When can their gladness fade? O! the good time they had! All the world wondered. Honour the "parcels made;" Honour the Drapers' Trade, Noble six hundred. * * * * * THE CHARGE OF THE "BUSTLE." Forward the Big Bustle! Down the long street rustle, Sweeping the street Arab Into the gutter; Swells to the right of it, Swells to the left of it. Cane, stick, and eyeglass, All in a flutter! Loud cries the errand-boy, "Big Bustle there, ahoy!" And the respectable Citizens stare-- Reckless of every one, On goes the "haughty one," Sweeping past houses, Terrace and square. But look, the low'ring sky Portends a storm is nigh; While men on all sides Gallantly throng; Swells to the right of it, Swells to the left of it, Blue Bustle charges, Sweeping along. Ah, 'tis a rainy day! Streams flood the muddy way, And the fair ornament Cheeky cads hustle; Homeward it now retreats, Flies from the crowded streets, Safe at last! ah, but not-- _Not the same Bustle!_ _Judy_, 17th April 1872. * * * * * OUR BOYS. On the occasion of the Six Hundredth performance of this most successful comedy at the Vaudeville Theatre, the following verses were composed:-- Keep the league! keep the league, Keep our league onward! We twain have "run" a piece Nights now Six Hundred. Though but a light brigade, Not such "great guns" 'tis said. Yet we a play have played Nights full Six Hundred! "Here's your piece," Byron said, "Take it friends, undismayed," So we did, for we knew Seldom he's blundered! Ours not to talk, but buy, Ours but to act (or try!) How fared the Comedy! Into two years we've run, Nights now Six Hundred. Prophets to right of us, Prophets to left of us, Prophets in front of us, Volleyed and thundered! Wiseacre shot and shell, "May, for a time, do well!" Ne'er, in their jaws (so right!) Ne'er in their mouths that night Boded Six Hundred. "Flashy! a thing of air! Flashy! but very fair!" So said these wonders there, Stage-wise alarmists! while All who of fun'd heard, Crushed in the groaning pit. Fought thro', fought bit by bit! Coster and Nobleman Laughed at the same old hit, Laughed at, and wondered, Thought of that night, but not Dreamed of Six Hundred! Dresses wore spite of us, Scenes waned each night of us, Stitches made light of us, Severed and sundered; Summers on "houses" tell, "Business," tho', never fell, Everything turned out well, So, we are playing still, Playing each night with will, All that is left of us After Six Hundred!