Who brings my shaving water late, And with a basket full of plate One morning doth evaporate, My Valet! Who flirts with soldiers dressed so fine, And leaves that sweetest pet of mine, To tumble in the Serpentine, My Nursemaid! Who comes to make a formal call, Merely to criticise us all, When severed by the party wall? My Neighbour! Who’s who, or where shall he be sought, Who may not now and then be caught At something wrong in act or thought, Why! No one! _Punch_, January 11, 1851. ――――:o:―――― MY BOOT-HOOKS. _The Lay of a Lunatic_. [This poem is selected from a variety of contributions intended for _The Hanwell Annual_. It shows a true spirit of poetry, although the subject is not perhaps clearly followed out. The last stanza, in particular, is a fine instance of poetical license.] Who, when the sea did toss and roar, And I thought soon to be no more, Came and knock’d loudly at my door? My Boot-hooks. * * * * * Who pulled the nose of Rome’s first Pope, For looking after Johnny Cope, Who was so poorly off for soap? My Boot-hooks. Who at Vingt-un hid all the aces, Then threw the counters in our faces, The night preceding Epsom races? My Boot-hooks. Who, whilst I was residing at Constantinople, Took advantage of my absence to open my bureau, And thus betrayed the confidence I placed in them? My Boot-hooks. _The Man in the Moon_, Vol. 4. ――――:o:―――― MY BICYCLE. BY JAGY TORLTON. He cadgily ranted and sang.――_Old Song._ What spins around “like all git out,” And swiftly carries me about, So light, so still, so bright and stout? My Bicycle. Regard me now where I sit high on Nag forty pound of mostly iron; And don’t you wish that you might try on My Bicycle? _Monstrum imforme, ingens!_ some Cry, seeing first this courser come, Our “fine knee-action” strikes them dumb, My Bicycle! Call him a monster from the east, And both a lean and fatuous beast, You comprehend not in the least My Bicycle. Revolve it in your mind, and my way Will show to be a more than _guy_ way―― High way of riding on the highway―― My Bicycle. Those now who stand and stare and say, O, “_parce nobis, s’il vous plait_,” Will beg to tread, another day, My Bicycle. What tho’ Hans Breitmann did, almost, And Schnitzerlein gave up the ghost? ’Twas all because they couldn’t boast My Bicycle.