I made a little song about them one evening last week,--the women I mean." "Let us have it, Maurice; let us have it, old fellow.

What's the measure ?" "Short measure; four little verses, devil a more!" "But the time, I mean ?" "Whenever you like to sing it; here it is,"-- THE GIRLS OF THE WEST.
Air,--"_Teddy, ye Gander_." (_With feeling: but not too slow_.) You may talk, if you please, Of the brown Portuguese, But wherever you roam, wherever you roam, You nothing will meet, Half so lovely or sweet, As the girls at home, the girls at home.
Their eyes are not sloes, Nor so long is their nose, But between me and you, between me and you, They are just as alarming, And ten times more charming, With hazel and blue, with hazel and blue.
They don't ogle a man, O'er the top of their fan Till his heart's in a flame, till his heart's in a flame But though bashful and shy, They've a look in their eye That just comes to the same, just comes to the same.
No mantillas they sport, But a petticoat short Shows an ankle the best, an ankle the best, And a leg--but, O murther! I dare not go further; So here's to the west, so here's to the west.
"Now that really is a sweet little thing.

Moore's isn't it ?" "Not a bit of it; my own muse, every word of it." "And the music ?" said I.
"My own, too.

Too much spice in that bowl; that's an invariable error in your devisers of drink, to suppose that the tipple you start with can please your palate to the last; they forget that as we advance, either in years or lush, our tastes simplify." "_Nous revenons a nos premieres amours_.

Isn't that it ?" "No, not exactly, for we go even further; for if you mark the progression of a sensible man's fluids, you'll find what an emblem of life it presents to you.