THE NEW ROBIN.
The North wind doth blow,
And we ought to have snow,
If ’tis true what my nurse used to sing,
Poor thing.
Yet up in yon tree
Robin Redbreast I see
As happy and gay as a king,
Poor thing.
Look! as true as I live,
There’s a boy with a sieve
And a stick and a long piece of string,
Poor thing.
But the bird doesn’t care,
For I hear him declare,
“Pooh! the old dodge he tried in the Spring,
Poor thing.”
“What ridiculous cheek,”
And he turns up his beak
Ere he tucks his head under his wing,
Poor thing.
The poor Rhymester was very disappointed at not being able to publish more of his poems, so the Doctor-in-Law, to console him, allowed him to contribute an article on “Fashions for the Month by Our Paris Model.” He made a frightful muddle of it though, not knowing the proper terms in which to describe the various materials and styles. Here is an extract, which will show you better than I can tell, the stupid blunders which he made:
“Hats this season are principally worn on the head, and may be trimmed with light gauzy stuff wobbled round the crown mixed up with various coloured ribbons, and bunches of artificial flowers and fruit.