Why are you and I such fools As submit to Builders’ rules? You and I, my friend, and all, High and Low, and great and small? One thing Builder understands―― How to play in Plumber’s hands: And for one thing Builder cares To leave openings for “repairs:” So loose, tiles and slates defends, Drains that finish in “dead ends,” Tanks and boilers safe to leak, Chimneys warranted to reek; Doors and windows placed with craft, Still to catch you in a draught; Green-wood panels in the doors, Warping new deal in the floors; Pipes that run just where they shouldn’t, And burst each frost. O, if they wouldn’t! _Punch._ January 28, 1871. ―――― COFFEE HOT. Coffee hot, coffee hot, hot, I cry, Full and fair cups, come and buy; But if so be you axes where I makes it hot? I answer there, Over the fire where hangs my pot, That’s where I make coffee hot. Coffee hot, coffee hot, &c. Coffee hot, coffee hot, hot I cry, Full and fair cups, if you’re dry; Here the milk galore doth flow, Here is butter, bread, also, If you have the ready got, That’s the time for coffee hot. Coffee hot, coffee hot, &c. Coffee hot, coffee hot, hot, I cry, Full and fair cups, come and buy; Here is milk and sugar nice; Come here, I’ll serve you in a trice: If you have the ready got Then’s the time for coffee hot. Coffee hot, coffee hot, &c. JAMES BRUTON. ―――― ROSY WINE. Rosy wine, rosy wine, wine we sip, Sweeter far than woman’s lip; If green-eyed grief assail the soul, Why, drown him in the flowing bowl; ’Twere folly now to grieve or pine, While seated near such rosy wine. Rosy wine, &c. Rosy wine, rosy wine, wine, they cry, Doth beauty’s cheek by far outvie; Thou to the soul art more sincere, Her love is weaker than her tear; Then wreathe my brow with laughing vine While I quaff the rosy wine. Rosy wine, &c. JAMES BRUTON. ―――― HEAVY WET. Heavy wet, heavy wet, still I cry, Full and fair pots when I’m dry, If so be, you ask me where, They are drawn, I answer there, Where our lips their thirst forget, That’s the place for heavy wet! Heavy wet, heavy wet, still I cry, Meux’s, Whitbread’s, nought care I; To the Blue Posts let us go, There we’ll clouds of backey blow; And, while we our cares forget, All the year quaff heavy wet! W. T. MONCRIEFF. ――――