Or what—­the worser part to view—­
    Of wanton waste and reckless gambling,
  What darker paths shall he pursue
    With sacrilegious step and shambling? 
  What coarse defiance, haply, hurl
    At lights beyond his comprehension—­
  An attitudinising churl
    Who struts with ludicrous pretension.

  I know not—­only this I know,
    They’re getting overstrained, my ditties,
  This kind of poem ought to flow
    Less like a solemn “Nunc Dimittis.” 
  ’Twas jaunty when I struck my lyre,
    And jaunty seems this yearling baby;
  But, as both year and song expire
    They’re sadder, each, and wiser, maybe.

* * * * *

Popular songs re-Sung.

“Hi-tiddley-hi-ti; or, I’m All Right” is heard, “all over the place,” as light sleepers and studious dwellers in quiet streets are too well aware.  Why should it not be enlisted in the service of Apollo and Momus as well as of the Back Slum Bacchus?  As thus:—­

No.  V.—­I-twaddley-high<
/i>-dry-high-toned-I!  Ok, I’m all right!

Air—­“HI-TIDDLEY-HI-TI!”

[Illustration]

I’m a young writer grimly gay,
My volumes sell, and sometimes pay. 
First log-rollers raised a rumour of a rising Star of Humour,
Who had faced the Sphinx called Life,
With amusing misery rife,
So with sin, and woe, and strife, I thought I’d have a lark. 
With pessimistic pick I pottered round
Pottered round,
A new “funny” trick I quickly found,
Smart and sound,
Life’s cares in hedonistic chuckles drowned,
You be bound! 
The cynic lay
I found would pay,
In a young Man of Mark!

CHORUS.

All of you come along with me! 
I’m for a rare new fine new spree! 
Everybody is delighted when the Philistines are slighted,
All of you come my books to try! 
I-twaddley-I-ti I-I-I,
Ego for ever!  Buy!  Buy!  Buy! 
And I’m all right!

Down with the West I go; my pen
Is bound to “fetch” the Upper Ten,
With the aid of some “log-rolling,” my “distinction” much extolling. 
Smart little scribes from near and far
Say, with a sniff, “O here’s a Star!”
Dickens on fine souls doth jar, Thackeray is too dry,
But his pessimistic air, rich and rare,
Subtle, fair,
Makes Philistia to stare, in a scare,
And to blare;
Whilst true Critics debonnaire, who are rare,
With a flaire,
For true humour,
Swell of rumour
The gregarious cry.

CHORUS.

All of you come along with me! 
You’ll have a rare new fair new spree! 
Paradox with “sniff” united, Poor Humanity snubbed and slighted. 
Humour’s new cuvee, extra-dry. 
I-twaddley—­high-dry-high-toned I! 
Come and worship the pessimist “I”
For that’s all right!