Some years ago a babe was born—I need not name the place—

With a puffy, pasty, podgy, gutta-percha sort of face,

Which wrinkles sub-divided into funny little bits,

While beady eyes peered cunningly behind two tiny slits.

His nose was like a mushroom of the foreign button sort,

His form was quaint and chubby, and his legs were extra short;

That his nurse spoke like SAPPHIRA, I have always had a fear,

When she said he was a "beauty," and a "pretty little dear."

Yes, such remarks were really of the truth, a dreadful stretch,

For, in point of fact, that baby was a hideous little wretch;

And in course of time he grew up—though a loving mother's joy—

Into quite a champion specimen of the genius "ugly boy."

At school his teasing comrades gave him many comic names,

And he became the victim of all sorts of naughty games;

Nor did the master like him, for he felt that such a face,

Mid a row of ruddy youngsters, was extremely out of place.

In time, his father placed him in the City—as a clerk—

Where his personal appearance excited much remark;

But he fell out with his principal, whose customers complained,

That his clerk was making faces, and said "Bosh!" when he explained.

On perceiving from the office that he never would be missed,

As Mr. GILBERT puts it, he determined to enlist;

And so one summer afternoon he started forth in search

Of a Sergeant who perambulates close by St. Martin's Church.

The Sergeant burst out laughing when he'd uttered his request,

And declared that, of a batch of jokes he knew, this was the best;

"'Tis a pity you're too short, my lad," he then went on to say,

"For wid that face ye'd froighten ivery inimy away!"

In a fountain which played handy—it was near Trafalgar Square—

He was rushing off to drown himself, the victim of despair,

When he knocked against a person he'd not seen for quite an age,

Who had left his home some years before, and gone upon the Stage.

To this friend he soon narrated his distressing tale of woe,

And declared his case was hopeless. But the actor said, "Not so.

There's one thing, my fine fellow, that as yet you haven't tried,

Where your face will be your fortune, and a pound or two beside.

"With a mouth like yours to grin with, and your too delicious squint,

And the ears that Nature's given you with such a lack of stint,—

No matter what an author may provide you with to speak,

You're a ready-made Comedian—with your fifty quid a week."

And it was so. Though he started at a figure rather less

Than the one that I have mentioned, still the truth I but express

When I say he now is earning such a wage as wouldn't shock

A respectable Archbishop or a fashionable jock.

And the face that all men sneered at, now is very much admired,

And the public ne'er, apparently, of watching it grows tired,

And the Merchant who dismissed him, in the Stalls is wont to sit,

While the Sergeant and his sweetheart are applauding from the Pit.

The moral of my narrative is easy to espy.

But still I'd better mention it, lest some should pass it by:

"Though it's often very troublesome indeed to find it out—

There's a proper sphere for everyone, beyond the slightest doubt."

Yes—"Vive la France!"—and "Vive la Russie!" too.

Vive—why not?—everybody!

Called once, "Monsieur le Président Faute-de-Mieux"²

(By Punch, that foe of shoddy).

I fancy I have justified the name,

Ay, to the very letter.

I may not be a THIERS, but all the same,

France has not found a better.

Tall-talk is tedious, but one must not flinch

When asked the task to tackle;

And he's no Frenchman true who, at a pinch,

Cannot both crow and cackle.

Ah, Vive, once more, the Gallic Cock—and hen!

These Talking-Tours are trying,

But 'tis with windy flouts of tongue or pen,

We keep the French flag flying.

A sop for SAVOY neatly put, elicits

Such "double rounds of cheering."

"Vive CARNOT!" To be sure! My annual visits,

France to the Flag endearing

By sweet-phrased flattery of the Fatherland,

Are sure to swell our legions.

"I wish, France, to be thine!" The effect was grand,

In "Allobrogian" regions.

Vive Everything—especially la Blague!

(What should we do without it?)

Fraternity! the Fatherland! the Flag!—

I work them—never doubt it!

Then "La République" and "La Russie," linked,

Pair off, 'midst acclamations:

Yes, I proclaimed—and never winced or winked—

That "brotherhood of nations!"

"A delegation of young children," Ah!

And they were not the only ones.

"Men are but children of a larger—" Bah!

Wise and strong men are—lonely ones.

Most men—French-men—have touches of the child,

Fondness for show, fine phrases—

Pst! Here my rôle's not cynical, but mild,

And open as dawn-daisies.

"J'embrasse la Russie!" That was rather neat

For "Faute-de-Mieux," at any rate.

Wondrous the magic power of blague, and "bleat"

On