Come and join the rabble rout; Gentiles, Jews, and Jingoes shout! Britons! hail his glorious feats; Drag him, drag him through the streets! Safe from lowering Channel fog: Safe from Bismarck’s biting dog; Safe from tedious long discussions With the Prussians, Turks, and Russians. On his brow are leaves of laurel―― Victor in the bloodless quarrel. Honour sits upon his crest, Secret treaties in his vest! All his foemen swiftly dwindling, Dished by most successful * * * Sound the trumpets, beat the drums! See, the Conquering Jingo comes! LINGO. _The Echo._ July 17, 1878. ―――― THE DREAM OF THE BILIOUS BEADLE. ――――:o:―――― So many subscribers have asked for a copy of this clever parody of Thomas Hood’s _Dream of Eugene Aram_ that it is given here, although it somewhat interferes with the arrangement of the Song Parodies. “The Bilious Beadle” is admirably adapted for public recitation. The author, Mr. Arthur Shirley, is a well-known dramatist. T’was in the grimy winter time, an evening cold and damp, And four and twenty work’us boys, all of one ill-fed stamp, Were blowing on blue finger tips, bent double with the cramp; And when the skilly poured out fell into each urchin’s pan They swallowed it at such a pace as only boyhood can. But the Beadle sat remote from all, a bilious-looking man―― His hat was off, red vest apart, to catch the evening breeze―― He thought that that might cool his brow; it only made him sneeze, So pressed his side with his hand, and tried to seem as if at ease. Heave after heave his waistcoat gave, to him was peace denied, It tortured him to see _them_ eat, _he_ couldn’t though he tried! Good fare had made him much too fat, and rather goggle eyed, At length he started to his feet, some hurried steps he took, Now up the ward, now down the ward, with wild dyspeptic look, And lo! he saw a work’us boy, who read a penny book―― “You beastly brat! What is’t you’re at? I warrant ’tis no good! What’s this? ‘The life of Turpin Bold!’ or ‘Death of Robin Hood’?” “It’s _Hessays on the Crumpet_, sir, as a harticle of food!” He started from that boy as tho’ in’s ear he’d blown a trumpet, His hand he pressed upon his chest, then with his fist did thump it, And down he sat beside the brat and talked about the crumpet. “How now and then that muffin men of whom tradition tells, Fortunes had made by pastry trade, and come out awful swells, While their old patrons suffered worse than Irving in ‘The Bells!’ And well, I know,” said he, “forsooth, for plenty have I bought, The sufferings of foolish folk who eat more than they ought.