OF VAIN COLOURS.
When the century, growing a little bit mellow,
Produces carnations outrageously green;
When you notice a delicate, dairy-like yellow
Adorn the pale face of the best margarine;
When canaries, all warranted excellent singers,
Are sold in the street for a shilling apiece,
But at home all the yellow comes off on your fingers,
Substrata of brown making daily increase;
When a lady you happen to meet on a Monday
With hair that is grey, and with cheeks that are old,
Appears shortly after, the following Sunday,
With rosy complexion, and tresses of gold;
When a nursemaid has one of the worst scarlet-fevers,
Or merely, it may be, a fit of the blues;
When you're offered "Old Masters" as black as coal-heavers,
Or shirts of quite "fast" unwashoutable hues;
When a blue ribbon's equally known as denoting
Teetotal fanatics, a Rad, or a Tory—
In these and like cases too num'rous for quoting
Remember old Virgil, "Ne crede colori."