You favoured me with witching smiles,
You gave me frequent dances;
But other men that I wished miles
Away, enjoyed your glances.
Man loves as men loved in old times,
And as in legends hoary,
We celebrate a maid in rhymes,
Is that too old a story?
But still man loves one girl alone,
And flies when he discovers--
That she he thought was all his own,
Has half a dozen lovers.
You sighed and said that you felt hurt,
And prettily you pouted,
When anybody called you flirt,
A fact I never doubted.
And yet such wheedling ways you had,
Man yielded willy-nilly;
And half your swains were nearly mad,
And all of us were silly.
Youth's first illusions fly apace,
And now one man confesses
He scarcely can recal your face,
Or colour of your dresses.
And whether you were false or true,
Or what fate followed after,
Remembrance only keeps of you
The echo of your laughter.
* * * * *
PROVERBIAL PRAYER FOR A PAUPER-HATING BUMBLE.--Give me neither poverty
nor Ritchies!
* * * * *
A CREDITABLE INCIDENT IN THE NEXT WAR.
(_AN ADVANCE SHEET FROM MR. PUNCH'S PROPHETIC HISTORY OF EUROPE._)
["Italy is bound to maintain abroad the appearance of a great
and rich country, while at home she ought to conduct herself
as if in straitened circumstances."--_Daily Paper_.]
The Italian Army had been completely victorious.
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