You sighed and said that you felt hurt,
And prettily you pouted,
When anybody called you flirt,
A fact I never doubted.
And yet such wheedling ways you had,
Man yielded willy-nilly;
And half your swains were nearly mad,
And all of us were silly.

Youth's first illusions fly apace,
And now one man confesses
He scarcely can recal your face,
Or colour of your dresses.
And whether you were false or true,
Or what fate followed after,
Remembrance only keeps of you
The echo of your laughter.

* * * * *

PROVERBIAL PRAYER FOR A PAUPER-HATING BUMBLE.--Give me neither poverty
nor Ritchies!

* * * * *

A CREDITABLE INCIDENT IN THE NEXT WAR.

(_AN ADVANCE SHEET FROM MR. PUNCH'S PROPHETIC HISTORY OF EUROPE._)