"I fill with scum my little bays, I coat with slime my pebbles; The mud I leave on winter days The summer drought soon trebles. "With many a stench the air I fill, With many an odour fetid; And epidemics I distil Throughout the dog-days heated. "I churn contagion as I go, A foul, filth-sodden river; For tides may ebb, and tides may flow, But I smell on for ever! "I wind about, and in and out, With here a dead cat floating, And here a party seized, past doubt, With sickness whilst they're boating. "And Water Companies extract My water as I travel, Till I for miles am nought, in fact, But banks of mud and gravel. "In short, if they thus pump me dry, And list to reason never, Whilst Londoners are talking, I Shall just flow _off_ for ever! "As 'tis, the fish are well nigh killed In all my urban reaches; And places once with gudgeon filled Are now too dry for leeches. "I ruin lawns and grassy plots By foul deposits spreading; I blight the sweet forget-me-nots From Twickenham to Reading. "I crawl, I creep, I smell, I smear, Amongst my oozy shallows; I so pollute the atmosphere It quite knocks-up the swallows. "I grow each season more impure, As every one's remarking; I am an open running sewer From Teddington to Barking. "And so upon my course I go, A foul, pestiferous river, And tides may ebb, and tides may flow, But I smell on for ever!" _Truth_, July 31, 1884. * * * * * THE (NORTH) BROOK. (_Some Way After Tennyson_). 'Tis an ill wind thus blows me out, From home I must be sailing, Whilst here the rest will chase, no doubt, The grouse with zest unfailing. * * * * * I'm sent to watch by Nile's swift flow. Confound that ancient river! M.P.'s may come, M.P.'s may go; Must I toil on for ever? _Punch_, August 16, 1884. * * * * * PEERS, IDLE PEERS. "The House of Lords sat last night somewhat less than a quarter of an hour, during which no business was done." Peers, idle Peers, I know not what they do. Peers from the depths of their luxurious chairs Rise in the Clubs, and saunter into the House, In-looking on the happy Hugh, Lord Cairns, And thinking of the Bills that are in store. Sure as the hammer falling at a sale, That makes us travel by the Underground, Sad as the feeling when our bargains prove Not quite the treasure which we hoped to find; So sad, so sure, the Bills that are to bore. Ah, sad (not strange) as on dreary winter morns. The surliest knock of half-impatient dun To drowsy ears, ere, watched by drowsy eyes, The tailor slowly goes across the square; So sad, so very sad, the bills that are in store.