Wake, wake, wake!

Ye Whigs from your drowsy bed ;

And wake, wake, wake!

Ere my hopes are all perished and fled."

There were seven more verses, but as the parody was of purely local interest, they are not here quoted.

THE SONG OF THE POST.

WITH "Bluchers" cobbled and worn,
With post-bag heavy alway,

A postman tramped on his twentieth round,

On good St. Valentine's day.

Rat-tat rat! tat!

At every knocker almost,

Each time, in a voice that was somewhat flat,
He sang the " Song of the Post !"

Tramp tramp! tramp!

When the sweep is up the flue;
And tramp! tramp! tramp!
Till the supper beer is due.

It's oh! to be a slave,

Along with the barbarous Turk, Where Scudamore can verse outpour For Britons, besides his work!

Trudge trudge! trudge!

Till I'm trodden down at heel; Trudge! trudge! trudge!

Till I'm faint for want of a meal.

Bell, and knocker, and box,

Box, and knocker, and bell; Till over the letters I all but nod, And drop them in a spell.

Oh, girls with lovers fond!

Oh, men who want to get wives!

It's not a mere custom you're keeping up;
You're wearing out postmen's lives!

If you must send Valentines,

Don't post them by tens and twelves;

Or, if you do, I would pray of you
To deliver them yourselves!

But why do I pray of you,

Whose hearts so hard must be,

Since your scented rhymes you'll not post betimes,

In spite of Lord M-'s decree?

In spite of Lord M―'s decree,

In your tardy ways you keep;

Oh, crime! that boots should be so dear,

And Valentines so cheap!

Tramp! tramp! tramp!

Through street, and terrace, and square.

Rap rap rap!

Valentines everywhere!

Maid, and master, and miss,

Miss, and master, and maid;

There are some for them all, as they come at the call

Of the knocker, so long delayed.

*

There's none too poor or base

A Valentine to send

A halfpenny buys an ugly one That will serve to spite a friend.

"It really seems the ambition of each fashionable woman to render her dress more like a skin than that of her neighbour, besides exhibiting as large a portion of the real flesh as can be done without the apology for raiment absolutely dropping off!"-The World, January 31, 1877.

WITH arms a-wearied of fanning herself,
With eyelids heavy and red,

A wallflower sat on a stiff-backed chair,
Wishing herself in bed.

Turn, twirl, and turn,

With hop, with glide, and prance;

And still, as she sleepily gazed on that throng,

She muttered the "Song of the Dance."

Dance, dance, dance,

Till I hear the milkman's cry;

Dance, dance, dance,

Till the sun is seen on high.

It's O to be a nigger,

Nor mind to clothless feel,

If civilised folk will try how little
They need their bodies conceal !

Dance, dance, dance,

Till the heat is horrid to bear;

Dance, dance, dance,

Till I long for a cushioned chair.

Waltz, gallop, and waltz;

A lancer, a stray quadrille,

Till the whirl and the music make me doze,

And dreaming I watch them still.

O men with wives and sisters,

Have ye no eyes to see

That the scanty dress of the ballet-girl

By your kin ne'er worn should be?

Twirl, turn, and twirl;

Morality, where art thou?

The dance and the dress of the stage--and worse

Are those of the ball-room now!

But why do I talk of morality
Since Fashion its morals makes?
What Fashion does is never wrong,
So Purity never quakes.

For Purity only takes

Her sip of the cup that Fashion fills;

And we know that cup is made of gold, And that gold will cover a thousand ills. Dance, dance, dance;

They never tired appear:

And all in hopes that a wished-for vow,
May fall on their foolish ear,
Alas, how the morn will show,

The work of the midnight air ;

And the paint will trace on many a face,
And show false locks of hair!

Dance, dance, dance;

How sweetly they keep time, As they dance, dance, dance, In a measure quite sublime! They waltz, waltz, waltz,

Keep time to the glorious band;

But, ah! there is many a blushing look,
And pressure of many a hand!

Thus wearied out with fanning herself,
With eyelids heavy and red,

This wallflower sat on a stiff-backed chair,
Wishing herself in bed.

While all were swinging with turn and twirl,
With hop, and glide, and prance,

She muttered this song to herself, and said,
Alas, where is morality fled,

Since true is my Song of the Dance ?"

CECIL MAXWELL LYTE

London Society, November, 1877.

THE SONG OF THE SOLDIER'S SHIRT.

(In 1879 it was announced that the wages of the women working at the Army Clothing Department, Pimlico, had been reduced from 20 to 25 per cent.)

WITH fingers weary and worn,

With eyelids heavy and red,

A woman sat 'neath a Government roof,
Plying her needle and thread.

As she stitch'd, stitch'd, stitch'd,

'Twas plain she was most expert ;

And she sang to herself in a voice low-pitch'd,
The Song of the Soldier's Shirt."

Work! work! work!

There's no rest in youth or age!

And alas! I have now to work

For a cruelly lessen'd wage!

I sit at my task all day,

And never my duty shirk,

But slop-shop prices would better pay
Than this cheap Government work.

Work! work! work!

My labour never flags,

And yet with my pittance I scarce can buy

A crust of bread-and rags.

I work for the greatest Power,
That ever the world has known,

Yet my pay's so small that I cannot call
My body and soul my own.

Write write! write!

Though my head is ready to split; Write! write ! write!

Though I fall asleep as I sit. Write! write ! write!

When the summer sun is high!

Write write! write!

When the stars light up the sky. Write write! write!

For my pen must never tire; First I've a railway smash to do,

And then the report of a fire.

I must put in a word of praise for those
Who rendered efficient aid ;

And, if time enough, I must give a puff,
To the chief of the Fire Brigade.

Write! write! write!

I'd need be a writing machine;
For unlike the workers on Once a Week,
I've no Leisure Hour between,

But it's write! write! write!

Though my inkstand is nearly dry, Like a government office, I must contract With MORRELL for a fresh supply. Now I must haste to the gallows tree,

To see them strangle a sinner; And write a report the saints may read, As they take their breakfast or dinner. Then concoct a puff for some wonderful pill, Or marvellous sarsaparilla ;

And hurry away to hear PUNSHON preach, Or SPURGEON on the gorilla.

(Three verses omitted.)

With a weary, swimming brain,

With a throbbing, aching head,

Sat a newspaper hack in his garret lone,
Driving a goose-quill for bread.

Write write! write!