XI.
Where she started a kind of a sort of a—eh?
Well, a sort of a kind of a—what shall I say?
Like Turkey, you know—only just the reverse;
Which, if possible, makes it a little bit worse!
XII.
There were tenors, priests, poets, and parsons—a host!
And Horseguards, and Coldstreams regardless of cost;
While a Leicester-square agent provided a tale
Of select refugees on a liberal scale.
XIII.
The nobility, gentry, and public all round
Her immediate vicinity threatened and frowned;
Some went even so far as to call and complain;
But they never went back to their spouses again!
XIV.
Nay, the very policemen that knocked at the door
To remonstrate were collared, and never seen more;
And 'tis rumoured that bishops deserted their lambs
To enrol among "Barbara's Rollicking Rams."
XV.
And their dowdy, respectable, commonplace wives,
And ridiculous daughters all fled for their lives,
And all died with disgusting decorum elsewhere,
To the scorn of "Sirène" and her "Ghoul of Mayfair"!
XVI.
(This light—I might even add frivolous—tone
Isn't that of the author, 'tis fair I should own:
Passion hallows each page—guilt ennobles each line;
All this flippant facetiousness, reader, is mine.)
XVII.
To our muttons. Who dances, the piper must pay,
And we can't eat our cake and yet have it, they say;
So we learn with regret that this duck of a pet
Of a dear little widow, she ran into debt.
XVIII.
And the Hebrew came down like the wolf on the fold
(With his waistcoat all gleaming in purple and gold),
And the auctioneer's hammer rang loud in the hall,
And they sold her up—harem and scar'em and all!
XIX.
Then, says she: "There are no more commandments to break;
I have lived—I have loved—I have eaten my cake!"
(Which she had, with a vengeance); so what does she do?
Why, she takes a revolver, and stabs herself through!
XX.
Now, this naughty but nice little Barbara B.
Had, I own, amongst others, demoralised me—
And the tale of her loves had excited me so
That I longed its fair passionate author to know.
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