ish pact?

In selfish pact--but silly.
_His_ neighbouring, willy-nilly,
Must smirch the Bee, the Lily,
Or stain the snow-white flag.
Wielder of mere stage-dagger,
Loud lord of empty swagger,
In peril's hour a lagger.
A Paladin of Brag!

And now his venture faileth,
And now his valour paleth;
_Et apres?_ What availeth
His aid to those who'd use him?
Imperial or Royal,
What "patron" will prove loyal
Unto this "dupe"? They'll joy all
To mock, expose, abuse him!

But from the contest shrinking,
The draught of failure drinking,
In trickery's quicksand sinking,
Pulls he not others down?
Will PLON-PLON stand securely,
The COMTE pose proudly, purely,
Whilst slowly but most surely
Their tool must choke or drown?

Indifferent France sits smiling.
And what avails reviling?
Such pitch without defiling
Can "Prince" or "Patriot" touch?
This quicksand unromantic
Closes on him, the Antic,
Whose hands with gestures frantic
Contiguous coat-tails clutch.

The furious factions splutter,
Power's cheated claimants mutter,
And foiled fire-eaters utter
Most sanguinary threats.
"_He_ Freedom's fated suckler?
The traitor, trickster, truckler!"
So fumes the fierce swash-buckler,
And his toy-rapier whets.

But will that quicksand only
Engulph _him_ lost and lonely?
The fraud exposed, the known lie,
The bribe at length betrayed,
Must whelm this sham detected,
But what may be expected
From "Honour" shame-infected,
And "Kingship" in the shade?

* * * * *

THE RAVENSTEIN.

[Mr. RAVENSTEIN, at the British Association, considered
the question, how long it will be before the world becomes
over-populated.]

_Punch to the Prophet_.

Prophet of o'er-population, your ingenious calculation,
Causeth discombobulation only in the anxious mind
That forecasts exhausted fuel, or the period when the duel
Will have given their final gruel to French journalists; a kind
Of cantankerous, rancorous spitfires, blusterous, braggart, boyish, blind,
Who much mourning scarce would find.

Prophet of o'er-population, when the centuries in rotation
Shall have filled our little planet till it tends to running o'er,
Will this world, with souls o'erladen, be a Hades or an Aidenn?
Will man, woman, boy and maiden, be less civilised, or more?
_That's_ the questi