Oh! a dreary print is _The Daily News_, And its life is a wonder to all. It puts in advertisements others refuse, But sooner or later must fall. Its leaders are heavy, confused its page, And dismal its general tone. In club, or in coffee-house, nothing but rage Is, when it is offered, shown. Sent for nothing to all who choose, A losing game is _The Daily News_. Oh! _The Daily News_ began with a bang, And was going to shut up _The Times_. And twaddled that murderers never should hang, And printed “large sympathy” rhymes. But still the old gallows its reign enjoyed: And still did “The People” refuse, To trust to the rhymes that their friends deployed, In the sheets of _The Daily News_. What large sums they have learnt to lose, Who first embarked in _The Daily News_. Oh! _The Daily News_ never publishes “wants” Of footmen, or nurses, or cooks. Nor many announcements of ships or of sales, But only the Whitefriars books; Which pretty well shows what everyone knows, By no one it ever is seen, And soon shall we, when it ceases to be, Forget that it ever has been. Let it abuse or praise if it choose, There’s nobody minds _The Daily News_. _The Man in the Moon._ Vol. III. 1848. ―――― GREEN PEA SOUP. Oh! a splendid soup is the true Pea Green, I for it often call; And up it comes in a smart tureen, When I dine in my banquet hall. When a leg of mutton at home is boiled, The liquor I always keep, And in that liquor (before ’tis spoil’d) A peck of peas I steep. When boil’d till tender they have been, I rub through a sieve the peas so green. Though the trouble the indolent may shock, I rub with all my power; And having returned them to the stock, I stew them for more than an hour; Then of younger peas I take some more, The mixture to improve, Thrown in a little time before, The soup from the fire I move, Then seldom a better soup is seen, Than the old familiar Soup Pea Green. Since first I began my household career, How many my dishes have been! But the one that digestion never need fear, Is the simple old soup Pea Green. The giblet may tire, the gravy pall, And the turtle lose its charm; But the Green Pea triumphs over them all, And does not the slightest harm. Smoking hot in a smart tureen, A rare old soup is the true Pea Green! _Punch._ 1852. ―――― “OFFICIAL ROUTINE.” (_A New Song to an old Tune, as sung in the War Office._)