A Parody Parodied

Some fair writer thus retaliates on the parodist whose production we published some days since. Both sides must be heard, and we give the lady a chance:

            Tell me, ye winged winds
            That round my pathway roar,
            Do ye not know some spot
            Where bachelors come no more—
            Some lone and pleasant dell
            Where no moustache is seen—
            Where long eared dandies never come
            Ourselves and fun between?
There came a murmur from the distant lee—
A low, sad tone, which whispered ‘No-sir-ee.’

            Tell me, thou misty deep,
            Whose billows round me play,
            Know'st thou some favored spot,
            Some island far away,
            Where weary girls may find
            A rest from soft dough faces,
            And hear themselves called women,
            Nor likened to the graces?
Soon did the misty deep its answer give,
By murmuring, “Not while brandy smashes live.”

            And thou, serenest moon,
            What language dost thou utter
            While gazing on the GENTLEMAN,
            Whose head is in the gutter?
            Say, hast thou in thy round
            Gazed on some favored spot,
            Where hats know not the weight of bricks,
            And where cigars are not?
Behind a cloud the moon withdrew in woe,
But in italics answered, “No, no, no!”

            Tell me, my secret soul—
            Oh! tell me, Hope and Faith,
            Is there no resting place
            From fops and beaux and death?
            Is there no happy spot,
            Where womankind are blest—
            Where man may never come,
            And where the girls may rest?
Faith, Truth, and Hope—best boons to mortals given,
Waved their bright wings and answered “Yes, in Heaven.”