He would not pass her to the pit;
She said, “I’m on the Press.”
She thought he would have had a fit,
And burst his evening dress.
“If you are on the Press,” he cried,
“You ought to wear your shoes
But, as there’s room for one inside,
I cannot well refuse.”
He put her in a private box,
Which hid her to the knees;
And sent to Alias for some frocks,
And whispered, “Choose from these.”
She chose a page’s trunks and hose,
A fairy’s skirt of gauze,
And while she dressed Augustus rose
And left amid applause.
Then back she went a fairy queen
Into the G.P.O.;
She passed the rows of clerks between,
And all were bowing low.
They weighed her card with smirk and smile,
The stamps with care imposed;
The postage was a pound a mile,
Because the ends were closed.
But in her fairy garment she
Did look so sweet a gal,
“O.H.M.S.” was put by the
Postmaster-General.
And ere her card her love unclosed
Another knot was tied:
The P.M.G. himself proposed,
And now she is his bride.
MORAL.
If information you would ask,
When P.O. clerks are pressed,
You’ll find it aid you in your task
If you go nicely dressed!