Your arm, my dear Madam! This way, down the lift, Ma'am!

No danger at all, no discomfort, no dirt!

You love Sweetness and Light? They are both in my gift, Ma'am;

I'll prove like a shot what I boldly assert.

Don't heed your Old Flame, Ma'am, he's bitterly jealous,

'Tis natural, quite, with his nose out of joint;

You just let him bluster and blow like old bellows,

And try me instead—I will not disappoint!

Old Flame? He's a very fuliginous "Flame," Ma'am;

I wonder, I'm sure, how you've stood him so long;

He has choked you for years—'tis a thundering shame, Ma'am!

High time the Young Spark put a term to his wrong.

Just look at me! Am I not trim, smart, and sparkling,

As clean as a pin, and as bright as a star?

Compare me with him, who stands scowling and darkling!

So gazed the old gallant on Young LOCHINVAR.

He's ugly and huffy, and smoky, and stuffy,

And pokey, and chokey, and black as my hat.

As wooer he's dull, for his breath smells of sulphur;

Asphyxia incarnate, and horrid at that!

You cannot see beauty in one who's so sooty,

So dusty, and dingy, and dismal, and dark.

He's feeble and footy; 'tis plainly your duty

To "chuck" the Old Flame, and take on the Young Spark.

A Cyclops for lover, no doubt you discover,

My dear Lady LONDON, is not comme il faut;

If I do not woo you the sunny earth over.

At least I lend light to love-making below.

He's just like old Pluto, Persephone's prigger;

You'll follow Apollo the Younger—that's me!

He's sombre as Styx, and as black as a nigger.

His lady-love, LONDON! Bah! Fiddle-de-dee!

His murky monopoly, Madam, is ended.

Come down, my dear love, to my subterrene hall!

I think you'll admit it is sparkling and splendid,

As clean as a palace, not black as a pall.

Electrical traction with sheer stupefaction

Strikes Steam, the old buffer, and spoils his small game.

You're off with the old Love, so try the new bold Love,

And let the Young Spark supersede the Old Flame.

Oh! the world's very bad, and our hearts they are sore

As we think of the errors and wrongs we have got to

Endure uncomplaining, and oh! we deplore

The things people do, that they really ought not to!

With Courtesy dead, and with Justice "a-bed,"

When the mention of Love only causes a giggle,—

But we'd manage to live and still hold up our head,

Were it not for the villain who ventures to sniggle.

With his rod and his hook see him carefully rake

The bed of the river, and gallantly wading,

Arrayed in his breeches, endeavour to make

Of genuine sport but a mere masquerading.

You might think him a fool for his trouble—but look!

(And it's true, though at first it appears to be gammon)

With a horrible jerk, as he pulls up his hook,

The sportsmanlike sniggler has landed a salmon!

As a nation of sportsmen, it rouses our ire

To hear of sport ruined by such a proceeding;

And to snigglers we earnestly wish and desire

To give the advice they so sadly seem needing.

Let them think, as they work their inglorious plan,

How old IZAAK must turn in his grave and must wriggle;

And may they in future all see if they can,

By learning to angle, forget how to sniggle!