Billy’s missile missed its object, Nellie’s stick descended hard, And the boy from all his pleasures was for three whole weeks debarred; Could he hop-scotch in the alley――in the gutter take his place, With that lattice work of plaster――very dirty――on his face? Little boys should love their sisters――that’s the moral that I meant, Seeing Billy’s nasal feature now, alas! is sadly bent; And he has a secret sorrow, for whene’er his temper glows, Nellie stands with lean arms folded, saying “Billy, how’s your nose?” FRED RAWKINS (HAROLD WYNN.) _The Weekly Dispatch_, 25 June, 1882. Another Parody of “Billy’s Rose” appeared in _The Umpire_ (Manchester) 30 September, 1888. But it does not follow the original very closely, and is rather too coarse to be inserted. ――――:o:―――― “THE TRICYCLE.” _A Parody upon “The Lifeboat,” by G. P. Sims._ Been out on the Tricycle often? Yes, sir, I ride a lot. When it’s hotter than this? Lor’, bless you, this ain’t what we call hot. It’s when the sun is a-shining with a heat like a furnace strong, When the air is close and stifling, and when for a breeze you long, When a drink seems life’s sole object, and parched and dry is the breath, When the leader’s cry, “Spurt! Forward” sounds like a sentence of death. That’s when we call it hot, sir; but if we can manage a day, There is always enough crack riders ready to pedal away. You’ve heard of Tunbridge Wells, sir, down in the valley of Kent? Here are the fellows who rode there――gone is the money we spent. The day that we went was reckoned the hottest this summer has seen, And this was a year when summer was hot as Egypt, I ween. The trip was planned by the others, and two of them volunteered―― I only heard of it after, and then I was well-nigh skeered―― For roasting that day seemed certain, and I thought of the skin on my nose; I thought of the Bank in the City, the books I had to close. We pedalled away in the heat, sir; the “Wells” was the goal in view, And never a one but doubted if the riders could live it through. Our Tricycles stood it bravely, and thirsty and hot and weak, We drew in sight of the hopfields we had dared so much to seek; And then we rested and turned, and homeward again we faced, When one machine collapsed, sir, as down a hill we raced! That was an awful moment, and the stoutest held his breath, And watched the wreck on the road, sir, as if he looked on death. The road was strewn with pieces, and, to tell you the truth, sir, then I thought of the Bank in London I never might see again. I thought of the manager’s look, sir, if vacant my seat were seen On the morrow when I was due there――and all through a friend’s machine!