Here's to the felon whose crimes are a score, And here's to the wretch with but one, Sirs; Fraudulent trustees, directors galore, And the various things that they've done, Sirs. Here's to the costs which will mount up apace, When the action comes on for a hearing, "Retainers," "refreshers," and all of their race, Which they lavish on us for appearing. Here's to the Law, with its hand just and strong, Which has grown from the earliest ages; And here's to this lay, which we hope's not too long For _Punch_ to put into his pages. * * * * * NEW VERSION OF AN OLD SAYING (_adapted for exclusive swells who cannot enjoy even a Sport when it becomes "so common, don't-cha!"_).--What is Everybody's pleasure is Nobody's pleasure! * * * * * TO A SWISS BAROMETER. Oh, optimistic instrument, No other ever seeks To raise one's hopes--benevolent You always show _Beau fixe_! Though meteorologic swells Predict wet days for weeks, Your well-intentioned pointer tells Of nothing but _Beau fixe_. How sweet, when in the dewy morn-- So dewy!--up the peaks We start through drizzle all forlorn, To read again _Beau fixe_. It makes us think of sunny lands, Where weather has no freaks, To see, they're always so, your hands Both point to that _Beau fixe_. And though we're sodden to the skin, Through coat and vest and breeks, You did not mean to take us in In spite of your _Beau fixe_. We tramp, expecting soon to see In that grey sky some streaks; Ah no, it's fixed as fixed can be, As fixed as your _Beau fixe_. No matter, we get used to rain, And mop our streaming cheeks, Quite sure, when we get home again, You cannot say _Beau fixe_. At last, all soaked, we stagger in-- One's clothing simply leaks-- And still you say, through thick and thin, Unchangeably _Beau fixe_. We change, although you don't; no thread Is dry on us; small creeks Form where we stand, all drenched from head To foot. Blow your _Beau fixe_! This beastly weather might have riled The philosophic Greeks; It makes us simple Britons wild, Combined with your _Beau fixe_. We tell the landlord we must go-- Poor man, he rather piques Himself upon the weather, so Incessantly _Beau fixe_. "_Ah, non, ca va changer ce soir!_" Thus hopefully he speaks, "_Si Monsieur voulait bien voir Le barometre--Beau fixe!_" * * * * * [Illustration: AN AUTHORITY ON THE THEORY AND PRACTICE OF THE "BUFFER STATE"!!] * * * * * Adapted. (_To the Unionist Needs of the Moment._) Other men have many faults, Mr. GLADSTONE has but two; There's nothing wise that he can say, and nothing right that he can do. * * * * *