_Miss Telegraph_, lifting her finger,
Says--"Sadly this minx I mistrust--
Her manners I strangely mistrust--
She'll distance us, dear, if we linger!
Ah, haste!--let us haste!--for we must!
She'll eclipse us--that _would_ be a stinger!
She'll rise, and our business is "bust"--
My dear, we must snub her, and bring her
Presumptuous pride to the dust--
Till she sorrowfully sinks in the dust."