A YOUNG HUSBAND'S LAMENT
Oh, I am weary, weary,
Of that pretty pinky face,
Of the blank of its no meaning,
The gush of its grimace.
And I am weary, weary,
Of her silly, simpering ways,
Bugles, buckles, buttons, spangles,
Tight tiebacks, tighter stays.
And I am weary, weary,
Of that hollow little laugh,
Of the slang that stands for humour,
Of the chatter and the chaff.
Sick of the inch-deep feeling
Of that hollow little heart,
Its "too lovely" latest fashions,
Its "too exquisite" high Art.
Its Church high, higher, highest,
Their curates and their clothes,
Their intonings, genuflections,
Masqueradings, mops and mows.
But I must curb my temper,
Grumbling helps not wedlock's ills.
Fashion, High Church, or Æsthetics,
Let me grin and pay the bills!
FOREWARNED
Claude Merridew, leaderette-writer, reviewer, &c. (sentimentally). "Whenever I think of Althæa, Miss Vansittart I mean, I am irresistibly reminded of those matchless words of Steele's—'To love her was a liberal education.'"
Algy (following the idea with difficulty). "That's all right, old man, that's all right, 'course I know a lot of you writin' chaps are like that, but I think I ought to tell you that her father is one of the head johnnies in the Primrose League."