“Get out, you horrid bogey--you terrifying pest!”-- Exclaimed young Tom in anger as he flung it east and west. Then pa rose up, and, lifting his hand to heaven’s dome, Swore that never more the _Lancet_ should come into the home. And from that hour there vanished their look of care and woe, And all of them grew happy as in the long ago. At germs they snap their fingers, and now with joyous mien They live in calm contentment--the Browns of Walham Green. MORAL. Where ignorance is comfort, it is folly to be wise; In mercy lies the future concealed from mortal eyes. The thousand hidden dangers for man that lie in wait, If known, would lead him surely to share the madman’s fate. Life were not worth the living were we to dread the germs The _Lancet_ serves up weekly in scientific terms. So snap your fingers at them--the germs, of course, I mean-- And take to heart the story of the Browns of Walham Green. A Tale of a Tub. It was the wife of Mr. G., The Irish Grand Old Man, A little ditty carolled she, And thus the ditty ran: “I hear him in his dressing-room, My Willie dear, my hub; He little heeds his coming doom, He warbles in his tub. “When he is sad I hear no sound Except the water’s plash; A solemn silence reigns around When thoughts my Willie fash. But now the joyous sound of song Accompanies each rub; Things can’t have gone so very wrong-- He warbles in his tub. “Although the country’s cut him dead, And given him the sack, He warbles while he wets his head And while he scrubs his back. I’m sure my Willie sees his way The Tory gang to drub, And that is why he’s blithe and gay And warbles in his tub. “He does not care for _Telegraph_, Or _Morning Post_, or _Times_; He reads therein with many a laugh The record of his crimes. He knows his fingers he can snap At all ‘ye streete of Grubbe’; They haven’t riled the dear old chap-- He warbles in his tub. “There’s hope, he thinks, for Ireland yet, The ‘old hand’ isn’t ‘done’; With masses against classes set There’s sure to be some fun. He’ll hold his own in spite of groan And jest and jeer and snub, And that is why, with spirits high, He warbles in his tub.” MORAL. O Erin, yet shall burst for thee The sunshine through the gloom-- Take heart from all this melody In Gladstone’s dressing-room; Plank down your dollars, Yankee boys, And tell each doubting “sub,” No fear the Grand One’s faith alloys, “He warbles in his tub.” The Comic King. I’m going to sing you a simple song, To show that a king can do no wrong; A lay that is laden in every line With the grand old creed of “the right divine.”