I know ’twas not the proper thing to do,
And yet I thought it would be jolly too,
To go alone to that swell masquerade,
And so I did it. Well my plans were laid.
My wife of my intentions naught did know.
I told her, out of town I had to go,
And she believed me. Leaving her to stay
At home, I went and danced in costume gay.
I had been at the ball an hour or so,
When some one introduced a domino.
I saw that she was plump and graceful, and
She had a pretty little foot and hand.
Her eyes, I noticed, flashed like diamonds bright,
Though plump, she waltzed divinely; feather light,
And then she flirted with most perfect art,
It isn’t singular I lost my heart.
Soon my sweet charmer I began to ask
To step into an alcove and unmask!
To let me see the lovely face I’d swear
Was hid behind that mask. My lady fair
At first refused. I pleaded long and hard;
Declared my life forever would be marred,
Unless her cruelty she would relent.
My pleading won, at last, a shy consent.
Her face she would permit my eyes to view,
If I unmasked, the selfsame instant; too.
The dancing-hall had alcoves all around,
And soon in one of these ourselves we found;
The alcove was, for two, the proper size,
And passing dancers would not recognize
You, for the light was dim within the niche,
And flowers, about, their perfume gave. My witch
Her mask removed. I meantime did the same.
“My wife!” “My husband!” So we did exclaim.
The truth we neither of us had mistrusted,
And each was disappointed and disgusted.
AT A FANCY BALL. Voice Within (to waiter). I’m starving! For goodness sake, get a can opener. I can’t get this beastly visor up.
THE AMATEUR FLUTE-PLAYER
Hear the fluter with his flute,
Silver flute!
Oh, what a world of wailing is awakened by its toot!
How it demi-semi-quavers,
On the maddened air of night!
And defieth all endeavours
To escape the sound or sight
Of the flute, flute, flute,
With its tootle, tootle, toot,
With reiterated tootings of exasperated toots.
The long-protracted tootings of agonizing toots,
Of the flute, flute, flute, flute,
Flute, flute, flute,
And the wheezing and the spittings of its toots.
Should he get that other flute—
Golden flute—
Oh, what a deeper anguish will its presence institoot!
How his eyes to heaven he’ll raise
As he plays
All the days!
How he’ll stop us on our ways
With its praise;
And the people—oh, the people!
That don’t live up in the steeple,
But inhabit Christian parlours
Where he visiteth and plays—
Where he plays, plays, plays
In the cruellest of ways,
And thinks we ought to listen,
And expects us to be mute,
Who would rather have the earache
Than the music of his flute—
Of his flute, flute, flute,
And the tooting of his toot—
Of the toot wherein he tooteleth his agonizing toot
Of the fluet, fluit, floot.
Phlute, phlewt, phlewght,
And the tootle-tootle-tooting of his toot.
PRIVATE THEATRICALS—THE MOUSTACHES.
Lady B. (a wicked Marquis). But have you made me fierce enough, Charles?
Charles. Fierce!—ferocious!