(_After Tennyson's "Adeline."_)
All around one daily sees
Dreadful dyes of Aniline.
Worn by women fat and thin,
Bonnet, bodice, back and breast.
One can hardly call thee fair,
With thy fierce magenta glare,
With thy green, the green of peas,
Violet, and all the rest.
What appalling tints are thine,
Showy, glowy Aniline!
Whence did modern women get
Such a gorgeous array?
Dear to 'ARRY'S 'ARRIET
On a 'appy 'oliday,
'Owlin', out on 'Ampstead 'Eath,
From the 'ill to 'im beneath.
Also dear to girls who sell
Flowers in the London street,
They have always loved thee well
In their frocks and feathers neat.
Why revive those tints of thine,
Antiquated Aniline?
Thou hast almost made us blind
Under England's cloudless skies;
Low-toned tints of Orient,
Such as Turkish rugs adorn,
Would be better for our eyes--
Now upon the pavement bent
Since such blazers have been worn.
Say, has Paris sent to us
Dyes so dreadfully defined?
Do the tyrant _modistes_ bring
Colours so calamitous,
Mixed in ways more fearful still,
In this strangely sunny spring?
Oh, before thou mak'st us ill,
Take away that glare of thine,
Unæsthetic Aniline!
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[Illustration: KINDLY MEANT.
_Mr. Macmonnies_ (_an old Friend_). "WELL, LOOK HERE, OLD MAN, I'LL
TELL YOU WHAT REALLY BROUGHT ME HERE TO-DAY. THE FACT IS MY WIFE WANTS
HER MOTHER PAINTED VERY BADLY--AND I NATURALLY THOUGHT OF YOU!"]
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