THERE was a young woman, and what do you think? She lived upon nothing but paper and ink!

For ink and for paper she only did care,

Though they wrinkle the forehead and rumple the hair.

And she bought a gold pen, and she plied it so fast That she brought forth her three-volume novel at last; And she called it 'The Ghoul of Mayfair,' by 'Sirène;' And I read it, reread it, and read it again.

'Twas about a young girl, whom the gods, in their grace, Had endowed with a balefully beautiful face;

While her lithe, supple body and limbs were as those

Of a pantheress (minus the spots, I suppose).

And oh! reader, her eyes! and oh! reader, her hair!
They were red, green, blue, lustreless, lava-like. ... There!

I can't screw my muse to the exquisite pitch
For adjusting exactly the whichness of which!

I may mention at once that she'd dabbled in vice
From her cradle-and found it exceedingly nice:
That she doated on sin-that her only delight

Was in breaking commandments from morning till night.

And moreover, to deepen her wonderful spell,

She was not only vicious, but artful as well;

For she managed three husbands at once-to begin— (Just by way of a trifle to keep her hand in).

The first, a bold indigo-broker was he;
Not young, but as wealthy as wealthy could be-
The next a fond burglar-and last, but not least,
The third was a strapping young Catholic priest !

Now, three doating husbands to start with in life
Seems a decent allowance for any young wife;
But legitimate trigamy very soon palled

Upon Barbara Blackshepe (for so she was called).

And it took but a very few pages to tell

How by means of a rope, and a knife, and a well,

And some charcoal, and poison, and powder and shot, She effectually widowed herself of the lot.

Then she suddenly found that she couldn't control
The yearning for love of her ardent young soul,
So-(this is the cream of the story-prepare)
She took a large house in the midst of Mayfair :

Where she started a kind of a sort of a-eh?
Well, a sort of a kind of a-what shall I say!
Like Turkey, you know-only just the reverse;
Which, if possible, makes it a little bit worse!

There were tenors, priests, poets, and parsons-a host!
And Horseguards, and Coldstreams regardless of cost;
While a Leicester-square agent provided a tale
Of select refugees on a liberal scale.

The nobility, gentry, and public all round
Her immediate vicinity threatened and frowned;
Some went even so far as to call and complain;
But they never went back to their spouses again!

Nay, the very policemen that knocked at the door To remonstrate were collared, and never seen more; And 'tis rumoured that bishops deserted their lambs To enrol among "Barbara's Rollicking Rams."

And their dowdy, respectable, commonplace wives
And ridiculous daughters all fled for their lives,
And all died with disgusting decorum elsewhere,

To the scorn of "Sirène" and her "Ghoul of Mayfair!"

(This light-I might even add frivolous-tone
Isn't that of the author, 'tis fair I should own;
Passion hallows each page-guilt ennobles each line;
All this flippant facetiousness, reader, is mine).

To our muttons. Who dances, the piper must pay,
And we can't eat our cake and yet have it, they say;
So we learn with regret that this duck of a pet
Of a dear little widow, she ran into debt.

And the Hebrew came down like the wolf on the fold
(With his waistcoat all gleaming in purple and gold),
And the auctioneer's hammer rang loud in the hall,
And they sold her up--harem and scar'em and all!

Then, says she: "There are no more commandments to

break;

I have lived-I have loved-I have eaten my cake!" (Which she had, with a vengeance); so what does she

do?

Why, she takes a revolver, and stabs herself through!

*

Now, this naughty but nice little Barbara B.

Had, I own, amongst others, demoralised me