Sometimes a troop of swells—drunk—mad
(Who’d call a sober man a cad)—
Bring in a very verdant lad,
And teach him everything that’s bad,
And stain his soul with cank’ring spots.
And there she sits, with eyes so blue,
Loudly and lightly chatted to;
Oh! she was brighter, happier too,
When she cried, “Fine shalots!”
For she must suffer many slights—
May never more know home’s delights—
Can scarcely claim a woman’s rights;
Must writhe beneath the scorn that blights
Such cheerless, weary, dreary lots;
And dies, at last, by some road-side;
Or, urged by sin’s despairing pride,
She sinks beneath the murky tide—
That girl who sold shalots!
Fun, 1864.
END OF VOLUME VIII.
Butler & Tanner, Frome and London.