Ethel, who is not to have a seaside trip this year, dreams every night that she and her mamma and aunt and sisters spread their sash-bows and panniers and fly away to the yellow sands.
THE MARGATE BATHING-WOMAN'S LAMENT
It nearly broke my widowed art,
When first I tuk the notion,
That parties didn't as they used,
Take reglar to the ocean.
The hinfants, darling little soles,
Still cum quite frequent, bless 'em!
But they is only sixpence each,