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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI

VOL. 105

NOVEMBER 11th 1893

Edited by Sir Francis Burnand


       *       *       *       *       *


[Illustration: POLICE PROTECTION FOR PIANISTS!!

MADE NECESSARY BY THE ANTICS OF THE PADDED-ROOMSKI DEVOTEES AT ST.
JAMES'S HALL, WHO RUSH AT, TRY TO EMBRACE, AND DECK WITH ROSES, A
CERTAIN MASTER WHENEVER HE APPEARS.]

       *       *       *       *       *

A QUESTION OF TINT.

["Who will paint London?"--_Daily News_.]

  What a question to ask! If the colour be blue,
  A batch of our London Minervas will do:
  For each one will dye--the allusion is shocking--
  Our town and its streets with the tint of her stocking.
  Our pessimist frauds and the Ibsensite pack
  Will groan as they thickly bedaub it in black.
  Asiatic Sir EDWIN, the Poet of Light,
  He will wipe out their work, and arrange it in white.
  Then the Company-gulls will arrive on the scene,
  And, _presto_, the colour of London is green.
  And a rare crew of "Johnnies" will stay out of bed
  Till the daylight appears, while they paint the town red.
  In fact--and you'll thank me for giving the hint--
  Painting London is merely a question of tint.

       *       *       *       *       *

MRS. R. cannot call to mind where the original picture of "_The
Waterloo Blanket_" is to be seen.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE NOBLE ORGAN-GRINDER.

["Lord BRASSEY never goes on a cruise, however short, without taking
with him a very costly barrel-organ. He plays on it regularly for
some time every evening, as he finds it a congenial form of exercise
and amusement."--_The World._]

  Grinder, when serenely grinding
    On your yacht the Hundredth Psalm,
  Tell me, are you truly finding
    In this work congenial charm?

  "Music hath" (an old quotation)
    "Charms to soothe the savage breast,"
  Think how you might lull some nation
    Into dilettante rest.

  GRINDER, gentle-hearted Grinder,
    Try the savage who has spurned
  Culture, for he might grow kinder,
    Soothed by barrel deftly turned.

  Matabele LOBENGULA
    (Accent on penultimate)
  Might be made by music, you'll a-
    gree, a model potentate.

  ORPHEUS like, you might so charm him
    That a mere Mashona child's
  Hand could easily disarm him
    In those equatorial wilds.

  He would cease to wear his skimpy
    Kilts that leave his legs half bare,
  He would soon disband his _impi_;
    Culture then would be his care.

  Suits of dittos clothe this whopper;
    Patent leather boots be got;
  You might lead him--"smash, my topper!"--
    Even to a chimney-pot.

  He would have a daily paper,
    Standard authors sold in parts,
  Shops of tailor, hatter, draper,
    An Academy of Arts.

  He would teach, by plays, the loyal
    Folk on marsh or fertile plain,
  Opening a Theatre Royal,
    Where they've only Reeds and Grain.

  And, till death made him a _Morgue_ 'un,
    WAGNER, BRAHMS and GREIG no doubt
  He would doat on--then your organ
    Might be ruthlessly chucked out.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE CENTRAL HALL OF THE LAW COURTS.

  O barristers' wigs from far and wide
                  You gather anew!
  The Strand, like meadow with daisies pied,
                  Is dotted with you.

  You crowd the courts, so stuffy, so small,
                  So awkwardly placed;
  You don't go into the Central Hall--
                  Magnificent waste!

  That thing of beauty was meant to be
                  For ever a joy,
  Just built to accommodate, as we see,
                  One messenger boy.

  Proud emblem he of the empire's might,
                  That thus, for a whim,
  Spent pounds in thousands with such delight
                  Just to shelter him.

  The courts are draughty, the courts are dark,
                  The passages small,
  And witness, client, solicitor, clerk,
                  Are squeezed in them all.

  Those lancet windows on winding stairs
                  Don't help one to see;
  A falling Commissioner even swears
                  Without any fee.

  Still though we stumble and though we're squeezed,
                  We all recollect
  That deserted Hall, and we're truly pleased
                  With it's fine effect.

  The vacant acre of paving there
                  Should never annoy,
  It has one occupant, we 're aware--
                  That messenger boy.

       *       *       *       *       *

SONG OF THE AUTUMN SESSION.

(BY A RELUCTANTLY RETURNED M.P.)

AIR--"_O! that will be joyful!_"

  HERE we suffer grief and pain,
  Here we part to meet again:
      No field, no copse, no moor!
          O! it will be jawful,
          Jawful, jawful, jawful!
          O! isn't it awful?
      Autumn Meet's an awful bore!

  All who hate the "Lords," you know,
  Swear this misery below,
      We owe to peers above!
          O! that, &c.

  We'll be lammed by LABOUCHERE,
  Who the Afric strife will swear
      Is due to RHODES'S rule.
          O! won't _he_ be jawful, &c.

  ASHMEAD, too, will strive to prove
  Freedom, prestige, all we love
      We'll lose to gain no more,
          Through GLADSTONE the jawful, &c.

  O! how weary we shall be,
  Ere the two Big Bills, or three,
      Are passed and Peer-wards gone!
          O! WEG will be jawful, &c.

  Then the Rads will shout with joy,
  And the short Recess employ,
      In larrupping the Lords!
          O! won't _they_ be jawful?--
          Awful, awful, awful!
          It shouldn't be lawful
      Autumn Meets to summon more!

       *       *       *       *       *

THE WHIRLIGIG OF TIME.--WAT TYLER is avenged--upon wicked WALWORTH,
and unfair history. A namesake of his is to be Lord Mayor of London!
All we want now is, that the Right Hon. Mr. JOHN CADE (of Birmingham?)
should be made Prime Minister.

       *       *       *       *       *

DR. DULCAMARA UP TO DATE; OR, WANTED A QUACK-QUELCHER.

    ["_The jury, in giving their verdict, strongly censured the
    gross ignorance of the accused, and regretted that there was
    no law to prevent them from practising surgery._"]

    [Illustration] _Mr. Punch sings, sotto voce:_--

_Begone, Dulcamara_,
  _I prythee begone from me!_
_Begone, Dulcamara_,
  _Thou and I will never agree!_

  _AGREE?_ By all good powers, no! no more than oil and water!
  For to the conscious humbug honest wrath should give no quarter;

  And if _Punch's_ ready _bâton_ lays its thwacks on any backs
  With special zest, it is on those of charlatans and quacks.

  Quack! Quack! Quack! Oh the pestilential pack!
  If there is a loathsome chorus, it is Quack! Quack! Quack!

  But the Quacks are having high old times in these peculiar days,
  And gulls mistake their horrid din, 'twould seem, for pleasant lays.
  We are quacked into distraction by unchastened power of Jaw,
  Assisted by Advertisement and unrestrained by Law.
  Dulcamara up to date is no longer poor or petty,
  The pompous, brainless charlatan pictured by DONIZETTI,
  He outshines, out-talks, out-thumps, out-cheats, out-swaggers, and
          out-dresses,
  With his nauseous, noxious nostrums, and his nasty, mucky messes.
  Quack! Quack! Quack! He may quack the donkeys dead,
  Their coin out of their purses and their eyes out of their head,
  Their brains into sheer softening, their bodies to the grave,
  But _he_ flourishes unpunished. Is there _nothing_ then to save
  The noodles from his ignorance and knavery and bounce?
  No law to lay him by the heels, no hangman's whip to trounce,
  No pillory to gibbet the false fortune-piling pack
  Who poison, maim, and madden with their Quack! Quack! Quack?

  Dulcamara stands defiant, while his drum the live air fills
  With praise of his appliances, his potions, and his pills.
  With sham science for his shield, venal literature and art
  For his touts and advertisers, he can bravely play his part.
  The comic man will clown for him, if adequately paid,
  And the poet and the painter puff his wares and push his trade.
  He's proudly testimonialised; folly or purchased cunning
  Crack up his nastiest nostrums, keep his worst deceptions running.
  He will bleed you and blackmail you, if you're weak as well as
          wealthy,
  Impoverish _and_ drench you, aye, do aught--save leave you healthy.
  For 'tis quack, quack, quack! and 'tis drum, drum, drum!
  And Dulcamara--when not _worse_--is safe to prove a hum!

  Quack! Quack! Quack! It is time that cry to quelch
  By Law--or else to treat the quacks like sorry rogues who "welsh";
  And if Dulcamara's really safe, until the Law they alter,
  Why honest men must see to it, nor in their purpose falter
  Till rascals of "gross ignorance," in foul gregarious pack,
  Can no longer _safely_ victimise with quack, quack, quack!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE LION AT HOME.

_The Hope and Pride of the Family (just home from the Grand Tour)._
"OH, REALLY, YOU KNOW, THE MEN ONE MEETS IN SOME OF THOSE PLACES OUT
WEST! I SAID TO MYSELF EVERY NIGHT, 'WELL, THANK HEAVEN I HAVEN'T SHOT
ANYBODY!'" _Fond and Nervous Mother._ "YOU MEAN, THANK HEAVEN NOBODY
SHOT YOU, DON'T YOU, DEAR?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

A WORD TO THE WISE WHEELMAN.

THE SPEAKER, at Warwick, said that "the bicyclists of the day are
debilitating and degenerating the human race by the way in which they
stoop over their work." The wheelmen would probably retort that, like
GOLDSMITH'S sprightly heroine, they "stoop to conquer." And we are
not yet _all_ wheelmen. Still, the SPEAKER has hit a blot in the
contemporary Cyclomania. Few things are more unlovely than the
"Bicyclist's Bend." Record-cutting would be purchased dearly at the
cost of making men look like camels; and if success on the cinderpath
or the road involved giving humanity at large "the hump," one would
stigmatise the Cycle Race as the _In_human Race. Let us hope the
SPEAKER'S sharp words will make our stooping cyclists "sit up"--in
other than the slangy sense of the phrase.

       *       *       *       *       *

Birds of Pray.

  We're told a cormorant sits, and doth not tire,
  For a whole month, perched upon Newark spire!
  VINNY BOURNE'S jackdaw's beaten, it is clear.
  Yet there _are_ cormorants who, year after year,
  Perch in the Church. But these omnivorous people
  Favour the pulpit mostly, not the steeple.
  Thrivers upon fat livings find, no doubt,
  Cormorant within is cosier than without.

       *       *       *       *       *

CREAM OF THE CREAM.--"London Society proper"--we are informed by Lady
CHARLES BERESFORD--consists of no more than thirty or forty families!
And how about London Society _improper_? Is _that_ equally sparse and
exclusive? And--terrible thought!--crucial question!--is it possible
that the two orders _overlap_ at all? That there are any "noble
swells" who belong to both?

       *       *       *       *       *

THE GOVERNMENT'S PUBLIC POLICY IN SOUTH AFRICA (ACCORDING TO MR.
SYDNEY BUXTON).--_Not_ "CARRINGTON'S Entire"!

       *       *       *       *       *

UNDER THE ROSE.

(_A Story in Scenes_).

SCENE XIII.--_"Behind" at the Eldorado._ TIME--_about_ 10 P.M.; _the
Stage at the back of the Scene-cloth is in partial darkness; in the
centre, a pile of lumber and properties. Bare whitewashed brick walls;
at one side, two canvas cabins for the Lady-Artistes to change their
costumes; near them a deal table, with a jug and glasses. At one of
the wings, behind the proscenium, a shelf and small mirror, at which
the Comedians can arrange their make-up, and a frame, in which a
placard, with each Artiste's number, is inserted before his or her
entrance. A "turn" has just been concluded, and the Stage is clear._

_The Stage-Manager_ (_bustling up to_ Footman, _in crimson plush
breeches_). Now then, look alive, there, can't you, they're getting
impatient in front. Why don't you change the number?

_Footman_ (_with aggrieved dignity_). Because, Sir, Mr. ALF REDBEAK
ought to come on, by rights, and, not 'aving chosen to appear yet, I
think you'll see yourself, on reflection, as it would be totally----

_Stage-M._ Well, don't argue about it; here's Miss LUSHBOY ready to go
on, put _her_ number up!

_Footm._ I always understood it was the regulation 'ere that no number
was to be put up until the band-parts were passed into the orchestra;
which Miss LUSHBOY'S music most certainly has not been handed in yet,
and, that bein' so----

_Stage-M._ You can spare a good yard off that tongue of yours, you
can; put Miss LUSHBOY'S number up, and----Ah, here comes Mr. REDBEAK;
never mind.

_Enter_ Mr. REDBEAK, _breathless_.

_Mr. Redbeak._ Phew! I've had a job to get 'ere in time, I can tell
you. (_The Orchestra strikes up._) 'Ullo, _that_ ain't mine. (_To_
Footman.) What are you about? Put up my number--sharp, now!

_Miss Lushboy_ (_to_ Footman). Here, let me go on; I've been messing
about long enough. What are you taking my number out for?

_Footm._ Now, look 'ere, Miss, I can't please everybody! (_Indicating_
Stage-Manager.) You are as well aware as what I am that it's for _him_
to give the word 'ere, not me. I'm on'y actin' under what----

_Mr. Redb._ It's crule, you know, that's what it is--crule. I've got
to go right across London for my next turn, and----

_The Stage-M._ (_returning_). What the blazes are we waiting for
_now_? ALF, dear boy, you should come up to time. (_To_ Footman.) Why
don't you do as you're told? You're getting too big for your boots, it
strikes me! (_To_ Miss LUSHBOY.) There, go on, my dear, go on.

    [Miss L. _bounds on to the stage, and begins her song_.

_Mr. Redb._ (_to_ Footman). I've got a bone to pick with you, old
feller. Don't you go wool-gatherin' to-night, as you did last. I've
told you till I'm tired that when you see me chuck this
property piecrust into the wings you've got to throw down these
fire-irons--it's a safe laugh every time it comes off, and you know
'ow important it is, and yet you forget it nine times out of ten!
What's the good of me thinkin' out my business when you go and crab it
for me?

_Footm._ (_pathetically_). Mr. REDBEAK, Sir, you'll excuse me, but
I'm on'y one man 'ere, I ain't a 'undred. _Don't_ thank 'eaven for
it, Sir, it's 'ard when a man as tries to do his best, and with all my
responsibilities on him----

_Mr. Redb._ (_impatiently_). Oh, cheese it; you're not on a stool in
'Ide Park, are you? I'm only _tellin'_ you.

[Illustration: "It's like singing to a lot of 'ap'ny ices!"]

_Miss L._ (_on stage, singing chorus_).

  Say, boys, say, if you'd like to come. Who's for a merry old
            "Tiddley-um?"
    Fall in behind, and we'll all get "blind," before they close the
            pub!
  You're not jays, so you won't refuse. Join our band, for we're on
            the booze,
    And you'll see some larks with the rollicking sparks of the Rowdy
            Razzle Club!

(_Here she capers off, brandishing a gibus, and has a difficulty in
opening the practicable door in the wing._ _To_ Footman.) There you
are _again!_ How often am I to tell you to keep that wood open for my
dance off? I break my fingers over it every blessed night, and lose my
encore as well!

_Footm._ I'm exceedingly sorry, miss, but the fact of the matter is my
attention was took off at the time owing to----

_Miss L._ Oh, hold _your_ jaw, do.

_Footm._ (_to himself_). I'm to hold my jaw! Oh, these hartistes, they
lead me a dorg's life among 'em!

_Mr. Redb._ (_touching_ Miss L.'s _coat as she passes_). What's that
badge you're wearing? Salvation Army, Temperance, Primrose League, or
what?

_Miss L._ No, only the colours of the Balls Pond Football Team;
they presented them to me the other day. I told them _I_ didn't play
football.

_Mr. Redb._ You're pretty fair at the 'igh kick though, ain't you?
There, there. 'Alf time. Goin' on again?

_Miss L._ With a cold like mine? Not likely. Just look at my
tongue! (_She protrudes the tip of an indigo-coloured tongue for his
inspection._)

_Mr. Redb._ (_concerned_). Why, it's like one o' those Chow-chow dogs,
I'm blest if it isn't! You _are_ off colour to-night, no mistake!

_Miss L._ Oh, that's the remedy, not the disease--liquorice, you know.

_Stage-M._ Now, ALF, if you're in such a hurry, go on. Cut it as short
as you like--no extra turns to-night.

_Mr. Redb._ No fear. Oh dear, oh dear, such a rush as it is!

    [_He goes on grumbling._

_A Small Boy_ (_who has been sitting patiently on a chair by the
wing--to_ Stage-Manager). If you please, Sir, will Mr. WILDFIRE want
me to-night?

_Miss L._ Want you, indeed, you silly kid! What would Mr. WILDFIRE
want a shrimp like you for?

_The Boy._ If he's going to do the Sandwich Man 'ere to-night, he'll
want me, _I_ know. Why, it all _depends_ on me, that song does. (_To_
Stage-M.) _Is_ he going to do the Sandwich Man to-night, Sir?

_Stage-M._ Oh, don't bother me; wait till he comes and you'll find
out. (_To_ Miss L.) I suppose you've heard he's talking of not
renewing his engagement after to-night--giving up the halls
altogether!

_Miss L._ And no great loss either! I don't see anything particular
about his songs myself. As for all that gas about his raising the tone
of the halls, it's sickening. Anyone would suppose we _lowered_ it!

_Miss Cissie Cinders (coming out of a dressing-cabin, in a battered
old velvet hat and broken feathers, with her face smudged)._ Who's
that you're talking about? WILDFIRE? Ah, my dear, this 'Igh Art and
Littery rot'll be the ruin of the 'alls--him and his articles in
the swell magazines, praising us all up--he can keep his praises to
himself--_I_ don't want 'em! I've never set up to refine the public
myself, or else I could fake it easy enough!

    [_She passes on to stage._

_Mr. Gus. Tadman_ (_Variety Vocalist_). We could all do it, come to
that. But there, he won't last, you'll see. Why, look at the 'it I
made with my "_Rorty Naughty Nell_"! That _was_ a good song if you
like, and well-written, mind yer. But lor, it's clean forgotten now.
I 'ear WILDFIRE'S bringing out a play to-night at the Hilarity, it'll
serve him right if it gets the bird, going back on his own profession
like that! (_To_ Miss CINDERS, _who has just sung_.) House cold
to-night?

_Miss Cinders_ (_in a temper_). Cold, it's like singing to a lot
of 'ap'ny ices! I used to have the choruses all sung for me when I
brought out that song first; and now they've let me go off without a
'and! We shall see whether they'll rise to WILDFIRE to-night. Ah, here
he is. Actually coming up to speak to us; there's an honour!

_Miss Betsy Beno_ (_to_ WILDFIRE, _as he passes the table where she is
sitting waiting for her turn_). 'Ere, WATTY, old man, stop and 'ave
a drop along of me. Do--there's plenty 'ere! (_as_ WILDFIRE _excuses
himself laughingly_). Well, I'm sure--refusing to drink when a lady
goes out of her way to ask him--he hasn't the manners of a pig! And I
draw my sixty quid a week the same as he does!

_Mr. Tadman._ Well, dear boy, how's the play getting on? Not a frost,
I hope?

_Wildfire._ No; I just looked in on my way from the Val. here, and
they seemed to think it was all right; but I couldn't stay till the
finish. They're going to send round and let me know. (_To the_ Small
Boy, _who has approached anxiously_.) Oh, there you are, youngster!
Yes, I shall want you--for the last time, you know.

_The Boy._ Why, you--you ain't going to take the part away from me,
Sir, when I created it, too!

_Wildf._ (_patting his shoulder kindly_). I'm giving up singing
altogether--that's why. Never mind; I'll see it makes no difference to
you, so don't you distress yourself. We'll find you something or other
to do.

_The Boy_ (_with a gulp_). If I ain't going to be with _you_ any
more, I--I don't care _what_ 'appens, Sir. I'd as soon throw up the
perfession myself, I would!

    [_He turns away into a dark corner._

_Wildf._ (_to himself, as he goes to the wing_). Nice boy that; didn't
think he'd care so much; must keep an eye on him. _Flattery_ must
be over now. I wish I could have stayed to see it out; it was going
magnificently; but there were some rather risky scenes ahead. Still, I
believe it's a success; and, if it is, I shall have done with all this
for ever after to-night. I can go to ALTHEA and tell her, without----
By Jove! wasn't it to-night that Old TOOVEY was to be in front? I
wonder what he'll think of it. (_He looks at himself in the mirror._)
He'll have some difficulty in recognising me in this get up. Well, I
shall know on Monday. (_He goes on, and sings; then rushes back to the
wing to change his costume, with the assistance of his dresser._) Yes,
the coat, now, dresser, please. (_To himself, as he paints some lines
on his face._) I couldn't see anyone at all like old TOOVEY. Very odd!
They must have sent him the box, I suppose. Well, it doesn't
matter; if he didn't think it necessary to come, so much the better.
(_Aloud._) Wigpaste, please. Now the boards. All right--I'm ready.
(_To the Boy._) Now, youngster, look out for your cue.

    [_He goes on._

_The Limelight Man_ (_up in the flies--to himself_). What's wrong with
Mr. WILDFIRE? He as nearly broke down just now as----and I can't keep
the limelight on him nohow to-night! He can't have been drinking--he
ain't _that_ sort. But he do look bad--it's as much as ever he can do
to go through with it; somethink's given him a turn.

_Wildfire_ (_to himself, as he goes back to the wing, unsteadily_).
She's here--and, what's worse, she's recognised me! She must have, or
she would never have looked like that. If I could only have told her
first; but, to discover it like this,--she'll think I meant to----
(_He pitches away his boards in a fury._) Well, I've done for
myself--it's all over! (_To his dresser._) A note, eh?

[_He opens it, and reads the contents mechanically_; Mr. TADMAN
_and one or two other artistes come up with curiosity on seeing his
expression_.

_Tadm._ Why, WILDFIRE, old man, what's this? Play gone wrong? Never
mind, dear boy, we can't have everything. But what's the report, eh?

_Wildf._ (_impatiently_). Oh, I don't know. What does it matter now?
(_He lets the note fall._) There, you can read it if you want to know.

    [_He walks away._

_Tadm._ (_with complacency_). Poor chap, he's hard hit! But I could
have told him it wasn't to be expected that---- (_He picks up the
note, and reads it with a falling jaw._) Hullo! What's the meaning of
this? It says the piece is a tremendous go--safe for a long run--had
to raise the rag again and again. Why, he'll make his fortune over
this alone; and yet, look at him! (_Pointing to_ WILDFIRE, _who has
seated himself on the pile of lumber, in utter dejection_.) And all
those fools in front clapping and stamping for him to come on again.
What _more_ does the feller want, I wonder!

END OF SCENE XIII.

       *       *       *       *       *

UNION IS (LOGICAL) WEAKNESS.--The Congregational Union lays it down as
a law, "that the rights of humanity must take precedence of those
of property." We fear this admirable maxim (like equally admirable
Charity) might be made to cover a multitude of sins, from petty
larceny to anarchism. Would it be consonant with the "rights of
humanity," for, say, a Congregational Unionist to object to a poor
tramp stealing his best umbrella on a wet day?

       *       *       *       *       *

ROBERT ON THE COMING SHO.

WELL, here we are just about gitting to the bend of our Citty Year,
when we changes our raining Sovverain, altho he is but twelve munse
old, and takes on a new one, for better or wuss as the case may
be, and in this case I most suttenly thinks that it would be werry
differcult indeed to change for a better, for it tisn't not only me
and all my tribe, as _Shylock_ calls us, but all the many hundreds,
if not thowsends, as has had a share of the Rite Honnerabel the LORD
MARE'S noble ospitality, must all agree that a more liberaller, or
hospitaler, or hopen artider Gent never entered the honored Manshun
House than him who to ewerybody's regret is a going next week for to
leave it!

[Illustration]

Why, I ardly expecs to be beleeved when I says as we have sumtimes had
as many as three or fore grand Bankwets in one week, and the LORD MARE
woud get up as usual the nex morning as if he thort nothink of it!
No more he did, no not ewen when the King of DENMARK himself came
and dined with him at Gildall, and explained to him all about the
unfortnet death of _Prince Hamlet!_

I do hear as we are to have such a Lord Mare's Sho as we ain't offen
had, including, above all things that nobody coudn't have emagined,
nothink less than a reel copy of the grand New Tower Bridge, and if
that won't be a site for the estonished Multitood praps somebody will
kindly tell me what woud be.

There was a tork of asking all the Roossian Sailors, who has been a
having sitch a jolly time of it in France, to run over and jine the
Sho first and the Bankwet arterwards, but it was werry doutful whether
ewen all the Haldermen, much less all the Common Counselmen, coud
have chatted away with them in their own native tung, so the idear was
given up in favour of Fire engines and Fire men.

I've seen a goodish many Lord Mare's Shos in my time, and hopes to see
a few more, in spite of the gellous growls of another body of gents
as shall be nameless, but it woud suttenly be a grand joke to see the
gellous body elluded to coming out in a London County show of their
own, amid the skoffs and jiers and larfter of the emused Metrolopus!

  ROBERT.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE "OBERLAND" ROUTE.

    ["A scheme for making a waterway between Switerland and the
    Adriatic is to be submitted to the Federal Government at no
    very distant date."--_Westminster Gazette._]


_British Minister, Bern, to Lord Rosebery, London._--A MR. JONES, who
says he's a British subject, went up Pilatus to get view. Didn't
get it. Also complains of overcharge for candles at his hotel. Have
demanded immediate satisfaction from Swiss Government. Please send
Mediterranean Squadron to Locarno.

_Lord Rosebery, London, to British Minister, Bern._--Can't spare
the Squadron. Won't a gunboat do? You may speak strongly to Swiss
Government. Tell them insult to JONES is insult to England. Meanwhile,
wire best route for fleet to get up to Bern, if necessary. Don't see
it on map.

_Brit. Min., B., to Lord R._--Owing to Mediterranean Squadron
not having appeared at Locarno, Swiss Government very aggressive.
Passenger steamers on Lakes of Geneva, Thun, and Lucerne being
converted into a fleet. Special new _corps d'armée_ formed from
Chamounix guides and patriotic hotel waiters. Man (whose name was
ROBINSON) mistaken for JONES, and mobbed in streets last night. Some
kind of Naval Demonstration absolutely necessary. Put ships on rail at
Locarno, send 'em through Gothard Tunnel, and there you are!

_Lord R. to Brit. Min., B._--British Government recognises gravity of
the JONES incident. What do you advise? Aren't the Alps in the way?

_Brit. Min., B., to Lord R._--Didn't like to suggest details. Send
ironclads. Ram something. Why not bombard Alps. Gunboat moored at
Devil's Bridge might shell Andermatt. Leave it to you.

_Lord R. to Brit. Min., B._--Sorry to say, European complications have
now arisen from JONES incident. Swiss Government has offered its fleet
to Russia and France. Triple Alliance tottering. Can't you get Swiss
Government to apologise to JONES, and end business?

_Brit. Min. to Lord R._--Business _is_ ended. JONES not a British
subject after all, but a Swede, who's travelled in America! Recall
gunboat.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE SPREAD OF CULTURE DOWNWARDS.

"ULLO, MARY, WHAT'S THIS? NAME OF THE 'OUSE?" "NO, MR. IGNORANCE; IT'S
A LATIN WORD, AND MEANS 'PLEASE TO WIPE YOUR FEET!'"]

       *       *       *       *       *

"RESH'PROSH'TY."

    ["What struck the TZAR ... in the recent festivities, was
    the feeling of fraternity which seemed to pervade the
    multitude.... The feeling of concord and fraternity appears
    to survive the last echoes of the festivities.... The word
    now most frequently heard is 'Amnesty.' This, indeed, is the
    fittest coping-stone to prolonged festivities characterised by
    universal concord."--_Times' Paris Correspondent._]

  _President._ "Prolonged feshtivitish!" Thash good, that ish!
          _Very_ prolonged, ole f'ler, an' _awf'ly_ feshtive!
  _Tzar._ Yeah, tha' what shtruck _me!_ (_Aside._) But I really wish
          He wouldn't gush. ROMANOFF pride turns reshtive!
  _President._ _Sho_ glad it shtruck you sho! An' nurrer thing
          You _mush_ ha' notish'd. Feeling of fraternity
        All over shop! I shay, may friendship's wing
          Ne'er moult a feather, not to all eternity.
  _Tzar._ I echosh tha' fine Shwiveller shentiment
          Entirely! (_Aside._) I must not appear too sober.
  _President._ Now Fransh ish shatishfied--an' world content!
          Republic won't forget thish last October!
        Feelingsh of concord, cetra, _will_ survive
          Last echosh of feshtivitish--for ever!
  _Tzar._ Oh, coursh! Asshure you I am quite alive
          To reshiproshity--shan't forget it--never!
  _President._ Thash ri' ole f'ler! _Our_ resh--hic!--proshity--
          Not like the comic Yankee's, all one shide?
  _Tzar._ Certainly not! Shorry to say good-bye!
          But though our bodiesh part, our soulsh are tied.
  _President._ Precishly! We're _both_ tight--mean tied--in knotsh.
          The champagne, an' the speeches, an' the kisshes
        Have bound our bosomsh, and combined our lotsh!
  _Tzar._ Quite sho! (_Aside._) I'll watch a chance to hint my wishes.
  _President._ We've had a jolly time, and now, ole f'ler,
          Ash "coping-shtone" to all this talk and toddy,
        As shequel to thish patr'otic stir,
          I'm going to amneshty--yesh, _everybody!_
        Wha' shay, dear ROMANOFF, will you do same?
          Jush show, y' know, that thersh no animoshity!
  _Tzar_ (_aside_). Oh, _that_ is the Republic's little game?
          Russia can't stand _that_ form of reciprocity!
        (_Aloud._) All ri', ole f'ler, you jush leave that to _Me!_
          Mosh noble notion, that shame "coping-shtone!"
        By way, ole f'ler, talking of amneshty--
          _Could you just 'blige me with a trifling Loan?_

       *       *       *       *       *

THE PROFESSION OF--JOURNALISM.

(_An Entirely Imaginary Letter._)

Dear MR. B-CH-N-N,--Our famous Third Page rather dull lately. Couldn't
you enliven it up by one of your characteristic letters--say on "The
Profession of Literature"? Say all the old things about its degrading
effect on those who follow it, including yourself--the public loves
to see a vivisection in public--and be sure to spice it well
with distinguished names, such as SW-NB-RN-, R-SS-TT-, etc. Any
depreciatory anecdotes would be very telling, and serve to evoke
indignant _free_ replies from those who wouldn't guess they were
jumping to a prepared bait. I shall count on you for a column.

  Yours faithfully,

  THE EDITOR OF THE ----.

P.S.--Of course you will be insulted at the usual rate.--ED.

    [_Result--the usual one on the famous Third Page._

       *       *       *       *       *

Mot by a Member.

(_During the Debate on the Second Reading of the Parish Councils
Bill._)

  FOWLER was longish, LONG was even longer,
  MORE was much less so, STANHOPE little stronger;
  But HENEAGE even when brief's sublime
  He's not for Hene-age, but for all (our) time!
  What a relief after such thrice-skimmed milk
  To get truth's cream from ROLLIT and from DILKE!

       *       *       *       *       *

THE LATEST "GLASS OF FASHION."--The dress fashioned of spun-glass, as
a royal robe for the Princess EULALIA of Spain, and exhibited at the
Chicago World's Fair.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "RESH'PROSH'TY."

M. CARNOT. "WELL, OLE F'LER, WE'VE ALL HAD JOLLY GOOD TIME--AN' I'M
GOING T' AMNESTY EV'RYB'Y!! YOU--DO--SAME!!"

TZAR. "LEAVE THAT T' ME. BY TH' WAY--COULD YOU 'BLIGE ME--TRIFLIN'
LOAN?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

"BUT THAT'S ANOTHER STORY."

(_Rudyard Kipling passim._)

  TOM'S uncle by his will
    Left TOM in greatest glory.
  There _was_ a codicil--
    "But that's another story."

  PHIL wooed a fair one, KATE;
    She met him _con amore_.
  The damages were great--
    "But that's another story."

  HUGH'S rent (for an address!)
    Was far and wide _in ore_.
  His suite now costs him less--
    "But that's another _story_."

  Of readers not a few
    Deem RIDER HAGGARD gory.
  We have MACBETH, it's true--
    "But that's another story."

  One JOSEPH was enrolled--
    Though now a sort of Tory--
  A Williamite of old--
    "But that's another story."

  Some maids would make it known
    They'll wait till locks are hoary,
  But wed for love alone--
    "B u t  t h a t 's another 'story.'"

       *       *       *       *       *

IN BLACK AND WHITE.

(_A Modern Glove Romance._)

  THAT pair of gloves you wore when first we met
      Were what you called, I think, a "pair of loves."
  You won them from your cousin on a bet--
        That pair of gloves.

  Now as to colour, this or that shade proves
      A shade expensive, runs you into debt.
  Tan's universal, while a tint of dove's
      Particularly nice for evening. Yet
  Black with white stitching most my fancy moves,
      And such were yours. I never can forget
        That pair of gloves.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: TOO COSTLY.

_The Vicar._ "DEAR, DEAR, MRS. PRICKLES, I REGRET TO HEAR THAT MRS.
BROWN HAS TREATED YOU SO SHAMEFULLY. I SHOULD COUNSEL YOU TO HEAP
COALS OF FIRE ON HER HEAD----"

_Mrs. P._ "AH, SIR--THAT'S WOT I _WOULD_ DO, AS SOON AS LOOK AT 'ER:
BUT I CAN'T AFFORD IT AT ONE-AN'-NINEPENCE A 'UNDERDWEIGHT!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

RHODES TO ----?

  SIR HENRY LOCH may hold the key
  In Africa, but all must see
  That RHODES the handle hath fast grip on,
  Shouts "Let her rip!"--despite Lord RIPON.
  Cut is poor LOBENGULA'S comb,
  'Tis said that all roads lead to Rome.
  The new Ring that old saw explodes;
  Where'er we roam we're led to--RHODES.
  Whether or no this Great Panjandrum
  (Who handles well the pen, sword, _and_ drum)
  Is the true friend of Civilisation,
  And puts her laws in operation;
  At least he can maintain with pride,
  He has her Maxims on his side.

       *       *       *       *       *

FABIUS FIN-DE-SIÈCLE.

    [The Fabian Society, in the _Fortnightly Review_, has
    "launched a manifesto, which proposes that the Government
    shall be attacked by extreme Radicals because it has only met
    them half way."]

       *       *       *       *       *

  STRANGE that a "Fabian policy," up-to-date,
  Should be so obviously _not_ to wait!
  Sure the Society's name is chosen ill!
  RUPERT the title-rôle might fitlier fill.
  The Fabian Manifesto frightens no man;
  But just conceive the great, but cautious, Roman
  Heading a restive, Radical "Ugly Rush"!
  Though Patience suffers in the Modern Crush,
  Perchance the Socialistic perorator
  Might learn a lesson from the great Cunctator!

       *       *       *       *       *

THE CABMAN'S GUIDE TO POLITENESS.--No. II.

_Question._ I think when you are out of temper, and have been asked
by a Fare, who appears to know more (or less) about distances than you
do, to stop, you pretend not to hear him?

_Answer._ Yes; and I continue not to hear him until a policeman pulls
me up.

_Q._ Quite so; and then you have a way of giving a jerk while your
Fare is getting in which either covers a lady's dress with mud, or all
but breaks the leg of a gentleman?

_A._ Well, I have known such things to happen.

_Q._ And when you reach your destination, you carefully forget the
number of the street or square, and are equally hard of hearing if
your Fare attempts to direct you?

_A._ You have hit it, especially if it's raining.

_Q._ Of course. And when you get your money, you sneer and drive away,
as if you were disgusted?

_A._ Yes. And as I go off I make as much splash as I can, in the hope
of my late fare getting a dose of the mud.

_Q._ Exactly. Now, don't you think it would be better to come up
cheerfully, drive carefully, and when you receive your money, observe,
"Well, Sir (or Madam), I know I have no right to more, but times are
hard, and if you would spare an extra sixpence, I should consider it a
real kindness?" Would not that mode be better than the other? Would it
not be more profitable?

_A._ It might, but I can't say, as I have never tried it.

_Q._ Again, what is your method of obtaining what you consider to be
your rights from a mother with two boxes and four small children?

_A._ Why I generally swear at the kids and sit on the boxes until I am
paid what I ask, or get sent to the right-abouts by a policeman.

_Q._ No doubt; yet such a course seems both barbarous and
inconvenient. Could you not improve upon it?

_A._ Not I. It is the right thing to do, and that is why I do it.

_Q._ And yet would it not be as easy for you to help the boxes
down yourself, and then to make friends with the mother through her
children? Could you not observe, "Bless their hearts, they are fine
lads, or young ladies (as the case might be), and you should be proud
of them, mum?"

_A._ Yes, I might say that, but I don't think the mother would come
down with the cash any quicker on account of it.

_Q._ But supposing, when you were offered less than you thought due
to you, could you not observe, "I have children of my own, mum, and
if you could spare a couple of shillings (or half-a-crown, or what you
thought right) more, it would be a real kindness, and give my children
something more than bread and water for dinner?" Could you not say
that?

_A._ I might, but I won't.

_Q._ But surely it would be pleasanter for you to be amiable and
courteous instead of a bully and a brute? And would it not be easier,
too?

_A._ Try for yourself. Just you drive a cab for a dozen hours in all
weathers, and then you will learn what chances you have of feeling
light-hearted and polite!

       *       *       *       *       *

PREPARING FOR CHRISTMAS.

(_A Yule-tide Story told in Advance._)

Yes, SCROOGE was an altered man! He was genial and amiable, and
altogether an estimable being. SCROOGE'S nephew was delighted with the
change. He could scarcely believe his ears and eyes.

"And don't you really interfere with the theatres, Sir?" asked
SCROOGE'S nephew. "At one time you were always telling them to take
down this, and put up that, and making the lives of the managers
burdens to them. Don't you interfere any longer?"

"Of course not, my lad," replied SCROOGE, heartily. "Why should
I? This is the pleasantest world imaginable, and it would be less
charming without its playhouses."

"Right you are, Sir," returned SCROOGE'S nephew; "but I suppose you
look in occasionally at the halls to supervise the entertainments?"

"I look in to enjoy them, my boy!" cried SCROOGE, with a ringing
laugh, that could be heard for furlongs. "What do they want with _my_
supervision?"

"I am sure I don't know, uncle; but I thought it was a way you had.
And then you are going to strip the hoardings of the posters, aren't
you?"

"I strip the hoardings of the posters! Why should I? The hoardings
look a precious sight better covered with pictures than left to dirt
and decay. I interfere with the hoardings! I never heard of such a
thing! What put _that_ into your head?"

"Well, it used to be an old way of yours," returned SCROOGE'S nephew.
"Why, uncle, don't you remember? You used to be interfering with
and ordering about everything. Taking up the road and closing the
thoroughfare. Bothering the costermongers and the retail shopkeepers
and the small householders. In fact, making yourself a general
nuisance in all directions. Why, uncle, you have entirely changed your
nature!"

"Not at all," said SCROOGE. "I am not changed, but my office is. Do
you not know that I have ceased to be a member of the London County
Council?"

"No, this is the first time I have heard of it! Why, that accounts
for everything! It explains why you are a pleasant, good-natured
old gentleman in lieu of a curmudgeon and a brute. It explains
everything."

And it did!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: MISUNDERSTOOD.

_Noble Philanthropist._ "THAT PARCEL SEEMS RATHER HEAVY FOR YOU, MY
LITTLE MAN! LET ME TAKE IT!"

_Small boy._ "LET YER TYKE MY PARCEL! GARN WITH YER. I'LL CALL THE
PERLICE!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

NAME! NAME!--No name has been announced for the new daily paper
projected by Mr. STEAD. In view of the plan frankly set forth in the
prospectus, whereby one hundred thousand persons are to subscribe the
capital, and if the venture proves a success the enterprising editor
is to have the option of acquiring the property, a suitable title
would be, _Heads-I-Win-Tails-You-Lose_. It is a little long, perhaps;
but it precisely describes the relative positions, and you can't--at
least some people can't--have everything.

       *       *       *       *       *

DRAMATIC RECIPE (FROM THE QUEEN'S COOKERY BOOK).--First catch your
HARE.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE DARK CONTINENT IN TWO LIGHTS.

    SCENE--_A conquered country._ TIME--_The Past. Conquerors
    (colonists) panting after their hard work in defeating the
    natives. Enter an_ Official. _The remaining members of the
    Colonial Band sing the National Anthem._

_Official._ I congratulate you upon your success. The more especially
as you have gained it without the assistance of the Imperial power.
(_The Colonists indulge in feeble cheers._) But now my turn has
arrived. In the name of the SOVEREIGN I claim this land for England!

    [_Plants the British Flag. Curtain._

    SCENE--_As before._ TIME--_The Present. Conquerors (colonists)
    smoking after the pleasant toil of mowing down the natives.
    Enter an_ Official. _The Colonial Band (in its entirety) takes
    no notice_.

_Official._ I congratulate you upon your success. The more especially
as you have gained it without the assistance of the Imperial power.
(_The Colonists indulge in roars of laughter._) But now my turn has
arrived. In the name of the SOVEREIGN I claim this land for England!

_Colonists._ No you don't! Be off! We can get on without you!

    [_Turns Official and his Flag out of the Country. Curtain._

       *       *       *       *       *

ARGENTINA.

    [It is stated that JABEZ S. BALFOUR is living "in a perfect
    fairy-land."]

  I Dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls,
    With orchids on every side,
  A very long way from Old Bailey's walls,
    Where NEWTON and HOBBS were tried.
  I had riches too great to count; could boast
    Of JABEZ, an elegant name;
  And I also dreamt, which charmed me most,
    Argentina loved me the same.

  I dreamt that my country let me go,
    In an indolent sort of way,
  For Scotland Yard did not seem to know
    It would "want" me another day.
  So they carefully closed the stable-door,
    When I'd fled beyond reach of blame;
  And I also dreamt, which charmed me more,
    Argentina loved me the same.

  I dreamt that detectives sought my hand,
    But their warrants I could not see.
  So their vows my swindler's heart could withstand,
    Though they pledged their faith to me.
  Buenos Ayres' bold, brazen face,
    Never glows with the blush of shame;
  Though I should be lynched in a decent place,
    Argentina loves me the same.

       *       *       *       *       *

A GREAT FIELD FOR HUMORISTS ANNUALLY.--"_Wit acres'_ Almanack."

       *       *       *       *       *

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M. P.

_House of Commons, Thursday, November_ 2.--Began work again to-day as
if nothing had happened from February to September. Understood to
have had a recess; so short hardly worth mentioning. Considering all
circumstances, attendance marvellously large. MARJORIBANKS got his men
together as usual, crowding benches on Ministerial side. Opposition
not in quite such a hurry to wash their spears; but muster creditable.
Irish camp deserted. "You see," said JUSTIN MCCARTHY, "it isn't our
funeral. But the bhoys are hanging round and will turn up if wanted."

HENRY FOWLER moved Second Reading Parish Councils Bill. Adroit and
able speech; rather hard on WALTER LONG; to him deputed position of
spokesman on Front Opposition bench. Brought down notes of convincing
speech. FOWLER getting in first anticipated all his objections;
met them with benevolent alacrity that disarmed hostility. What did
statesmen opposite want? Anything in reason should be conceded. "Give
your orders, gents, whilst the waiter's in the room."

[Illustration: PARLIAMENT BY
PROXY.]

This an admirable stroke of business, but a little depressing from
spectacular point of view. No more pyrotechnics; no further meetings
on the floor; no more grips at close quarters. HAYES FISHER looked on
moodily; LOGAN passed Front Opposition bench without once so much as
looking at place where CARSON is accustomed meekly to repose.
Respectable elderly gentlemen like FRANCIS POWELL and JEFFREYS took
the floor. Even contumacious COBB admitted soothing influence of the
hour. Didn't want anything more than that Parish Councils should have
power to take land wherever they found it, and divide it amongst the
poor. As everybody agreed Bill in the main desirable, and since FOWLER
had promised fullest consideration of amendments in Committee, seemed
natural thing to do was forthwith to read Bill second time, and fix
date of Committee.

[Illustration: Parish Councils.]

"No, Sir," said STANLEY LEIGHTON, "I trust the House of Commons is
not yet sunk so low as that. Confess I myself feel depressed. Couldn't
to-night adequately fill my favourite and popular part of The Man
from Shropshire. At least I'll deliver House from disgrace of bringing
debate to a close for the puerile reason that we're all agreed Second
Reading shall be taken."

So he wandered on; was just warming into Man-from-Shropshire manner,
when midnight sounded and Debate stood adjourned.

_Business done._--Second Reading Parish Councils Bill moved.

_Friday._--For middle-aged gentleman of long experience never saw man
so discomposed as JESSE COLLINGS was just now, when he let cat out of
bag about future arrangements of the Unionists personal to himself.
What is to be done with the Faithful One when JOSEPH comes into his
own is favourite speculation in smoke-room. SAGE OF QUEEN ANNE'S GATE
takes special interest in matter. Most men think JESSE should have
Cabinet rank in Coalition Ministry.

"No," says the SAGE, "he should be a Viceroy, either of India or
Canada. Cut out for the place; and there would be no question of
salary, such as, seven years ago, embittered his relations with Mr.
G."

All these conjectures beside the point. Matter has, apparently, been
settled in inner councils of party, and to-night JESSE accidentally,
inadvertently, lifted the veil. "I have," he said, in course of
luminous speech prefaced by addressing the SPEAKER as "Mr. Mayor,"
"something to say on that subject, but I will reserve my remarks for
another place." House not very full at moment. But everyone knows
meaning of House of Commons phrase "another place." Sensation
profound. Bordesley soon to be bereft, for JESSE COLLINGS is going to
the Lords! HENRY MATTHEWS, a local authority on the subject, says even
title been fixed upon. Nothing less than territorial style will do
for the ex-Mayor and Radical Alderman. Soon the Upper House will greet
Lord BORDESLEY of Birmingham.

Quiet night, with further talk round Parish Councils Bill. Mr. G.
present, seated between SQUIRE OF MALWOOD and JOHN MORLEY. Singularly
subdued in manner; takes no part in discussion; goes off to dinner in
good time, and House sees him no more.

"And to think," said the SQUIRE, glancing sideways at the placid
figure beside him, "that this is the man painted in red and blue by
Unionist pavement-artists. Their stories of Mr. G. always remind me
of a passage in a theme produced by a young gentleman invited to state
what he knew of Cardinal WOLSEY.

    "'In the siege of Quebec,' he wrote, 'he ascended the
    mountains at dead of night, when his enemies were at rest, and
    took the town at daybreak. His home policy was conducted in a
    similar manner.'

"There is about that a picturesque air of circumstantiality, combined
with a fanciful inaccuracy, equalled only by things one reads or hears
with reference to my right hon. friend, and revered leader."

[Illustration: Ireland takes a back seat. Sir William on the Premier's
right again.]

_Business done._--Some papers on Parish Councils read.

       *       *       *       *       *

Double Entente.

  The TZAR, on peace and friendship all intent,
  To France his Admiral AVELLAN has sent.
  'Twere pity if this Russian olive-branch
  Portended merely General AVALANCHE.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mrs. R. is astonished to hear that "Count TAAFFE, the Austrian
Premier, is an Irishman and a Member of the British House of Lords."
She says she is sure she has heard that "TAAFFE was a Welshman, TAAFFE
was a ----," but she must have been misinformed!!!

       *       *       *       *       *

A STRIKE-ING SUGGESTION.--The PITT-coalition was a brilliant idea in
its day. A coalition between masters and miners--a Pit-coal-ition, in
fact--would solve the strike difficulty.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE FRENCH FLAG.

AN AMICABLE APPEAL.

  The Arab dhow to the chase is gone,
    Chock-full of slaves you'll discover it;
  And the British cruiser is artfully done
    By the French Flag flying over it!
  "Flag of France!" cries the British Tar,
    "The Arab hound betrays thee.
  Give him his due, at Zanzibar,
    And all the world shall praise thee!"

  The captain and crew by the Franks were tried,
    And _escaped_--to the wide world's wonder!
  Oh glorious Flag! Is it then its pride
    That the slavers hide thereunder?
  Let France disdain to sully thee,
    With the curst kidnapper's knavery!
  Thy folds should float o'er the brave and free,
    And _never_ protect foul Slavery!

       *       *       *       *       *

Misnomer.

  "FEDERATION" seems aggravation,
    Conciliation's dead!
  While fights the "Miners' Federation,"
    The Miners are _un_fed!

       *       *       *       *       *

THE LATEST AUTUMN FASHIONS.--Parliamentary Sessions and Feather
Trimmings. Both involving cruelty to bipeds "on the wing," and each
"more honoured in the breach than the observance."

       *       *       *       *       *

An Ulsterical Impromptu.

(_By an Orange-hating Nationalist._)

  In Parliament assembled see them move
    Their resolutions lacking rhyme and reason,
  Determined all at any cost to prove
    The Ulster Parliament's a Cloak to Treason!