ve to pay it any more.
Cheer! boys, cheer! for _Punch_ and MR. FITZROY,
Cheer! boys, cheer! for _Punch_ is our right hand;
Cheer! boys, cheer! there's fruit of FITZROY'S labour,
Cheer! boys, cheer! for the new Improved Cab Stand.

Cheer! boys, cheer! no wind is on us blowing,
Through broken panes upon our neck and chest,
This horse can go the distance we are going,
By over work he is no more opprest;
Once we had cabs--than hencoops scarcely better--
Through open spaces letting in the rain;
Now, ours shall be the clean and well-built carriage,
And at a price as moderate again.
Cheer! boys, cheer! &c.

* * * * *

PASSIONATE MEN.

"Men in a passion should be treated like kettles--when they boil over,
they should be taken off."

* * * * *

PECUNIARY DEMANDS.

Of all men it must be confessed that the Tax-gatherer has the most calls
for his money.

* * * * *

A GUARDSMAN'S CONFESSION (_overheard at Chobham_).--"On my word there's
no greater Bore in the world than your military Drill!"

* * * * *

[Illustration: _First Cock Sparrow._ "WHAT A MIWACKULOUS TYE, FWANK. HOW
THE DOOSE DO YOU MANAGE IT?"

_Second Cock Sparrow._ "YAS. I FANCY IT IS RATHER GRAND; BUT THEN, YOU
SEE, I GIVE THE WHOLE OF MY MIND TO IT!"]

* * * * *

STANZAS TO ERIN. ON THE DUBLIN EXHIBITION.

Oh Emerald Isle, brightest pearl of the ocean,
First flower of the earth, on thy newly-born wings
Soar up to the sky, with triumphant emotion,
Whilst thou sittest, receiving the homage of kings.

Raise, Erin, thy brow, which no longer is clouded
And seared by the cold brand of chilling neglect;
Stand forth in the garb of festivity shrouded
As thy sons and thy daughters, fair maiden, expect.

Exchanging thy widowhood's lonely condition
For the splendour and state of a blushing young bride,
Preside, unabashed, o'er thy Great Exhibition,
Thy heart humbly swelling with glory and pride.

Yes, Ireland, thy lap filled with all the world's riches,
Of thy shirt-sleeves the elbows, gone ragged of yore,
Shall no longer hang out at the knees of thy breeches,
And the toes of thy brogues out at heel go no more.

Too long has the Demon of fell agitation,
By the dark torch of discord