[Illustration]
Once more the North-east wind
Chills all anew,
And tips the redden'd nose
With colder blue;
Makes blackbirds hoarse as crows,
And poets too.
The town with nipping blasts
How wildly blown;
Around my hapless head
Loose tiles are thrown,
Slates, chimney-pots, and lead
Of weight unknown.
_My_ tile and chimney-pot
Flies through the air.
My eyes are full of dust,
My head is bare,
A state of things that must
Soon make me swear!
When thus in early Spring
My joys are few,
I'll warm myself at home
With "Mountain Dew,"
Or fly to Nice, or Rome,
Or Timbuctoo.
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[Illustration: A STUDIED INSULT.
_Box-Office Keeper at the Imperial Music-Hall_ (_to Farmer Murphy, who
is in Town for the Islington Horse Show_). "BOX OR TWO STALLS, SIR?"
_Murphy_. "WHAT THE DEV'L D'YE MANE? D'YE TAKE ME AN' THE MISSUS FOR A
PAIR O' PROIZE 'OSSES? OI'LL HAVE TWO SATES IN THE DHRESS CIRCLE, AND
LET 'EM BE AS DHRESSY AS POSSIBLE, MOIND!"]
* * * * *