A LOST ILLUSION.
I.
THERE was a young woman, and what do you think?
She lived upon nothing but paper and ink!
For ink and for paper she only did care,
Though they wrinkle the forehead and rumple the hair.
II.
And she bought a gold pen, and she plied it so fast
That she brought forth her three-volume novel at last;
And she called it "The Ghoul of Mayfair," by "Sirène";
And I read it, re-read it, and read it again.
III.
'Twas about a young girl, whom the gods, in their grace,
Had endowed with a balefully beautiful face;
While her lithe, supple body and limbs were as those
Of a pantheress (minus the spots, I suppose).
IV.
And oh! reader, her eyes! and oh! reader, her hair!
They were red, green, blue, lustreless, lava-like. . . . There!
I can't screw my muse to the exquisite pitch
For adjusting exactly the whichness of which!
V.
I may mention at once that she'd dabbled in vice
From her cradle—and found it exceedingly nice:
That she doated on sin—that her only delight
Was in breaking commandments from morning till night.
VI.
And moreover, to deepen her wonderful spell,
She was not only vicious, but artful as well;
For she managed three husbands at once—to begin—
(Just by way of a trifle to keep her hand in).
VII.
The first, a bold indigo-broker was he;
Not young, but as wealthy as wealthy could be—
The next a fond burglar—and last, but not least,
The third was a strapping young Catholic priest!
VIII.
Now, three doating husbands to start with in life
Seems a decent allowance for any young wife;
But legitimate trigamy very soon palled
Upon Barbara Blackshepe (for so she was called).
IX.
And it took but a very few pages to tell
How by means of a rope, and a knife, and a well,
And some charcoal, and poison, and powder and shot,
She effectually widowed herself of the lot.
X.
Then she suddenly found that she couldn't control
The yearning for love of her ardent young soul,
So—(this is the cream of the story—prepare)
She took a large house in the midst of Mayfair:
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