SONGS OF THE HOME.
III.—THE GUEST.
I have a friend; his name is John;
He's nothing much to dote upon,
But, on the whole, a pleasant soul
And, like myself, no paragon.
I have a house, and, then again,
An extra room to take a guest;
And in my house I have a spouse.
It's good for me; I don't protest.
By her is every virtue taught;
Man does as he is told, and ought;
He has to eat his own conceit,
So, "Just the place for John!" I thought.
The unsuspecting guest arrives;
But (note the worthlessness of wives)
Does he endure the kill-or-cure
Refining process? No, he thrives.
He's led to think that he has got
The very virtues I have not;
Her every phrase is subtle praise
And oh! how he absorbs the lot.
She finds his wisdom full of wit
And listens to no end of it;
And if he dash tobacco-ash
On carpets doesn't mind a bit.
All that the human frame requires,
From flattery to bedroom fires,
Is his; and I must self-deny
To satisfy his least desires.
I have a friend; his name is John;
I tell him he is "getting on"
And "growing fat," and things like that....
He pays no heed. He's too far gone.
Henry.
"Pupils wanted for Pianoforte and Theory.—J.G. Peat, Dyer and Cleaner."—New Zealand Herald.
"That strain again! It had a dying fall."—Twelfth Night, Act I., Sc. 1, 4.
"The lowest grade of porter is the grade from which railway employees in the traffic departments gravitate to higher positions."—Daily Paper.
The Einstein theory is beginning to capture our journalists.
There was a Society Sinner
Who no longer was asked out to dinner;
This proof of his guilt
So caused him to wilt
That he's now emigrated to Pinner.
