Young Rory O'More, courted Kathleen Bawn, He was bold as a hawk,--she as soft as the dawn; He wish'd in his heart pretty Kathleen to please, And he thought the best way to do that was to tease.

"Now, Rory, be aisy," sweet Kathleen would cry, (Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her eye), "With your tricks I don't know, in troth, what I'm about, Faith you've teased till I've put on my cloak inside out."

"Oh, jewel," says Rory, "that same is the way You've thrated my heart for this many a day; And 'tis plaz'd that I am, and why not to be sure?

For 'tis all for good luck," says bold Rory O'More.

"Indeed, then," says Kathleen, "don't think of the like, For I half gave a promise to soothering Mike; The ground that I walk on he loves, I'll be bound."

"Faith," says Rory, "I'd rather love you than the ground."

"Now, Rory, I'll cry if you don't let me go; Sure I drame ev'ry night that I'm hating you so!"

"Oh," says Rory, "that same I'm delighted to hear, For drames always go by conthraries, my dear; Oh! jewel, keep draming that same till you die, And bright morning will give dirty night the black lie!

And 'tis plaz'd that I am, and why not, to be sure?

Since 'tis all for good luck," says bold Rory O'More.

"Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, you've teas'd me enough, Sure I've thrash'd for your sake Dinny Grimes and Jim Duff; And I've made myself, drinking your health, quite a baste, So I think, after that, I may talk to the praste."

Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm around her neck, So soft and so white, without freckle or speck, And he look'd in her eyes that were beaming' with light, And he kiss'd her sweet lips;--don't you think he was right?

"Now, Rory, leave off, sir; you'll hug me no more, That's eight times to-day you have kiss'd me before."

"Then here goes another," says he, "to make sure, For there's luck in odd numbers," says Rory O'More.

_Samuel Lover._

A DIALOGUE FROM PLATO

"_Le temps le mieux employe est celui qu' on perd._"

--|Claude Tillier|.

I'd read three hours. Both notes and text Were fast a mist becoming; In bounced a vagrant bee, perplexed, And filled the room with humming.

Then out. The cas.e.m.e.nt's leaf.a.ge sways, And, parted light, discloses Miss Di., with hat and book,--a maze Of muslin mixed with roses.

"You're reading Greek?" "I am--and you?"

"O, mine's a mere romancer!"

"So Plato is." "Then read him--do; And I'll read mine in answer."

I read. "My Plato (Plato, too,-- That wisdom thus should harden!) Declares 'blue eyes look doubly blue Beneath a Dolly Varden.'"

She smiled. "My book in turn avers (No author's name is stated) That sometimes those Philosophers Are sadly mis-translated."

"But hear,--the next's in stronger style: The Cynic School a.s.serted That two red lips which part and smile May not be controverted!"

She smiled once more--"My book, I find, Observes some modern doctors Would make the Cynics out a kind Of alb.u.m-verse concoctors."

Then I--"Why not? 'Ephesian law, No less than time's tradition, Enjoined fair speech on all who saw Diana's apparition.'"

She blushed--this time. "If Plato's page No wiser precept teaches, Then I'd renounce that doubtful sage, And walk to Burnham-beeches."

"Agreed," I said. "For Socrates (I find he too is talking) Thinks Learning can't remain at ease While Beauty goes a-walking."

She read no more, I leapt the sill: The sequel's scarce essential-- Nay, more than this, I hold it still Profoundly confidential.

_Austin Dobson._

DORA VERSUS ROSE

"_The case is proceeding._"

From the tragic-est novels at Mudie's-- At least, on a practical plan-- To the tales of mere Hodges and Judys, One love is enough for a man.

But no case that I ever yet met is Like mine: I am equally fond Of Rose, who a charming brunette is, And Dora, a blonde.

Each rivals the other in powers-- Each waltzes, each warbles, each paints-- Miss Rose, chiefly tumble-down towers; Miss Do., perpendicular saints.

In short, to distinguish is folly; 'Twixt the pair I am come to the pa.s.s Of Macheath, between Lucy and Polly,-- Or Buridan's a.s.s.

If it happens that Rosa I've singled For a soft celebration in rhyme, Then the ringlets of Dora get mingled Somehow with the tune and the time; Or I painfully pen me a sonnet To an eyebrow intended for Do.'s, And behold I am writing upon it The legend, "To Rose,"

Or I try to draw Dora (my blotter Is all overscrawled with her head), If I fancy at last that I've got her, It turns to her rival instead; Or I find myself placidly adding To the rapturous tresses of Rose Miss Dora's bud-mouth, and her madding Ineffable nose.

Was there ever so sad a dilemma?

For Rose I would perish (pro tem.); For Dora I'd willingly stem a-- (Whatever might offer to stem); But to make the invidious election,-- To declare that on either one's side I've a scruple,--a grain, more affection, I _cannot_ decide.

And, as either so hopelessly nice is, My sole and my final resource Is to wait some indefinite crisis,-- Some feat of molecular force, To solve me this riddle conducive By no means to peace or repose, Since the issue can scarce be inclusive Of Dora _and_ Rose.

(_Afterthought_)

But, perhaps, if a third (say a Nora), Not quite so delightful as Rose,-- Not wholly so charming as Dora,-- Should appear, is it wrong to suppose,-- As the claims of the others are equal,-- And flight--in the main--is the best,-- That I might ... But no matter,--the sequel Is easily guessed.

_Austin Dobson._

TU QUOQUE

AN IDYLL IN THE CONSERVATORY

|nellie| If I were you, when ladies at the play, Sir, Beckon and nod, a melodrama through, I would not turn abstractedly away, Sir, If I were you!

|frank| If I were you, when persons I affected, Wait for three hours to take me down to Kew, I would at least pretend I recollected, If I were you!

|nellie| If I were you, when ladies are so lavish, Sir, as to keep me every waltz but two, I would not dance with _odious_ Miss M'Tavish, If I were you!

|frank| If I were you, who vow you cannot suffer Whiff of the best,--the mildest "honey dew,"