And did you ne’er hear of a jolly old Waterman Who at the cabstand used for to ply? He feathered his nest with the passengers’ halfpennies, Smoking his pipe, with a drop in each eye, He looked so drunk――yet stood so steadily, The drivers all flocked to his stand so readily; And he eyed the old rogues with so knowing an air, For this Waterman knew they would cheat every fare. What sights of gents drunk and incapable, very, He’d clean out so nice, and politely withal, As he called the first cab, when the finely-dressed victims Came staggering out from Cremorne or Vauxhall. And oftentimes would they be quizzing and queering, And ’twas all one to Tom, all this chaffing and jeering: For laughing or chaffing he little did care, For this Waterman wished but to rifle the fare. And yet but to see how strangely things happen, As he jogged along, thinking of nothing at all, He was caught by a Cab Act so awfully stringent, That it caused all the tricks of the cab-stand to fall. But would this old Waterman feel proper sorrow, For all his old tricks, and turn honest to-morrow; And should this old Waterman act with more care, He’ll be licensed, and never impose on a fare. _Punch._ July 30, 1853. ―――― THE HANDSOME YOUNG CLERGYMAN. Oh! did you not hear of a handsome young clergyman, Who in his pulpit was wont for to cry? He handled his text with such seeming sincerity, Melting each heart and suffusing each eye. He sighed so hard and groaned so steadily, The ladies all flocked to his church so readily; And he turned up his eye with so saintly an air, That this clergyman greatly was liked by the fair. His features were fine, and his views Sabbatarian, So by both young and old he was made a great pet; What teapots and slippers this predestinarian, Young disciple of CALVIN did constantly get! He had won such credit and fame for piety, That he had the run of the best society; And a girl with lots of tin did pair With this parson esteemed such a duck by the fair. _Punch._ May 31, 1856. ―――― THE JOLLY YOUNG TRILOBITE. Oh, did you ne’er hear of a jolly young trilobite, That lived in Siluria once on a time, And some years ago turned to stone in a terrible fright, And forgot all about the deeds done in his prime; But harden’d and horny his tail no more wags, For he now lies entombed in the Lingula flags.