Those novelties! The newest kind—

With turned up nose and weird, slee-

-py eyes, that told of vacant mind,

And monstrous chignon massed behind—

Were those appalling things designed

By Mr. Aubrey Beardsley.

Yes, "things"; for nought of human shape,

However strangely bizarre,

Is there portrayed; there's not an ape,

That feeds on cocoa-nut or grape,

Between Morocco and the Cape,

So hideous as these are.

For goodness' sake, don't let us see

New Art which courts disaster!

We much prefer to Mr. B.

Velasquez, Rembrandt, even P.

P. Rubens or Vandyke, for we

Like oldness in a master.

And then "New Humour." Heavens, why

It's but a pleasure killer!

A cause of weary yawn and sigh,

Which makes us almost long to fly

To those old jokes collected by

A certain Mr. Miller.

In politics Newcastle, too,

With programme was prophetic;

And now Leeds leads, and shows who's who.

The Grand Old Man—there's age for you!—

Has found much better things to do,

Not prosy but poetic.

But all the things, so new in time,

Are nothing to the woman,

Who now is "new," and seeks to climb

To heights which seem to her sublime;

(Excuse the execrable rhyme)

She is indeed a rum 'un.

Of course we know that youth is sweet;

Old women are not charming;

But no old woman we could meet,

With featless form and formless feet,

This wild New Woman now could beat,

She's perfectly alarming.

Ring out, wild bells, wild belles like these

New-fangled fancies screaming;

Ring in the woman bound to please,

A lady, always at her ease,

Not manlike woman, by degrees

More man that woman seeming.

Old '94, who now has fled,

Encouraged blatant boldness

In things called "new," as we have said;

New '95, now he is dead,

Might bring some things which are instead

Remarkable for oldness.