(_By a Light Sleeper._)
"Ye little birds that sit and sing"
Outside my window when the day is dawning.
How I should like your little necks to wring,
I fain would sleep, with weariness I'm yawning.
Although for rest you may not feel inclined,
Do cease, I beg of you, that aimless twitter:
Try without noise the early worm to find.
Why should you seek my rest-time to embitter?
No doubt you think your maddening cheep
Sweeter than song of nightingale or linnet,
But, tossing here with imprecations deep,
I do declare I find no sweetness in it.
"Higher up! move on!" or stay and hold your tongues,
Had I a gun, the twig you'd quickly hop it;
I wish you'd exercise your little lungs
A thousand miles from here. In mercy stop it!
* * * * *
The Cyclist's Cycle.
(_An Elderly would-be Wheelman's Experience._)
Discuss the question,--"_Why_ Cycle?"
Purchase a roadster,--Buy Cycle!
Mount it, and tumble off--Try Cycle!
Home bruised and shivering,--Icicle!
Read the _Lancet_, am horrified,--Shy Cycle!
Sell off at a sacrifice,--Fie Cycle!
And that was the end of _my_ Cycle!
* * * * *