Man loves as men loved in old times,
    And as in legends hoary,
  We celebrate a maid in rhymes,
    Is that too old a story? 
  But still man loves one girl alone,
    And flies when he discovers—­
  That she he thought was all his own,
    Has half a dozen lovers.

  You sighed and said that you felt hurt,
    And prettily you pouted,
  When anybody called you flirt,
    A fact I never doubted. 
  And yet such wheedling ways you had,
    Man yielded willy-nilly;
  And half your swains were nearly mad,
    And all of us were silly.

  Youth’s first illusions fly apace,
    And now one man confesses
  He scarcely can recal your face,
    Or colour of your dresses. 
  And whether you were false or true,
    Or what fate followed after,
  Remembrance only keeps of you
    The echo of your laughter.

* * * * *

PROVERBIAL PRAYER FOR A PAUPER-HATING BUMBLE.—­Give me neither poverty nor Ritchies!

* * * * *

A CREDITABLE INCIDENT IN THE NEXT WAR.

(AN ADVANCE SHEET FROM MR. PUNCH’S PROPHETIC HISTORY OF EUROPE.)

    ["Italy is bound to maintain abroad the appearance of a great
    and rich country, while at home she ought to conduct herself
    as if in straitened circumstances.”—­Daily Paper.]

The Italian Army had been completely victorious.  There was but one drawback to the entire satisfaction of the Commander-in-Chief—­one of his favourite Generals was under arrest, and was being tried by court-martial.  The accused had refused the assistance of Counsel, and had insisted upon pleading “Guilty.”

“But,” urged the Commander-in-Chief, “you surely have some excuse.  To sack a private house belonging to your own countryman was unpardonable.  It was an aimless piece of Vandalism!  For your own reputation—­for the sake of your ancestors—­on behalf of your descendants—­some explanation should be afforded.”

“Surely this is no time for levity,” murmured a Warrior-Journalist, who was suspected of combining with the duties of a hero the labours of a Special Correspondent for a Roman journal.

“Do I look like a jester?” asked the Prisoner; and then he added, “My brave companions, it is for the honour of our country—­to conceal her poverty from the sneers of foreigners—­that I carry with me the secret of my action to the family vault.  Press me no further—­see, I am ready for the firing-party!”

There was nothing further to be said, and the little procession made its way to the Barrack Square.  The Prisoner shook hands warmly with his Judges, and with the weeping soldiery who were to act as his executioners.  “I will give the words of command myself.  Ready—­present—­”

“Stop!”

An aged man had approached the group.  He was out of breath with running.  The firing-party paused, and lowered their rifles.