Again I've been at Church to-day,
And eyed that angel stranger;
Whose yielding glances seem to say,
"I love, but dread the danger."
Too truly sung the Indian sage,
That "Father, Brother, Son,
To her who feels the sexual rage
Are lawful — all are one."
Tho' woman's virtue's true as steel
Before you touch her soul;
Still let it once the Magnet feel
'Twill flutter tow'rds the Pole!
EXPOSTULATION WITH A FIERCE PREACHER.
Oh, jealous Cotterill, why so warm?
Because your congregation,
In spite of all you preach and storm,
Persist in fornication.
And so you think a ball-room dress
Unfitted for a pew,
And fain would check the wantonness
That gives the breasts to view.
"Indecent" is a cruel word
To use to strict church-goers,
It's very awful by the Lord
To call us rogues and whores.
In pews, like sheep in pens we sit,
While you indulge in barking,
If sheep will cast sheep's eyes a bit
It is not worth remarking.
The ball-room and the play-house gay
In India are so rare,
That church for those who play or pray
Is crowded by the fair.
Poor Cotterill — why then should he grieve
Because our glances roam?
He merely wants us all to leave
Our "Hearts and Souls" at home.
I joy the lecherous girl to squeeze,
I joy thy rage to see,
So first I sin myself to please
And next to anger thee.
The silliest goose that swims the lake
Is known to be the Dotterel,
That spelling must be a mistake,
The name I'm sure is Cotterill!
HYMN TO THE GENIUS OF WOMAN.
(A statue in the Florentine Gallery.)
Genius of woman, glorious form
Of perfect loveliness,