And while the statesmen were still in doubt The panting duke (he was rather stout) Rushed in, with his brolly blown inside out, And he yelled, “You fools! the button!” In vain did Sir Watkin weep and say-- “O, think of the widows and orphans, pray; The finger of fate unless you stay, Their shares won’t be worth a button.” “What are the shares,” fierce Cambridge cried, “To the fall of Britain--the ocean’s pride!” He pushed Sir Watkin, who reeled aside, And placed his thumb on the button. But, alas! for the schemes of men and mice-- He pressed it once and he pressed it twice; But his heart stood still and his blood was ice-- _There was something wrong with the button!_ The tricolour floats from St. Paul’s to-day, For, led by the General Boulanger, The French have come, and they mean to stay, Now they’ve passed the dangerous button. When out of order it proved to be, The whole French army came through with glee That wonderful tunnel beneath the sea-- And so much for Sir Watkin’s button! A Façon de Parler. Sir Charles Russell: “When you said that jockeys are such d----d thieves, what did you mean?” The Duke of Portland: “It was merely a façon de parler.” When I say that a race is an infamous ramp, When I say that a man is a terrible scamp, These expressions are not of the genuine stamp, But merely a façon de parler. If my overwrought feelings find vent and relief In calling a fellow a thundering thief, You mustn’t conclude that I speak my belief-- It’s merely a façon de parler. If I write to a friend on a matter that’s grave, And denounce so-and-so as a rascally knave, You mustn’t regard it as anything save What is known as a façon de parler. And the use of a word which I need not repeat In no way refers to Plutonian heat; It is always accepted among the élite As merely a façon de parler. Jackson. (OR, “ON THE TRACK.”) We have heard of the Bird by which Roche won renown, The Bird to posterity Boyle handed down, The Bird which the schoolboy who is not a dunce Will remember could be in two places at once; But the Bird of Sir Boyle must now take a back seat, While we sing of John Jackson’s more wonderful feat. John Jackson has written his commonplace name In the boldest of hands on the parchment of fame. A convict, he played with his warder at spoof, Then brained him, and made his escape through the roof; Walked boldly away in a broad-arrow suit, And nobody seems to have noticed his route.