A crisis! A crisis! The man is a fool Who desires at this moment to talk of Home Rule. Though we know that in Egypt a something is rotten, The intrigues of young ABBAS are straightway forgotten; And we think just as much of the woes of Siam As we care for that coin of small value--a _dam_. For a crisis has come, and the House is unable To detach its attention from questions of table. Their tongues and their brains all the Members exhaust in Discussing the rights of O'BRIEN and AUSTEN. They debate in an access of anger and gloom As to who took from which what was kept, and for whom. The letters they wrote, the retorts they made tartly Are detailed--gracious Powers preserve us--by BARTLEY, Who can bend--only statesmen are formed for such feats-- His mind, which is massive, to questions of seats, And discuss with a zest which is equal to TANNER'S, The absorbing details of a matter of manners. Mr. BARTLEY you like to be heard than to hear Far more, but, forgive me, a word in your ear. Though we greatly rejoice when all records are cut By your steam-hammer mind in thus smashing a nut, Yet we think it were well if the Kitchen could settle In private this question of pot _versus_ kettle. And in future, when dog-like men fight for a bone, Take a hint, Mr. BARTLEY, and leave them alone. * * * * * LATEST FROM THE NATIONAL BOXING SALOON (_with the kind regards of the_ SPEAKER).--"The nose has it, and so have the eyes!" * * * * * [Illustration: SAINT IZAAK AND HIS VOTARIES. _Mr. Punch's Tercentenary Tribute to the Author of "The Compleat Angler."_ [August 9th this year is the 300th anniversary of the birth, in the ancient house at Stafford, of IZAAK WALTON.] ] Good IZAAK of the diction quaint, The calendar holds many a fellow Less worthy to be dubbed a saint (For gentle heart and wisdom mellow) Than thou, the Angler's genial guide By wandering brook and river wide. "I care not, I, to fish in seas," So chirped WILL BASSE, thy favourite singer, "Fresh rivers best my mind do please." Bard-loving quoter, brave back-bringer Of England's pastoral scenes and songs, All England's praise to thee belongs. Thy Book bewitches more than those Who are sworn "Brothers of the Angle." Scents of fresh pastures, wilding rose, All trailing flowers that intertangle In England's hedgerows, seem to fill Its pages and our pulses thrill. We see the stretch "up Totnam Hil," Toward the "Thatcht House" that fresh May morning; We hear VIATOR praise the skill That he was first inclined to scorning; We mark the Master's friendly proffer Change him to votary from scoffer.