We’ll learn how the last Census closes And the art of counting noses; And taste the pleasures, sweetly solemn, Of abstract brief, and lengthy column. We’ll tot the figures fair and full Relating to the price of wool, The annual range of heat and cold, The death-rate, and the price of gold. Per-centages shall stir our blood Analyses as clear as mud. Oh, if these pleasures may thee move, Come live with me, and be my love. The marriage rate, the price of meat, Shall yield us raptures calm and sweet; And analytic “Tables” be Prepared each day to give us glee. Economists our praise shall sing, The Statesman’s eloquence we’ll wing If these delights thy mind may move, Then live with me, and be my love. _Punch._ March 21, 1885. ―――― THE RINKER’S SONG. Come, rink with me, and be my love! And we will all the pleasures prove, That better far than hills or fields The slippery floor of asphalte yields. Of skates with rubber ties a pair, Thee o’er the asphalte safely bear; And if these pleasures may thee move, Come, rink with me, and be my love! THE RINKMAID’S ANSWER. If all the world and love were young, And truth on every rinker’s tongue, These asphalte pleasures might me move To rink with thee and be thy love. Talk to me not of flowers and posies; Suppose we fall and break our noses? Thou’lt not prevail on me at all; In truth, it is no joke to fall! _Judy._ April 12, 1876. ――――:o:―――― “WON’T YOU TELL ME WHY, ROBIN?” ―――― The late Mr. Whalley, formerly M.P. for Peterborough, was a firm believer in the truth of the claim of Arthur Orton to the Tichborne title and estates. He, and Dr. Edward Vaughan Kenealy, were the most devoted adherents to the cause of “the unfortunate nobleman.” When Mr. Whalley rose in the House of Commons, he was generally greeted with the cry,――“Sing, Whalley, Sing!” _Several Scoffers._ Sing, sir! sing! _Mr. W_. Well, if you like, I have a little thing: It’s somewhat sad in tone and very terse, My own sad feelings put in ballad verse. _Song_: Mr. WHALLEY. _Tune_: “_Won’t you tell me why, Robin?_” Oh, won’t you tell me why, doctor, You are so stern and strange? Come, ope your heart and tell, doctor, What ’tis has made you change! You never come to see me now, As once you used to do; I miss you at the Tichborne fetes, Where once I went with you. _Chorus_. Won’t you tell me why, doctor, Won’t you tell me why; Won’t you tell me why, doctor, Oh, won’t you tell me why?