My gentle washer-woman,
I know that you are true;
The least shade of suspicion
Can never fall on you.
Then fear me not, as fiercely
I fix on thee stern eyes,
And ask in terms emphatic,
"Where are my lost white ties?"
Each year I buy a dozen,
Yet scarce a year is gone,
Ere, looking in my ward-robe,
I find that I have none.
I don't believe in magic,
I know that you are true,
Yet say, my washer-woman,
What can those white ties do?
Does each with her own collar
To regions far elope,
Regions by starch untainted,
And innocent of soap?
I know not; but in future
I'll buy no more white ties,
But wear the stiff 'all-rounder'
Of Ritualistic guise.
TEMPORA MUTANTUR.
There once was a time when I revelled in
rhyme, with Valentines deluged my cousins,
Translated Tibullus and half of Catullus, and poems produced by the dozens.
Now my tale is nigh told, for my blood's running
cold, all my laurels lie yellow and faded.
"We have come to the boss;" [1] like a weary old
hoss, poor Pegasus limps, and is jaded.
And yet Mr. Editor, like a stern creditor, duns
me for this or that article,
Though he very well knows that of Verse and of
prose I am stripped to the very last particle.