[Illustration]
Rumour whispers, so we glean
From the papers, there have been
Thoughts of bringing on the scene
This mad, monstrous, metal screen,
Hiding woman's graceful mien.
Better Jewish gabardine
Than, thus swelled out, satin's sheen!
Vilest garment ever seen!
Form unknown in things terrene;
Even monsters pliocene
Were not so ill-shaped, I ween.
Women wearing this machine,
Were they fat or were they lean--
Small as WORDSWORTH'S celandine,
Large as sail that's called lateen--
Simply swept the pavement clean:
Hapless man was crushed between
Flat as any tinned sardine.
Thing to rouse a Bishop's spleen,
Make a Canon or a Dean
Speak in language not serene.
We must all be very green,
And our senses not too keen,
If we can't say what we mean,
Write in paper, magazine,
Send petitions to the QUEEN,
Get the House to intervene.
Paris fashion's transmarine--
Let us stop by quarantine
Catastrophic Crinoline!
* * * * *
"More butter is coming from Victoria," says the _P. M. G._, "to the
Mother Country." Our Colonies are not given to supplying us with this
article of food to any great extent. It is generally the Mother
Country that has buttered the Colonies.
* * * * *