One morning the fidgety Sassenach swore He’d stand it no longer—he drew his claymore, And (this was, I think, in extremely bad taste) Divided CLONGLOCKETTY close to the waist. Oh! loud were the wailings for ANGUS MCCLAN, Oh! deep was the grief for that excellent man; The maids stood aghast at the horrible scene— Especially ELLEN MCJONES ABERDEEN. It sorrowed poor PATTISON CORBY TORBAY To find them “take on” in this serious way; He pitied the poor little fluttering birds, And solaced their souls with the following words: “Oh, maidens,” said PATTISON, touching his hat, “Don’t blubber, my dears, for a fellow like that; Observe, I’m a very superior man, A much better fellow than ANGUS MCCLAN.” They smiled when he winked and addressed them as “dears,” And they all of them vowed, as they dried up their tears, A pleasanter gentleman never was seen— Especially ELLEN MCJONES ABERDEEN. PETER THE WAG. POLICEMAN PETER FORTH I drag From his obscure retreat: He was a merry genial wag, Who loved a mad conceit. If he were asked the time of day, By country bumpkins green, He not unfrequently would say, “A quarter past thirteen.” If ever you by word of mouth Inquired of MISTER FORTH The way to somewhere in the South, He always sent you North. With little boys his beat along He loved to stop and play; He loved to send old ladies wrong, And teach their feet to stray. He would in frolic moments, when Such mischief bent upon, Take Bishops up as betting men— Bid Ministers move on. Then all the worthy boys he knew He regularly licked, And always collared people who Had had their pockets picked. He was not naturally bad, Or viciously inclined, But from his early youth he had A waggish turn of mind. The Men of London grimly scowled With indignation wild; The Men of London gruffly growled, But PETER calmly smiled. Against this minion of the Crown The swelling murmurs grew— From Camberwell to Kentish Town— From Rotherhithe to Kew. Still humoured he his wagsome turn, And fed in various ways The coward rage that dared to burn, But did not dare to blaze. Still, Retribution has her day, Although her flight is slow: _One day that Crusher lost his way_ _Near Poland Street_, _Soho_. The haughty boy, too proud to ask, To find his way resolved, And in the tangle of his task Got more and more involved. The Men of London, overjoyed, Came there to jeer their foe, And flocking crowds completely cloyed The mazes of Soho. The news on telegraphic wires Sped swiftly o’er the lea, Excursion trains from distant shires Brought myriads to see.