h dat oder ARTHUR's song
Vot darkened der Champerlain's prow?
Where ish de himmelstrahlende stern,
De shtar of der Tory fight?
All gon'd afay, as on Woodcock's wing,
Afay in de ewigkeit!

Young GRANDOLPH hat a Barty;
He hunt der lions now,
All in der lone Mashonaland,
But he does not "score"--somehow.
One Grand Old Lion he dared to peard,
Und he "potted" Earls and Dukes,
But eight or nine real lions at once,
He thinks are "_trop de luxe_"

Young GRANDOLPH hat a Barty,
But he scooted 'cross der sea,
Und he tidn't say to dem, "Come, my poys,
Und drafel along mit me!"

[Footnote 1: _Saus und Braus_--Ger., Riot and Bustle.]

* * * * *

"CORRECT CARD, GENTS!"--"Wanted a Map of London" was the heading of
a letter in the _Times_ last Thursday. No, Sir! that's not what is
wanted. There are hundreds of 'em, specially seductive pocket ones,
with just the very streets that one wants to discover as short cuts
to great centres carefully omitted. What _is_ wanted is a _correct_
map of London, divided into pocketable sections, portable, foldable,
durable, on canvas,--but if imperfect, as so many of these small
pocket catch-shilling ones are just now, although professedly
brought up to date '91, they are worse than useless, and to purchase
one is a waste of time, temper and money. We could mention an
attractive-looking little map--which, but no-- Publishers and public
are hereby cautioned! N.B.--Test well your pocket map through a
magnifying glass before buying. _Experto crede!_

* * * * *

OYSTERLESS.

(_BY AN IMPECUNIOUS GOURMET_.)

[Oysters are very dear, and are likely, as the season
advances, to be still higher in price.]

[Illustration]

Oh, Oyster mine! Oh, Oyster mine!
You're still as exquisitely nice;
With perfect pearly tints you shine,
But you are such an awful price.
The lemon and the fresh cayenne,
Brown bread and butter and the stout
Are here, and just the same, but then
What if I have to leave you out?

What wonder that my spirits droop,
That life can bring me no delight,
When I must give up oyster soup,
So softly delicately white.
The curry powder stands anear,
The scallop shells, but what care I--
You're so abominably dear,
O Oyster! that I cannot buy.

With sad imaginative flights,
I think upon the days of yore;