* * * * *
SONGS BY A CYNIC.
LOVE.
What's Love, and all that Love can bring,
Youth's earliest illusion:
What tender words _she_ used to sing,
And blush with sweet confusion.
How you would hang upon each word,
When under spells of Cupid;
When half she said was most absurd,
And all extremely stupid.
You loved her for her hair of gold.
Unwitting that she dyed it;
She vowed her love could ne'er grow cold,
Though Time had never tried it.
Your worship came to such a pass,
That, when you calmly view it,
You feel you were an utter ass,
Though then you never knew it.
What happened? Why, the usual thing:
While round her you would linger,
Her love was fragile as the ring
You bought to grace her finger.
She went off with another man,
And so you had to sever:
Thus women since the world began
Have done, and will do ever.
* * * * *
REVELATIONS OF A REVELLER.
I revelled at the Albert Hall, which last week was given up to a
festival called "_The Coming Race_." I was there at the opening on
Thursday, the 5th, when Princess BEATRICE, attended by her husband,
Prince HENRY of Battenberg, declared the Bazaar open.
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