They went, those minions true, The REVEREND HOPLEY PORTER. "What?" said that reverend gent, "Dance through my hours of leisure? Smoke?-bathe myself with scent ?— Play croquet? Oh, with pleasure! "Wear all my hair in curl? Stand at my door, and wink-soAt every passing girl? My brothers, I should think so! "For years I've longed for some He smoked and winked away This REVEREND HOPLEY PORTER The deuce there was to pay And HOOPER holds his ground, NLY a dancing girl, With an unromantic style, With borrowed colour and curl, With fixed mechanical smile, With many a hackneyed wile, With ungrammatical lips, And corns that mar her trips! Hung from the "flies" in air, I hear you asking, Why- No airy fairy she, As she hangs in arsenic green, And stately dames that bring And her painted, tainted phiz: Ah, matron, which of us is? (And, in sooth, it oft occurs That while these matrons sigh, Their dresses are lower than hers, And sometimes half as high; And their hair is hair they buy, And they use their glasses, too, In a way she'd blush to do.) |