When the clouded sun is set, And the streets with rain are wet, Then you wing your little flight, Sprinkle, sprinkle, left and right. When the crossings, Sunday clean, Full of well-dressed folks are seen, Men, amid their shrieks and oaths How you sprinkle all their clothes. And when bright my boots are “shined,” And my hands in kids confined, Rattling down the thirsty street How you soak my hands and feet. Some day, when this deed is done, I will draw my trusty gun, Then we’ll wonder where thou art Buckshot sprinkled water-cart. ―――― TO A FALLEN “STAR.” Twinkle! twinkle! _Morning Star!_[33] How I wonder where you are! Not that you were ever high In the journalistic sky. But I wonder has John Bright Ceased to feed you with his light? Have you had your little day? Have you shone your last weak ray? If you have――why then I’m glad, For the light you gave was bad! If you’re snuffed out, _Morning Star_, Why I’m very pleased you are! _Punch and Judy_ (London.) October 23, 1869. ―――― TO THE NEW STAR IN ANDREW MEDIA. Twinkle, twinkle, little star, Up among the nebular; How I wonder all the same, Where you were before you came? You are shining, are you not, When the blazing sun is sot? Tell me truly, is it right, To be on the blaze all night? I do not know who you are, Though your face seems famil-yar; Nameless little globe of fire―― Twinkle, twinkle, little stire. ―――― THE TINKLING TRAM. Tinkle, tinkle, Tramway Car! Well I’m conscious where you are. Down below my study high, Like a demon ever nigh. When the morning opens wet, When in fog the sun hath set, Then you sound to left, to right, Tinkle, tinkle, day and night! When to sleep my eyes incline, Then your bells kicks up its shine; Up the street and down the street, ’Mid the horse-hoofs’ maddening beat. No――detested demon car. I _don’t_ “wonder what you are”; But _too_ well aware am I, Tinkling horror, ever nigh! _Punch’s Almanack_ for 1884. ―――― THE PUBLIC PROSECUTOR. _The Public asks_:―― Twinkle, twinkle, Prosecu_tar_, How we wonder what you are, Up above our heads so high, Conundrum in the legal sky. When a blazing wrong is done. To prosecute you are the one; Out should come your little light, In the clouds of legal night. Then the public, in the dark, Would thank you for your welcome, spark; Justice could not onward go, If you did not twinkle so. But behind a cloud you keep, Only popping out to peep. Legal star, you shut your eye, We, and Hawkins, wonder why. _The P. P. answers_:―― My blessings, friend, are over-estimated; You ask me plainly, why I was created; I’ll tell you straight, and stop your flippant raillery: I was appointed――――