MY bright hopes fade, my heart is breaking
(I feel inclined to cuss our Chief),
And I from thee my leave am taking,
After a stay too brief, too brief.
How sinks my heart with strange alarms!
An angry tear obscures my eye.
Stamboul, they drive me from thy charms;
Good-bye, sweet Porte, good-bye!
My innings end,--without much scoring,--
Loud swells the Rad's derisive jeer.
If France I long have failed in flooring,
Still I was here, still I _was_ here.
If I could keep my place (and pay),
Patient diplomacy to ply,
I would not leave thee though I say
Good-bye, sweet Porte, good-bye!
* * * * *
GRANDOLPH'S TEACHINGS.--When you rush in to dress at five minutes to
eight, and you are to dine two miles off at eight sharp, when your
shoe-strings break, your studs roll on the floor, your links refuse to
catch, and you suddenly discover an iron-mould in the centre of your
shirt-front, then when a sweet patient voice from the other room says,
"O my dear! don't use such awful language!" then bethink you of
GRANDOLPH, and explain that your fervent utterances were only "blessings
in disguise."
* * * * *
COVENT GARDEN OPERA.--_Mr. Punch's_ advice,--if _Lohengrin_ is given
again, with the same cast as it had last Saturday, go and hear it. A
real treat.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE PROVINCIALS!
_Northern Belle._ "DID YOU GO UP TO THE ACADEMY SOIREE?"
_Masher._ "AH--M--M--NO. I--AH--SELDOM GO TO LONDON NOW. MY TAILOR COMES
DOWN NORTH THREE OR FOUR TIMES A YEAR!"]
* * * * *