Wich, ARTHUR, I'm puffeck aweer as a fighter you're truly tip-top, Our party's pecooliar pride, and our cause's particular prop! _You_ can "pop in a slommacking wunner," if ever a lad could, dear boy: But--well, there, you ain't scored _this_ round; and yer foes is a-chortling with joy! 'Ow is it, my ARTHUR, 'ow is it! I've nurriged you up from a kid, And if ever a lathy young scrapper showed pluck and fair promidge, boy, _you_ did; Wich I've cheridged and cracked you up constant, and backed you in all of your fights. And I've swore it was you, right as rain, as would do the Grand Ould 'Un to rights! But he's turned up more younger than ever--O drabbit him; 'ow he do wear!-- I thought he'd be knocked out at once, the fust round, and he ain't turned a hair! He hits hard and fast as the "TINMAN," he's nimble as poor "Young DUCROW." And now this round's over, _where are we_? I'm jiggered, dear boy, if _I_ know! Look at 'im! As perky as pickles! Weaves in like a young 'un, he do, Jest as limber of limb as a kitten; pops in that perdigious one--two, Like a new Eighty-tonner. Good gracious, the wetterun's all over the shop! He can mill you, or throw you a burster; feint, parry, duck, counter, or stop! Reglar mixture of MACE, Young DUTCH SAM, and a Old Pugilistical 'And! 'Ow the dooce does he do it, I wonder? I don't mind admitting it's grand. But--wot price our Party, my ARTHUR? He's scoring two points to our one; And I don't see the fun of it, ARTHUR, I certinly _don't_ see the fun.