* * * * *

MY FIRST BRIEF.

[Illustration]

  When you, my first brief, were delivered,
  Every fibre in me quivered
  With delight.  I seemed to see
  Myself admitted a Q.C.;
  Piles of briefs upon the table,
  More work to do than I was able;
  Clients scrambling for advice,
  Then LORD CHANCELLOR in a trice.

  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.

* * * * *

POLITE LEARNING.

[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.]

* * * * *

SONGS OUT OF SEASON.—­MY CARETAKER.

[Illustration]

  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.