I who have braved our fitful climes
    And laughed when tempest drenches,
  And shaken off the dust that grimes
    Pews, cushioned stalls and benches,
  Survived the counterblasting Row,
    And Summer gales that roar so—­
  I ne’er imagined such a foe
    Could trounce me to a torso.

* * * * *

THE POTATO AND THE HEPTARCHY.

(A SENSIBLE SONG FOR THE SILLY SEASON.)

    ["Even the Potato and the Heptarchy will not leave us
    perfectly equipped.”—­The Daily News on “Why Young Men Don’t
    Marry."]

  The Tater and the Heptarchy
    Were walking hand-in-hand;
  They wept like “first-night” Stalls to see
    The folly of the land;
  “If fools would not talk fiddlededee,”
    They said “it would be grand!”

  “If modest maids with towzled mops
    On you and me were clear,
  Do you suppose,” the Tater said,
    “More men would wed each year?”
  “I doubt it,” said the Heptarchy—­
    “They only mean to sneer!

  “‘O Maidens, come and cook for us!’
    They—­shamming love—­beseech. 
  ’Oh, tell us about Saxon times! 
    The course of history teach!’
  But what they really want is ‘tin;’
    A thumping share for each.

  “A girl may cook like any chef,
    And know all HALLAM through,
  May be a dab at darning socks,
    Or making Irish stew;
  But what young cubs care for is cash,
    And not for me or you.

  “They want to lead an easy life,
    And have good weeds and wine. 
  Without these luxuries, a wife
    They scornfully decline. 
  For Benedick’s life of manly strife
    The fops are far too fine.”

  “The Season’s come,” the Tater said,
    “To write of many things: 
  Of frocks—­and socks—­and needle-work—­
    And babes—­and bonnet-strings;
  But all the lot talk utter rot. 
    Let the fools have their flings!

  “Their jibes at girls, their games, their curls,
    Their wastefulness, their waist,
  Their yearnings to hook Dukes and Earls,
    Their matrimonial haste,
  Are the crude chat of cubs and churls,
    And in the vilest taste.

  “But when they prate of you and me,
    As the two gifts they want,
  Say Classic lore and Cookery
    Are things for which they pant;
  Believe me, my dear Heptarchy,
    They plumb profoundest Cant!”

* * * * *

SEA-SIDE ILLS.

(BY OUR MAN OVER-BORED.)

SEA-SIDYLL—­THE PIER BAND.

[Illustration]

  ’Tis the Band of the Corporation—­
  And it plays on that body’s pier;
    And one knows by the way
    That the instruments play,
  That the talent is not too dear. 
  And the trombone is not too clear;
    When it has to play quick
    It is moistful and thick,
  For the trombone is fond of beer—­
  It is nurtured on pots of beer.