THE SUBSTITUTE.

[Sweets are replacing alcohol.—Vide Papers passim.]

As more and more the god of wine

Grows faint from want of tippling,

Nor round his path the roses shine,

Nor purple streams are rippling;

As usquebaugh and malt and hops

No longer much entice us,

We crown anew with lollipops,

With peppermints, with acid drops,

The nobler Dionysus.

Bright coloured as his orient car,

Piled high with autumn splendours,

The pageants of the sweetstuffs are

At all the pastry-vendors;

From earliest flush of dawn till eight

The Mænad nymphs in masses,

With lions' help upbear the freight

Of marzipan and chocolate

And stickjaw and molasses.

The poet from whose lips of flame

Wine drew the songs, the full sighs,

Performs the business just the same

When masticating bull's-eyes;

The knight who bids a fond "Farewell,

Love's large, but honour's larger!"

Shares with the Lady Amabel

One last delicious caramel

And leaps upon his charger.

The rake inured to card-room traps,

Yet making fearful faces

Because his foes, perfidious chaps,

Have always all the aces—

"Ruined! the old place mortgaged! faugh!"

(The guttering candles quiver)—

Instead of draining brandy raw

Clenches a jujube in his jaw

And strolls towards the river.

O happier time that soothes the brain

And rids us of our glum fits

(Eliminating dry champagne)

With candy and with comfits!

The oak reflects the firelight's beam,

In song the moments fly by,

Till the old squire, his face agleam,

Sucking the last assorted cream,

Toddles away to bye-bye.

Evoe.


From a P.S.A. notice:—

"Subject: 'A Renewed World—No Sorrow. No Pain. No Death.' No Collection."

Local Paper.

The last item sounds almost too good to be true.


"The proposed changes were discussed with the captain of the England side and one or two prominent crickets who had visited Australia."

Expensive Daily Paper.

Hitherto it had been supposed that these cheerful little creatures only sought the kind of "ashes" that you get on the domestic hearth.


"We ain't a bit afraid, Alfy 'Iggins. Yer own fice is a lump uglier."