 | 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition |  |
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THE SQUEAMIST.
Have you seen the Squeamist lately,
Have you heard him talk,
Mincing up and down sedately
In his solemn walk?
Slow and sleepy,
Cold and creepy
With his pious frown
At some wicked noun,
Here he turns from fleshly dances,
There he sneers at games of chances,
Or the ribbons of romances
On a worldly gown.
Have you heard him talk,
Mincing up and down sedately
In his solemn walk?
Slow and sleepy,
Cold and creepy
With his pious frown
At some wicked noun,
Here he turns from fleshly dances,
There he sneers at games of chances,
Or the ribbons of romances
On a worldly gown.
Have you seen the squeamist, posing
Like a funeral bell,
Burying the truth, and nosing
Out some nasty smell?
Sneaky, snaky,
Rabid, raky
In the rotten hole,
He miscalls his soul,
How he masks in moral dresses,
Over all the vilest messes,
Which at heart he still caresses,
While he damns the whole.
Like a funeral bell,
Burying the truth, and nosing
Out some nasty smell?
Sneaky, snaky,
Rabid, raky
In the rotten hole,
He miscalls his soul,
How he masks in moral dresses,
Over all the vilest messes,
Which at heart he still caresses,
While he damns the whole.
Have you seen the Squeamist, playing
With his favourite pitch,
Till he tumbles, cursing, praying,
In the nearest ditch?
Sleek and slimy,
Grim and grimy,
He protests at vice,
Sins in secret nice,
Though the dungheap is his level,
And his fancy does the devil,
And beneath his sackcloth revel
All corruption's lice.
With his favourite pitch,
Till he tumbles, cursing, praying,
In the nearest ditch?
Sleek and slimy,
Grim and grimy,
He protests at vice,
Sins in secret nice,
Though the dungheap is his level,
And his fancy does the devil,
And beneath his sackcloth revel
All corruption's lice.
Have you seen the Squeamist, squirming
In a nobler air,
Worrying the great, and worming
Into lion's lair?
Stale and sticky.
Trite and tricky,
He disdains not pelf
From a richer shelf,
If he storms at starry teaching,
Worlds above his petty reaching,
He (while better men impeaching)
Only blacks himself.
In a nobler air,
Worrying the great, and worming
Into lion's lair?
Stale and sticky.
Trite and tricky,
He disdains not pelf
From a richer shelf,
If he storms at starry teaching,
Worlds above his petty reaching,
He (while better men impeaching)
Only blacks himself.
| 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition | |