Chapter I: NEVER can tell you, my dear little Loo

And useless to help me I'm certain my pen is--
Concerning my dress of forget-me-not blue,
I'm taking to Dingle to play at lawn-tennis.

The buttons are silver, of quaint filigree,
The cuffs and the collar quite artfully quilted;
The pouch the most perfect you ever could see,
The skirt is of flannel most cunningly kilted!

The latter is short, and it serves to disclose--
_Entre nous_ I am told that my ankles are killing--
A glimpse of the clocks on cerulean hose,
The slightest suspicion of Honiton frilling!

My hat is cream-white, with a kingfisher's wing--
A dainty device of my special designing--
My smart ulsterette, e'en a poet might sing,
'Tis white corduroy, with a rose-coloured lining!

The daintiest dress! 'Twould exactly suit you--
I think you'll allow it is awfully jolly--
Come over and see it! Till then, my dear Loo,
Believe me to be, yours devotedly, Dolly!

L'INCONNUE.

FAR, far from the town,
I spied drifting down,
Cheeks ruddy and brown--
Eyes so blue--
A sweet sailor-girl,
With hair all a-curl--
In canoe.

She dreams in her boat,
And sweet is the note
That white little throat
Carols through:
She languidly glides,
And skilfully guides--
Her canoe.

'Neath tremulous trees,
She loiters at ease,
And I, if you please,
Wonder who
May be the sweet maid,
Who moons in the shade--
_Inconnue._

Pray tell me who can,
Is she Alice or Anne?
Is she Florrie or Fan?
Is she Loo?
The laziest pet,
You ever saw yet--
In canoe.

The river's like glass--
As slowly I pass,
This sweet little lass,
Raises two
Forget-me-not eyes,
In laughing surprise--
From canoe.

And as I float by,
Said I, "Miss, O why?
O why may not I
Drift with you?"
Said she, with a start,
"I've no room in my heart--
Or canoe!"

FALLACIES OF THE FOG.

_A London Fog when it arises
All London soon demoralizes!_

BELIEVE me, I'd shatter the indolent fetters
That long have enchained me and held me too fast;
I'd earnestly try to reply to my letters,
That should have been answered the week before last;
I'd get up betimes, and I ne'er would be surly,
Nor slumber till twelve like an underbred hog;
I wouldn't play pool, and I'd go to bed early--
But can't on account of the Fog!

My mind I'd improve--I would e'en give up smoking--
Grow earnest and useful in all sorts of ways--
I'd soon become staid, never laughing or joking,
Preferring statistics to novels or plays!
No more at the weather would I be a railer;
No longer our climate I'd ceaselessly slog.
I'd settle at once with my hatter and tailor--
But can't on account of the Fog!

I'd go and take part in the dullest of dinners,
The prosiest praters I ne'er try to snub;
And Borewell would find me the best of all grinners
At all the old stories he tells at the Club.
At slow Kettledrums I would often be present,
And talk like a fool or a prim pedagogue;
To rudest relations I'd sometimes be pleasant--
But can't on account of the Fog!

I'd pay all those calls I so long have neglected,
And highest opinions deservedly earn;
And do proper things such as none e'er expected--
That borrowed umbrella at once I'd return.
I'd browse in a pasture of virtuous clover,
I cannot detail all the long catalogue
Of countless new leaves I would gladly turn over--
But can't on account of the Fog!

THE MERRY YOUNG WATER-GIRL.

A NEW SONG TO AN OLD AIR.