HER SAILOR HAT.

Oh, Amaryllis, in the shade

Of Rotten Row, with ribbons, feather,

And wide-spread brim your hat is made!

Down by the sea, in windy weather,

A sailor hat,

So small and flat,

Is far more natty altogether.

Down by, or on, the waves where swim

The tribes which poets christen "finny,"

This hat might not, with narrow brim,

Become a spinster sear and skinny—

Some say "old cat"—

Nor one too fat,

Nor little brat, small piccaninny.

But, with it fixed upon your hair,

When breezes blow your flapping dresses,

You look, if possible, more fair;

There's one beholder who confesses

He dotes on that

Sweet sailor hat,

When gazing at those sweeter tresses.

After hours of dullard, rasper, ranter,

Sweet an interlude of Balfour's banter!

Joseph's venom, Harcourt's heavy clowning,

Tired us, in a sea of dulness drowning;

When, hillo! here is Prince Arthur chaffing

Mr. G. and all the House is laughing!

Never were such light artistic raillery,

Nothing spiteful, naught played to the gallery;

Finished fun, ad unguem, poignant, polished.

Fled fatigue, and dulness was demolished.

Even the great victim chortled merrily,

That short speech should be "selected," verily,

For the next edition of the Speaker.

No coarse slogger, and no crude nose-tweaker

Is Prince Arthur. Gladstone first is reckoned

At gay chaff, but Balfour's a good second.

Miss Bessy. "Won't you sing something, Captain Belsize?"

Captain Belsize. "Oh! I no longer sing now. Do I, Miss Caroline?"

Miss Caroline. "I'm afraid you do, Captain Belsize!"