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
perfectly equipped."--_The Daily News on "Why Young Men Don't
Marry."_]

The Tater and the Heptarchy
Were walking hand-in-hand;
They wept like "first-night" Stalls to see
The folly of the land;
"If fools would not talk fiddlededee,"
They said "it _would_ be grand!"

"If modest maids with towzled mops
On _you_ and _me_ were clear,
Do you suppose," the Tater said,
"More men would wed each year?"
"I doubt it," said the Heptarchy--
"They only mean to sneer!

"'O Maidens, come and cook for us!'
They--shamming love--beseech.
'Oh, tell us about Saxon times!
The course of history teach!'
But what they really want is 'tin;'
A thumping share for each.

"A girl may cook like any _chef_,
And know all HALLAM through,
May be a dab at darning socks,
Or making Irish stew;
But what young cubs care for is cash,
And not for me _or_ you.

"They want to lead an easy life,
And have good weeds and wine.
Without these luxuries, a wife
They scornfully decline.
For _Benedick's_ life of manly strife
The fops are far too fine."

"The Season's come," the Tater said,
"To write of many things:
Of frocks--and socks--and needle-work--
And babes--and bonnet-strings;
But all the lot talk utter rot.
Let the fools have their flings!

"Their jibes at girls, their games, their curls,
Their wastefulness, their waist,
Their yearnings to hook Dukes and Earls,
Their matrimonial haste,
Are the crude chat of cubs and churls,
And in the vilest taste.

"But when they prate of you and me,
As the two gifts _they_ want,
Say Classic lore and Cookery
Are things for which _they_ pant;
Believe me, my dear Heptarchy,
They plumb profoundest Cant!"

* * * * *

SEA-SIDE ILLS.

(_BY OUR MAN OVER-BORED._)

SEA-SIDYLL--THE PIER BAND.

[Illustration]

'Tis the Band of the Corporation--
And it plays on that body's pier;
And one knows by the way
That the instruments play,
That the talent is not too dear.
And the trombone is not too clear;
When it has to play quick
It is moistful and thick,
For the trombone is fond of