The Briton may traverse the Pole or the Zone, And annex on sea or shore; He calls an immense domain his own, But he means going in for more. Let the wandering stranger seek to know To what charter such “rights” are owed, And a flush will rise to the Briton’s brow As he answers――“You be blowed!” There’s no end of a pull, deny it who can, In the words, “I’m a Jingo-Englishman!” _Punch._ November 9, 1878. ―――― THE CHANCERY COURT. There’s a place that bears a well-known name, Tho’ ’tis but a seedy spot; ’Tis the first in the blazing scroll of shame, And who dare say it is not? Of the big-wigged ones who shine and live On laws, on “Flats” and fees, The choicest the Devil to earth can give In this little spot one sees; For a gem in its way, as we’ve always been taught, Is that grand Institution――a Chancery Court. There’s a thing that’s a terror to every tongue, No matter when or where, And to treat that thing as a mere old song Is more than the richest dare. For the foolish spirits, who seek _that_ Court, To its Vultures once fallen a prey, May struggle in vain to’ escape what they sought―― _They never can get away_. ’Tis a gem in its way, spite of evil repute, No friend sticks so close as a Chancery suit. The Briton may traverse each legal port And pay, yet have something to spare; He may pass the “Insolvent Debtors’ Court,” And merge at the most _nearly_ bare. But if once in a Chancery suit he’s caught, Though the world be all his own, In those hungry clutches, ’twill be as nought, And they’ll fight for his skin and bone. For a gem in its way, spite of evil report, Is the sacred shade of a Chancery Court. From _Grins and Groans_, Social and Political, (London, W. Swan Sonnenschein & Co.) ――――:o:―――― RULE BRITANNIA. ――――