IN A MUSIC-HALL: 3. LILY DALE by JOHN DAVIDSON

SHE'S thirty, this feminine cove,
And she looks it at hand, you'll allow.
I was once on the streets. By Jove,
I was handsomer then than now:

Thin lips? Oh, you bet! and deep lines.
So I powder and paint as you see;
And that's belladonna that shines
Where a dingier light ought to be.

But I'm plump, and my legs-do you doubt me?-
You'll see when I go on the stage!
And there isn't a pad, sir, about me;
I'm a proper good girl for my age!

I can't sing a bit, I can't shout;
But I go through my songs with a birr;
And I always contrive to bring out
The meaning that tickles you, sir.

They were written for me; they're the rage;
They're the plainest, the wildest, the slyest;
For I find on the music-hall stage,
That that kind of song goes the highest.

So I give it them hot, with a glance
Like the crack of a whip-oh, it stings!
And a still, fiery smile, and a dance
That indicates naughtiest things.

And I like it. It isn't the best:
There are nurses, and nuns, and good wives;
But life's pretty much of a jest,
And you can't very well lead two lives.

But sometimes wild eyes will grow tame,
And a voice have a tone-ah, you men! -
And a beard please me-oh, there's my name!
Well? I take a week's holiday then.

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