The way was long and dreary, But jauntily they strode, Bill Sikes and Jim the Leary Along the frosty road. The night was nice and dusky, The sky was dark and grey; And Bill, in accents husky, Opined they’d fix the lay! “O gleaming lamps of London! I’d like douse your glim, What “crackings” lie within you when you are faint and dim!” The hours passed on and found them A-burgling of a “shop” And scattered all around them, They’d got a golden crop. And from the office window, That lonely moonless night The “swag” they dropped, and grinn’d O! It was a lovely sight! “O sleepy slops of London, who crawl about the town, I think you must be jolly green, for we have done you brown.” With faces black with sorrow―― With words we dare not speak, Upon the fateful morrow, They stood before the beak. The “slops” had watched their capers, And soon their way had barred, And, according to the papers, They each got six months hard! “Oh cruel lights of London, why do you shine so gay? A-showing up poor burgulars, to steal their peace away.” S. J. ADAIR FITZ-GERALD. ―――― THE LIGHTS O’ ASCOT HEATH. The way was long and dusty, But joyfully they drove, A London lad and lassie, Along the Ascot road; The day was hot and muggy, But blithe of heart were they, For shining in his pocket Some twenty dollars lay. Oh! gleaming heath of Ascot, That gem of racing sights, What fortunes you could tell of; What sad and sorry flights. With faces torn and beery, That told a loser’s load, That day a man and woman Crept up the London road: They sought their native alley, “Regular broke” from the fray, Yet shining still behind them The heath of Ascot lay. Oh! cruel heath of Ascot, If D’s your race could win, Your victims’ mouths would yell them, To get their favourite in. _The Sporting Times._ June 20, 1885. ――――:o:―――― THE BALLAD MONGER. It was a ballad monger, Of the gruesome, morbid type, And he told of cold and hunger, “Little alls” sent “up the pipe.” And he piled on high the agony, As with sobs we gasped for breath, When he sang us――_à la_ Dagonet, Of murder, want, and death. Doth a child convert a burglar, Or that burglar kill that child, Then this sentimental gurgler, “Airs his slush”――to put it mild. He will tell you how it’s mother―― Yes, the child’s of course not Sykes’―― Was a relative of t’other, By a natural son of “Mike’s!”