And W. G. was on his legs,
One might catch the loud “Hear, hear!”
But still prosed on that woeful man,
That moist-eyed Millinere.
“Anon the claims of the Fashion-fiend
Grew tyrannously strong;
We did not dare so much as spare
The prettiest pets of song.”
“Good gracious, man, what ails you now?
Why this hysteric sobbin’?