[Illustration]

  So Death has paid the Zoo a call,
    And claimed you for his own,
  Who “neck or nothing” had been left
    To bloom—­and die—­alone. 
  From far I gazed into your face,
    I did not know your name,
  You looked uncomfortable, but
    I loved you all the same.

  Your neck was just a trifle long,
    I think you must confess. 
  I’ve often thought if, as a fact,
    You could have done with less. 
  But we must take you all in all,
    And so I hear with pain
  That probably we shall not look
    Upon your like again.

  I could have spared a buffalo
    Or elephant with ease,
  An armadillo, or a bear,
    A dozen chimpanzees. 
  When Jumbo left for foreign skies,
    I did not shed a tear,
  For though his Alice mourned his loss,
    I knew that you were here.

  You’ve gone to heaven, if that’s where
    The good giraffes all go. 
  I wonder if you’ll ever see
    What happens down below. 
  I hope, for your own comfort, not,
    But, if you ever do,
  Please recognise me as the Man
    Who sadly haunts the Zoo.

* * * * *

THE POET AND THE SONGS.

[Illustration]

  I HAD a thought, a dainty thought,
    A quaint and cunning fancy,
  I said, “A theme with humour fraught
    Within my grasp I can see. 
  This thought will work into a set
    Of verses fit for singing.” 
  A voice rasped, “Oh, a deal o’ wet!”
    And off that thought went winging.

  And once again that thought returned,
    With yet more brightness on it—­
  This time with the desire I burned
    To weave it in a sonnet. 
  I’d get an artist chum to do
    The subject in a rare cut. 
  Alas! before ’twas grasped it flew,
    Alarmed by, “Git yer ’air cut!”

  I strayed in silent solitude
    That lost thought to recover,
  And, as my journey I pursued,
    ’Twould still around me hover. 
  Almost I grasped, one fatal day,
    That fancy, quaint and clever,
  A cad shrieked, “Tara-boom-de-ay!”
    And off it flew—­for ever!

* * * * *

SUNDAY OBSERVANCE.

[Illustration]

  WHAT a shocking state of things,
    Oh, my goodness, Mrs. GRUNDY! 
  There’s a man that plays and sings
    In a Blackpool hall on Sunday!

  Oh, what wickedness, oh, dear! 
    Sunday music!  What a scandal! 
  Folks might even go and hear
    Things by HAYDN or by HANDEL!

  Rush and find some obsolete
    Act of wise and pious GEORGES,
  Which will help us to defeat
    Such abominable orgies!

  But here’s worse news, I declare;
    Gracious patience, Mrs. GRUNDY! 
  Eastbourne people cannot bear
    Nice Salvation bands on Sunday!