I seized my virgin pencil blue, Marked and perused you through and through. The story brief, instructions short, Defendant in a County Court, It needed not an ounce of sense To see that you had no defence. But, erudite in English law, I fashioned bricks without the straw.
Around my chamber-floor I sped. Harangued the book-case on each head; DEMOSTHENES and CICERO On hearing me had cried a go. Then I must own that I was nettled-- Out of Court the case was settled. All my points were left unmade, And the fee is left unpaid.
[Professor LOMBROSO writes in the _Revue des Revues_ that all women are liars. Mr. VICTOR HORSLEY writes in the _Times_ that one of Miss COBBE's statements is a lie.]
Shameful, shocking, rude Professor! CRICHTON BROWNE--your predecessor In attacks, would-be suppressor Of the higher Education--once compared them To the Pantaloon, and scared them, But he was polite, and spared them Words like "liar."
Lie, indeed! There is a middle Course--say "fib" or "tarradiddle," "Not quite true," "A sort of riddle Facts to smother." We, who love the fair romancer-- Be she talker, singer, dancer, What you will, she's sweet--we answer, "You're another!"
As for you, rough Mr. HORSLEY, Arguing so very coarsely, May I say yours is a worse lie,-- Rhyming badly? You, so skilled in vivisection, Could cut up Miss COBBE's objection, With your tongue in some subjection, Not thus madly.
Why, LOMBROSO would despise you, Though he is so rude. These "lies" you Freely write make folks surmise you An impostor, Not the lady. You've not "licked" her. (Slang to suit you) though you're VICTOR. Since you stoop to contradict her Like a coster.
[Illustration: MR. PUNCH'S SHOOTING-PARTY.]
A mysterious thing For our commonplace day, Is the lady I sing In the following lay.
While I'm shooting the grouse, Or enjoying the sea, She takes care of my house For a nominal fee.
For ten shillings a-week Does this wonderful woman Undertake, so to speak, An existence inhuman.
Like their dwellings the rabbits Deep in darkling retreats, This weird widow inhabits Subterranean seats.
What with humour "contrary," Or ironic despair, She denominates "airey"-- From its absence of air!
It would give _me_ the blues Household gods to uphold With a _Lloyd's Weekly News_ Of some fifty days old.