(Asked who helped him in his shop, an alien hairdresser, at the Whitechapel County-court, replied, “Mein young womans.” The bard has endeavoured to depict an earlier stage in love’s young dream.)

If you’ll but marry me, dear,
 We’ll be a happy pair.
I’ll teach you gratis, free, dear,
 The art of cutting hair.
In all the barber’s trade, dear,
 Proficient shall you be,
If only you will say, dear,
 You’re game to marry me.

Lest clients rush in, raving,
 Because their chins are blue,
The mysteries of shaving
 Will I impart to you.
Ah, happy he who lingers,
 Transfixed within the chair,
While you, with fairy fingers,
 Abbreviate his hair.

In days to come, together,
 My angel, you and I
Will talk about the weather
 To men who won’t reply;
And, as the agile razor
 Glides swiftly to and fro,
Say “Fine again to-day, sir,”
 Or, “What do you think of Joe?”

So heed my ardent prayer, dear;
 Behold me on my knees.
The barber’s trade, I’ll swear, dear,
 Is one that’s sure to please.
For, think! no day will pass, dear,
 On which you will not see
Your image in a glass, dear,
 If you’ll but marry me.

P. G. W.