MY TAILOR.
"The St. Petersburgh tailors have hit upon an effectual device for obtaining payment of their bills. Immense black-boards are hung up in the most conspicuous place in the reception-room; thereon are chalked, in letters as big as arrow-headed inscriptions, the names of their hopelessly-indebted clients, and the amount of their indebtedness."
Daily Paper.
Who always seemed serene and bland;
Who never asked for "cash in hand,"
Quite pleased that my account should "stand"?
My Tailor!
Who catered for the gilded throng,
Who chid me when my taste was wrong,
Whose credit—and whose price—was long?—
My Tailor!
Who chatted when I felt depressed,
Who proffered wine with friendly zest,
Whose weeds were ever of the best?—
My Tailor!
Who with sartorial oil anoints
My vanity, who pads my joints,
And fortifies my weakest points?—
My Tailor!
But who in future, much I fear,
Will greet me with no words of cheer,
But talk of "settling"—language queer?—
My Tailor!
Who silently will point his hand
To figures white on black-board grand.
Where all my unpaid "items" stand?—
My Tailor!
Who'll thus expose me to my peers,
Bring on me jibes, and flouts, and sneers,
Male sniggerings, and female tears?—
My Tailor!
Who'll frown when I suggest a loan,
And ne'er produce Clicquot or Beaune,
But for his "checks" demand my own?—
My Tailor!
Who'll take my "measures" when he wills,
But only if I take his "bills,"
And add one more to human ills?—
My Tailor!