No need, old sport, to slay thee now,
Yet in our hearts the thought we'll cherish
That for our sakes, Narcissus, thou,
So young, so fair, wast like to perish;
And, as the years of Peace go by
And war becomes a fireside story,
"Thank Heaven," we'll cry, "thou didst not die,
But lived to reap the fruits of glory;
"Assimilating in repose
Thy fragrant fare of tops and peelings,
Or making all the garden close
Echo with-pregustative squealings,
Or basking, when the sun is high,
Within thy chamber's cool recesses
While some fair child with practised eye
Combs with a rake thy tangled tresses."
And ever, as new twilights burn
Low, and our offspring, loudly yelling,
Hurry the well-heaped votive urn
To thy obscure but ample dwelling,
"Ready at need thou wast to give
Thy life," they'll say, "that want might miss us,
For ever, therefore, shalt thou live
With us and be our love, Narcissus."
ALGOL.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE SCANDAL.
_Tramp (just discharged from workhouse_). "AND TO THINK THAT'S WHAT WE
PAYS RATES FOR!"]
* * * * *
ON THE RHINE.
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