Exit the villain and all endeth happily!

Take of these elements any you care about,
Put 'em in Texas, the Bowery, or thereabout;
Put in the powder and leave out the grammar,
And the certain result is a swell melodrammer.



A Poor Excuse, But Our Own

(Why don't you ever write any child poetry?
--A MOTHER.)

My right-hand neighbour hath a child,
A pretty child of five or six,
Not more than other children wild,
Nor fuller than the rest of tricks--
At five he rises, shine or rain,
And noisily plays "fire" or "train."

Likewise a girl, _aetatis_ eight,
He hath. Each morning, as a rule,
Proudly my neighbour will relate
How bright Mathilda is at school.
My ardour, less than half of mild,
Bids me to comment, "Wondrous child!"

All through the vernal afternoon
My other neighbour's children skate