And although securely laced,
Spreading is the figure trim!
Stouter than I used to be,
Still more corpulent grow I--
There will be too much of me
In the coming bye and bye!





THE SORCERER'S SONG.


Oh! my name is John Wellington Wells--
I'm a dealer in magic and spells,
In blessings and curses,
And ever filled purses,
In prophecies, witches and knells!
If you want a proud foe to "make tracks"--
If you'd melt a rich uncle in wax--
You've but to look in
On our resident Djinn,
Number seventy, Simmery Axe.

We've a first class assortment of magic;
And for raising a posthumous shade
With effects that are comic or tragic,
There's no cheaper house in the trade.
Love-philtre--we've quantities of it;