For want of plays the stage is sighing,

Such is the song the wide world through: The native dramatist is crying

"Behold the comedies I brew!

Behold my dramas not a few! On German farces I can prey,

And English novels I can hew:
I am the man to write a play!"

There is, indeed, no use denying
That fashion's turned from old to new:
The native dramatist is crying-
"Molière, good-bye! Shakespeare, adieu!
I do not think so much of you.
Although not bad, you've had your day,
And for the present you won't do.
I am the man to write a play!"

ENVOI

Prince of the stage, don't miss the cue,
A native dramatist, I say

To every cynic critic, "Pooh!

I am the man to write a play!"

A PENITENTIAL WEEK

BY CAROLYN WELLS

The week had gloomily begun
For Willie Weeks, a poor man's

SUN.

He was beset with bill and dun,

And he had very little

MON.

"This cash," said he, "won't pay my dues, I've nothing here but ones and

TUES."

A bright thought struck him, and he said: "The rich Miss Goldrocks I will

WED."

But when he paid his court to her,
She lisped, but firmly said: "No,

"Alas," said he, "then I must die!

THUR."

Although hereafter I may

FRI."

They found his gloves, and coat, and hat;

The Coroner upon them

SAT.

ODE TO DISCORD

(Inspired by a Strauss Symphony.) From the London Spectator

Hence loathed Melody, whose name recalls

The mellow fluting of the nightingale

In some sequestered vale,

The murmur of the stream

Heard in a dream,

Or drowsy plash of distant waterfalls!
But thou, divine Cacophony, assume
The rightful overlordship in her room,
And with Percussion's stimulating aid

Expel the heavenly but no longer youthful maid!

Bestir ye, minions of the goddess new,
And pay her homage due.

First let the gong's reverberating clang
With clash of shivering metal
Inaugurate the reign of Sturm and Drang!
Let drums (bass, side, and kettle)
Add to the general welter, and conspire
To set our senses furiously on fire.

Noise, yet more noise, I say. Ye trumpets, blare
In unrelated keys and rend the affrighted air,
Nor let the shrieking piccolo refrain

To pierce the midmost marrow of the brain.
Bleat, cornets, bleat, and let the loud bassoon
Bay like a bloodhound at an azure moon!
Last, with stentorian roar,

To consummate our musical Majuba,
Let the profound bass tuba

Emit one long and Brobdingnagian snore.

A FINE NEW BALLAD OF CAWSAND BAY

or THE SPIRITED LASS AND THE BRAVE YOUNG SAILOR

BY HAMILTON MOORE

In Cawsand Bay lying,

The Blue Peter flying,

The hands all turned up for the anchor to weigh, There came off a lady,

As fresh as a May day,

Who, looking up modestly, these words did say:

"I wants a young man there,

So do what you can there

To hoist me aboard or send him to me.

His name's HARRY GRADY,

And I am a lady,

Come off for to save him from going to sea.”

The CAPTAIN his honour,

When he looked upon her,

Ran down the ship's side to assist her on board; And he said with emotion

"What son of the ocean

Can thus be looked arter by ELINOR FORD?"

When thus she gave answer,

"This here is my man, sir,

I'll make him as rich and as fine as a lord."

"That ere," said the CAPTAIN,

"Can't very well happen,

We've got sailing orders—you sir, go on board!”

"Avast" says the lady,

"Don't mind him, HAL GRADY,

He once was your captain, but now you're at large,

You sha'nt go aboard her

In spite that chap's order;"

Then out from her bosom she lugg'd his discharge.

Says the CAPTAIN, says he now,

"I'm damned, but he's free now!"

HAL sings out, "Let Weatherface have all my clothes." For the shore then he steered her,

And all the hands cheered her,

But the CAPTAIN was jealous and looked down his nose

Then she got a shore tailor

To rig her young sailor

In fine nankeen trowsers and blue long-tail coat;
And he looked like a squire

For her to admire

With a dimity handkercher tied round his throat. "And now," says she, "HARRY,

The next thing, we'll marry,"

And she looked like a dove in his fine manly face. "That's the thing," says HAL GRADY,

"A parson get ready,

And arter a 'long-splice' we'll 'splice the main brace.'"

Their house it was greater

Nor e'er a first-rater,

With servants in uniform handing the drink;

With a garden to go in