As kin to Nature's lowest germ;
  You are sister to the microbe now,
    And second-cousin to the worm."  He gave her of his golden store,
    Such hunger hovered in her look;
  She took the bun, and asked for more,
    And went away and wrote a book.  To put the matter shortly, she
    Became the topic of the town;
  In all the lists of Bellettrie
    Her name was regularly down.  "We recognise," the critics wrote,
    "Maupassant's verve and Heine's wit;"
  Some even made a verbal note
    Of Shakespeare being out of it.  The seasons went and came again;
    At length the languid Public cried:
  "It is a sorry sort of Lane
    That hardly ever turns aside.  "We want a little change of air;
    On that," they said, "we must insist;
  We cannot any longer bear
    The seedy sex-impressionist."  Across the sounding City's din
    This rumour smote her on the ear:
  "The publishers are going in
    For songs and tales of pleasant cheer!"  "Alack!" she said, "I lost the art,
    And left my womanhood foredone,
  When first I trafficked in the mart
    All for a mess of Bodley bun.  "I cannot cut my kin at will,
    Or jilt the protoplastic germ;
  I am sister to the microbe still,
    And second-cousin to the worm!"
6.A VIGO-STREET ECLOGUE.(AFTER THE SAME)  Mæcenas. John. George. Arthur. Grant. Richard.                    MÆCENAS.  What ho! a merry Christmas! Pff!
  Sharp blows the frosty blizzard's whff!
  Pile on more logs and let them roll,
  And pass the humming wassail-bowl!                      JOHN.  The wassail-bowl! the wind is snell!
  Drinc hael! and warm the poet's pell!                    MÆCENAS.  Richard! say something rustic.                    RICHARD.                                  Lo!
  The customary mistletoe,
  Prehensile on the apple-bough,
  Invites the usual kiss.                     GEORGE.                          And now
  Cathartic hellebore should be
  A cure for imbecility.                     GRANT.  Now holly-berries have begun
  To blush for Women That Have Done.                     ARTHUR.  The farmer sticks his stuffy goose!                    MÆCENAS.  Come, come, you grow a little loose;
  

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