[“It should be recognised that manners and the young man have no connection. Hostesses no longer expect answers to invitations, for example, or punctuality. The ordinary small courtesies of life are steadfastly ignored by the young man.”—Lady’s Pictorial.]

Who makes us feel worried and restive,
 Depressed, homicidal, and mad?
Who tones down our blitheness, when festive,
 And deepens our woe when we’re sad?
Our every enjoyment who lessens?
 For whose death every hour do we pray?
I allude to that hopeless excrescence,
 The awful young man of the day.

If we ask him to lunch or to dinner,
 Does he trouble to answer? Not he.
He hasn’t yet fathomed, the sinner,
 The meaning of R.S.V.P.
And if he does answer the riddle,
 Be the time for the feast what it may,
He is sure to arrive in the middle,
 This tardy young man of the day.

Oh, had I the wealth of expression,
 The range of a practised bargee,
The small-talk—ah, priceless possession!—
 Of parrots who’ve followed the sea,
The neat choice of words of the coster,
 Then might I express—in a way—
A tithe of the feelings I foster
 Towards the young man of the day.

However, by idle repining
 There’s nought to be gained, so I hold;
And the cloud has its own silver lining—
 Some day this young man will grow old!
Some day he’ll be aged and portly,
 His hair will be scanty and grey;
He will have to bow down very shortly
 To some other young man of the day.

P. G. W.