The _Chronicle_ has been making a desperate attempt to come out in Punch's
line; he has absolutely been trying the "Too-too-tooit--tooit;" but has
made a most melancholy failure of it. We could forgive him his efforts to
be facetious (though we doubt that his readers will) if he had not
kidnapped three of our own particular pets--the very men who lived and
grew in the world's estimation on our wits; we mean Peter Borthwick, Ben
D'Israeli, and our own immortal Sibthorp. Of poor Sib. the joker of the
_Chronicle_ says in last Tuesday's paper--
"We regret to hear that Col. Sibthorp has suffered severely by cutting
himself in the act of shaving. His friends, however, will rejoice to learn
that his whiskers have escaped, and that he himself is going on
favourably."
We spent an entire night in endeavouring to discover where the wit lay in
this _cutting_ paragraph; but were obliged at last to give it up,
convinced that we might as well have made
[Illustration: AN ATTEMPT TO DISCOVER THE LONGITUDE.]
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SONGS OF THE SEEDY.--No. V.
What am I? Mary, wherefore seek to know?
For mystery's the very soul of love.
Enough, that wedding thee I'm not below,
Enough, that wooing thee I'm not above.
You smile, dear girl, and look into my face
As if you'd read my history in my eye.
I'm not, sweet maid, a footman out of place,
For that position would, I own, be shy.
What am I then, you ask? Alas! 'tis clear,
You love not me, but what I have a year.
What am I, Mary! Well, then, must I tell,
And all my stern realities reveal?
Come close then to me, dearest, listen well,
While what I am no longer I conceal.
I serve my fellow-men, a glorious right;
Thanks for that smile, dear maid, I know 'tis due.
Yes, many have I served by day and night;
With me to aid them, none need vainly sue.
Nay, do not praise me, love, but nearer come,
That I may whisper, I'm a _bailiff's bum_.
Why start thus from me? am I then a thing
To be despised and cast aside by thee?
Oh! while to every one I fondly cling
And follow all, will no one follow me?
Oh! if it comes to this, dear girl, no more
Shalt thou have cause upon my suit to frown;
I'll serve no writs again; from me secure,
John Doe may run at leisure up and down,
Come to my arms, but do not weep the less,
Thou art the last I'll e'er take in distress.
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