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Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 108, April 13, 1895 (Illustrated)
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Ye countless stars, both great and small,
The poetic sky who spangle,
Not one of you, that I recall,
Has hymned the sweet triangle!
With lyre and lute too long, too much,
Ye've thrid love's mazy tangle,
Yet unresponsive to your touch
Have left the sweet triangle.
In Praise of Try Angle.
And so the Muse commissions me
A lay to newly fangle—
I play the instrument, you see—
In praise of my triangle.
No tambourine, no minstrel bones
Give forth what Hilda Wangel
Would call such "frightfully thrilling" tones
As ...
The poetic sky who spangle,
Not one of you, that I recall,
Has hymned the sweet triangle!
With lyre and lute too long, too much,
Ye've thrid love's mazy tangle,
Yet unresponsive to your touch
Have left the sweet triangle.
In Praise of Try Angle.
And so the Muse commissions me
A lay to newly fangle—
I play the instrument, you see—
In praise of my triangle.
No tambourine, no minstrel bones
Give forth what Hilda Wangel
Would call such "frightfully thrilling" tones
As ...