Solo.

(Air—Specially written by W. H. Stainton.)

(Margot Sings.)
I am a much maligned maiden fair.
And this last insult is all I can bear,
For I've a sensitive heart.
Literary longings I've always had,
But my intentions were never bad,
For I've a sensitive heart.
But when a publishing firm I knew,
Offered a cool ten thousand to
Conceal my sensitive heart,
What could I think, and what would you do?
If a respectable firm you knew
An offer did impart?

So a few stories I revealed,
(Things that had better lain concealed)
Of my sensitive heart.
Gladstone and Goblets and gambling came in,
And something else that resembled sin
To a sensitive heart.

But it was a success you know,
All of my friends have assured me so,
Bless their sensitive hearts.
And the young royalties rolling in,
And as for critics, oh, what a din
To a sensitive heart.

So off, to Russia at last I've rushed,
And I'm not lightly aside to be brushed,
For all my sensitive heart.
More material here I seek
For a news column in "Once a week,"
Run by a sensitive heart.