PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Queenly as womanly, those words that start

From sorrow's lip strike home to sorrow's heart.

Madam, our griefs are one;

But yours, from kinship close and your high place,

The keener, mourning him in youth's glad grace

Who loved you as a son.

We mourn him too. Our wreaths of votive flowers

Speak, mutely, for us. The deep gloom that lowers

To-day across the land

Is no mere pall of ceremonial grief.

'Tis hard in truth, though reverent belief

Bows to the chastening hand.

Hard—for his parents, that young bride, and you,

Bearer of much bereavement, woman true,

And patriotic QUEEN!

We hear the courage striking through the pain,

As always in your long, illustrious reign,

Which shrinking ne'er hath seen,—

Shrinking from high-strung duty, the brave way

Of an imperial spirit. So to-day

Your People bow—in pride.

The sympathy of millions is your own.

May Glory long be guardian of your Throne,

Love ever at its side!

Once upon a midnight dreary

Coming home I felt so weary,

Felt, oh! many a pain; so curious,

Which I'd never felt before.

Then to bed,—no chance of napping,

Blankets, rugs about me wrapping,

Feverish burning pains galore.

"Oh! I've got it! oh!" I muttered,

"Influenza!! what a bore!!"

Only this!!—Oh!!—Nothing more!!

Oh! my head and legs are aching!

Now I'm freezing! Now I'm baking!

Clockwork in my cerebellum!

Oh! all over me I'm sore!

In my bed I'm writhing, tossing,

Yet I'm in a steamer, crossing.

While KIRALFY's Venice bossing,

I'm "against" and RUSSELL "for"

In a case about the Echo,

Somewhere out at Singapore!

It's delirium!!! Nothing more.

Then a Doctor comes in tapping

Me all over, tapping, rapping.

And with ear so close and curious

Pressed to stethoscope, "Once more,"

Says he, "sing out ninety-ninely,

Now again! You do it finely!

Yes! Not bigger than a wine lee,

There's the mischief, there's the corps

Of the insect that will kill us,

Hiding there is the Bacillus;

Only that, and nothing more!"

"Why's he here with fear to fill us?

Will he leave me, this Bacillus?

Not one bone do I feel whole in,

And of strength I've lost my store."

Thus I to the Doctor talking,

Ask "When shall I go out walking"?

He, my earnest queries baulking,

Says, "When all this trouble's o'er,"

"Monday? Tuesday? Wednesday? Thursday

Friday? Saturday? Sunday? or

In a week?" "Um!—not before."

"Doctor!" cried I, "catch this evil

Fiend! Bacillus!! Microbe!! devil!!

Second syllable in Tem-pest!

Send him to Plutonian Shore.

Send him back to where he came from,

To the place he gets his fame from,

To the place he takes his name from;

Kick him out of my front door!"

So the Doctor feels my pulse, and,

As I drop upon the floor,

Quoth the Doctor, "Some days more."