CCCLXIV.
THE SWELLS SOLILOQUY ON THE WAR.
I don't approve this hawid waw;
Those dweadful bannahs hawt my eyes;
And guns and drums are such a baw—
Why don't the pawties compwamise?
Of cawce, the twoilet has its chawms;
But why must all the vulgah crowd
Pawsist in spawting uniforms
In cullaws so extremely loud?
And then the ladies—precious deahs!—
I mawk the change on ev'wy bwow;
Bai Jove! I really have my feahs
They wathah like the howid wow!
To hear the chawming cweatures talk,
Like patwons of the bloody wing,
Of waw and all its dawty wark?—
It does n't seem a pwappah thing!
I called at Mrs. Gween's last night,
To see her niece, Miss Mary Hertz,
And found her making—cwushing sight!—
The weddest kind of flannel shirts!
Of cawce I wose and saught the daw,
With fewy flashing from my eyes!
I can't approve this hawid waw;—
Why don't the parties compromise?
Vanity Fair.
CCCLXV.
THE ALARMED SKIPPER.
Many a long, long year ago,
Nantucket skippers had a plan
Of finding out, though "lying low,"
How near New York their schooners ran.