Could man believe a thing so soft,
So framed for gentle passion,
Might wound, and wound not once but oft
The jaunty glass of fashion?

Yet sooth it is; and here I stand
A martyr to my tenets--
That orthodoxy smooth and grand
Of LINCOLN's fane and BENNETT's;
Unruffled once and unperplexed,
Collapsing now like jelly,
And but a sermon on the text
_Sic transit lux capelli_.

I who have braved our fitful climes
And laughed when tempest drenches,
And shaken off the dust that grimes
Pews, cushioned stalls and benches,
Survived the counterblasting Row,
And Summer gales that roar so--
I ne'er imagined such a foe
Could trounce me to a torso.

* * * * *

THE POTATO AND THE HEPTARCHY.

(_A SENSIBLE SONG FOR THE SILLY SEASON._)

["Even the Potato and the Heptarchy will not leave us