However, I thought I’d risk it; I couldn’t desert a friend, So we set to work with a will, sir, the broken wheel to mend, And after some skilful hammering our joy can well be guessed When we saw the wheel go round again, though shaky at the best. Well, we stopped at a neighbouring “public”――of the rest I know no more; But I spent next day at the Bank, sir, with limbs both tired and sore, And as I sat calm and quiet my memory clouded grew As I thought of that awful journey, that ride I had just gone through. _Cassell’s Saturday Journal._ May 1, 1886. ――――:o:―――― THE TERROR OF TADGER’S RENTS. _A “Dagonet Ballad” Gone Wrong._ Ain’t heard of Tadger’s Rents? My eye! where was you bred and born? Such ignorance it do excite a feller-creature’s scorn. The Rents is down the Dials way――a proper kind o’ lair, Where happy dossers come each night, and doss upon the stair. I’ve done it many times and oft;――but never mind ’bout me, It’s of Bill Basher I would jaw this arternoon, d’ye see? The “Terror o’ the Rents” he was, and well deserved the name, And yet, I hold, his heart was soft and tender all the same. He couldn’t bear no cant, poor Bill, and humbug driv him wild, They made a savage of a chap as was by nature mild; And so it came to pass as he would always have his knife Into a cove as paid his way and lived a decent life. Joe Tomkins, he was one o’ these――a mean and sneaking cuss, Who for no sort o’ boose that’s brewed had ever been the wuss. “Let’s have a wet,” said Bill one day. Said Joseph, “Not for Joe!” No wonder Bill was riled at that――he would be, don’t you know. So later on, when he’d got screwed, he made for Joseph’s room, As sat at tea, all unprepared to meet his orful doom. Bill landed him upon the nose a wunner, so he did, And then perceeded for to kick Joe’s missis and his kid. He jumped upon the three of them, and then he come away―― You can’t see where his heart was soft, I think I heard you say. Hold on; don’t take a feller up so precious sharp as that―― _Bill came away and didn’t hurt the Tomkins’ tabby cat_. I see that animile last week, a-looking sleek and well, But Bill he’s picking of his hemp inside a prison cell. A martyr’s crown? I guess you’re right, for his deserts is plain, As does his best, when on the bust, to study the humane. _Funny Folks’ Annual._ ――――:o:―――― ANOTHER “BAGONET” BALLAD. _Told by the One-armed Man._ What? A “queer place” to look for a hero? A Seven Dials pothouse? No fear! I’ll find heroes, I’ll bet, just as good as you’ll get, Though perhaps they _may_ owe to their beer A grain――just a grain――of the courage That stamps them the bulldogs of war. “But, lor, where’s the hurt in a pint or a quart? And, blow you! whoever you are――