose burn No incremate returns--weakens the will, And makes us rather bear the graves we have Than fly to ovens that we know not of?

This, Thompson, does make cowards of us all.

And thus the wisdom of incineration Is thick-laid o'er with the pale ghost of nought, And incremators of great pith and courage With this regard their faces turn awry, And shudder at cremation.

_William Sawyer._

AN IMITATION OF WORDSWORTH

There is a river clear and fair, 'Tis neither broad nor narrow; It winds a little here and there-- It winds about like any hare; And then it takes as straight a course As on the turnpike road a horse, Or through the air an arrow.

The trees that grow upon the sh.o.r.e, Have grown a hundred years or more; So long there is no knowing.

Old Daniel Dobson does not know When first these trees began to grow; But still they grew, and grew, and grew, As if they'd nothing else to do, But ever to be growing.

The impulses of air and sky Have rear'd their stately heads so high, And clothed their boughs with green; Their leaves the dews of evening quaff,-- And when the wind blows loud and keen, I've seen the jolly timbers laugh, And shake their sides with merry glee-- Wagging their heads in mockery.

Fix'd are their feet in solid earth, Where winds can never blow; But visitings of deeper birth Have reach'd their roots below.

For they have gain'd the river's brink, And of the living waters drink.

There's little Will, a five years child-- He is my youngest boy: To look on eyes so fair and wild, It is a very joy:-- He hath conversed with sun and shower And dwelt with every idle flower, As fresh and gay as them.

He loiters with the briar rose,-- The blue-belles are his play-fellows, That dance upon their slender stem.

And I have said, my little Will, Why should not he continue still A thing of Nature's rearing?

A thing beyond the world's control-- A living vegetable soul,-- No human sorrow fearing.

It were a blessed sight to see That child become a Willow-tree, His brother trees among.

He'd be four times as tall as me, And live three times as long.

_Catharine M. Fanshawe._

THE LAY OF THE LOVE-LORN

PARODY ON TENNYSON'S "LOCKSLEY HALL"

Comrades, you may pa.s.s the rosy. With permission of the chair, I shall leave you for a little, for I'd like to take the air.

Whether 'twas the sauce at dinner, or that gla.s.s of ginger-beer, Or these strong cheroots, I know not, but I feel a little queer.

Let me go. Now, Chuckster, blow me, 'pon my soul, this is too bad!

When you want me, ask the waiter, he knows where I'm to be had!

Whew! This is a great relief now! Let me but undo my stock; Resting here beneath the porch, my nerves will steady like a rock.

In my ears I hear the singing of a lot of favourite tunes-- Bless my heart, how very odd! Why, surely, there's a brace of moons!

See--the stars! How bright they twinkle, winking with a frosty glare, Like my faithless cousin Amy when she drove me to despair.

Oh, my cousin, spider-hearted! Oh, my Amy! No, confound it!

I must wear the mournful willow--all around my hat I've bound it.

Falser than the Bank of Fancy, frailer than a shilling glove, Puppet to a father's anger, minion to a nabob's love!

Is it well to wish thee happy? Having known me, could you ever Stoop to marry half a heart, and little more than half a liver?

Happy! Damme! Thou shalt lower to his level day by day, Changing from the best of ehina to the commonest of clay.

As the husband is, the wife is. He is stomach-plagued and old, And his curry soups will make thy cheek the colour of his gold.

When his feeble love is sated, he will hold thee surely then Something lower than his hookah, something less than his cayenne.

What is this? His eyes are pinky. Was't the claret? Oh, no, no-- Bless your soul, it was the salmon--salmon always makes him so.

Take him to thy dainty chamber, soothe him with thy lightest fancies, He will understand thee, won't he--pay thee with a lover's glances?

Louder than the loudest trumpet, harsh as harshest ophicleide, Nasal respirations answer the endearments of his bride.

Sweet response, delightful music! Gaze upon thy n.o.ble charge Till the spirit fill thy bosom that inspired the meek Lafarge.

Better thou wert dead before me, better, better that I stood Looking on thy murdered body, like the injured Daniel Good!

Better thou and I were lying, cold and limber-stiff and dead, With a pan of burning charcoal underneath our nuptial bed!

Cursed be the Bank of England's notes, that tempt the soul to sin!

Cursed be the want of acres--doubly cursed the want of tin!