Though, if you ask her name, she says _ELISE_,
Being plain _ELIZABETH_, e'en let it pass,
And own that, if her aspirates take their ease,
She ever makes a point, in washing glass,
Handling the engine, turning taps for _tots_,
And countering change, and scorning what men say,
Of posing as a dove among the pots,
Nor often gives her dignity away.
Her head's a work of art, and, if her eyes
Be tired and ignorant, she has a waist;
Cheaply the Mode she shadows; and she tries
From penny novels to amend her taste;
And, having mopped the zinc for certain years,
And faced the gas, she fades and disappears.
_The Artist muses at his ease_,
_Contented that his work is done_,
_And smiling_--_smiling_!--_as he sees_
_His crowd collecting_, _one by one_.
_Alas_! _his travail's but begun_!
_None_, _none can keep the years in line_,
_And what to Ninety-Eight is fun_
_May raise the gorge of Ninety-Nine_!