TIME seemed to be getting restless again, so they moved on once. more,
and presently entered a hall where they found a stout lady with a
powdered face and extremely short skirts, about to sing a pathetic
song, which had been expressly written to suit her talents.
She began in a quavering treble that was instinct with intense
feeling:--
"Under the dysies to rest I have lyed him;
My little cock-sparrer so fythful and tyme!
And the duckweed he loved so is blooming besoide him,
But I clean out his cyge every d'y just the syme!
For it brings him before me so sorcy and sproightly,
As with seed and fresh water his glorsis I fill:
Though the poor little tyle which he waggled so lytely
Loys under the dysies all stiffened and still!"
--And then, to a subdued _obbligato_ upon a bird-whistle, came the
touching refrain:
"Yes, I hear him singing 'Tweet,' so melodious and sweet!
Till his shadder comes and flits about the room. 'Tweet-tweet-tweet!'
All my sorrer I forget. For I have the forncy yet,
That he twitters while he's loyin' in his tomb--'Tweet-tweet!'
Yes, he twitters to me softly from his tomb!"
_Mr. Punch_ observed his elder attentively during this plaintive
ditty, but there was no discernible moisture in TIME's hard old eyes,
though among the rest of the audience noses were being freely blown.
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