“What though upon my seats have writhed The Great, perhaps the Good. Condemned in this proud Capital To use my box of wood? Yet now repentance, all too late, Makes me confess that ne’er did Fate A vehicle provide More maddening in each palsied shake, Or where long-suffering Fares might take, A more atrocious ride? “’Tis done! Oblivion’s curtain falls Upon the myriad men Who’ve blown me up, and knocked me down, And ‘had me up’ again. Those frowsy cushions bring not back Nor stretch four souls upon the rack By Nature made for twain! Oh, let this cramped roof-tree go, Also thy dirty straw below, Thou Vehicle of Pain! “Even I am weary now of playing My customary pranks; Rank idiocy it was to place Such Cabs upon the ranks! How came it, else, that London’s sons To stable-owning Goths and Huns For aid in vain did cry, While every Gent, and every Cad, In Aberdeen and Glasgow had His reputable Fly? “Go, Kings of Cabland, and reflect On London’s awful waste By not a single Four-wheeled Cab From Kew to Greenwich graced! Go, tell the world how you beheld A Jehu, bowed with shame and eld, Guiding his Growler mean,―― The general universe defy, To match for sheer obliquity, That ramshackle machine! _Punch_, September, 1885. ――――:o:―――― THE MASSACRE OF GLENHO. Through deep Glenho the owlet flits, That valley weird and lone; The chieftain’s aged widow sits Beside the bare hearth stone. Beside the bare and blighted hearth Whose fires, now quenched and black, Had seen five gallant sons go forth, And never one come back. ’Tis silent all! but hark――a cry And ghastly clamours wake The midnight glen. Then rose proudly That ancient dame, and spake―― “What mingled sounds of woe and wail Up Mortham’s valley spread? What shrieks upon the gusty gale Come pealing overhead? “I hear the pibroch’s piercing swell, The banshee’s scream I hear, And hark! again that stifled yell―― The _boderglas_ is near!! “The Boderglas with bloody brow And tresses dripping red―― I see him at the window now He shakes his gory head! “Then, daughter, to thy mother’s arms, Thus, thus, in close embrace, The messenger of death we’ll meet―― The slayer of our race. “Then do not weep, my daughter!”―― “Oh mother, ’tis not that―― But Donald Roy the carrotty boy HAS KILLED OUR OLD TOM CAT.” From _Puck on Pegasus_, by H. Cholmondeley-Pennell. Chatto and Windus, London,) ――――:o:―――― THE LAWN TENNIS MATCH.