[Illustration]
When STREPHON shuts the ledger to,
Relinquishing his duties,
And takes the train from Waterloo
For Clapham's rural beauties
He dearly loves _en route_, we read,
To smoke the solitary weed.
His hopes, alas, are quickly dashed,
For CHLOË, maid provoking!
Alertly enters, unabashed,
The carriage labelled "Smoking";
His frown, his powerful cigar,
His match--all unavailing are.
Yes, CHLOË comes, and brings no doubt,
A friend to talk of fashions,
While STREPHON lets his weed go out,
A prey to angry passions,
Which, later on, released will be
Within the excellent _D. T._
Yet grieve not so, ungallant swain,
Nor curse this innovation,
Or, even if you do, refrain
From words like "frequentation,"
But really, you should do no less
Than cease to curse, and wholly bless.
For if the charm this female band
Finds in you so immense is,
That they contentedly can stand
The smell your weed dispenses,
A compliment they pay you then
You will not gain from fellow-men!
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