And you poor thralls of the pit, remember that you and yours Are not sole sufferers now from this fratricidal strife. Yes, a starving garrison--_fights_; sharp ills demand sharp cures; But when in your stubborn wrath you swear it is "war to the knife," Remember that knife's at the throat of others than those who'd gain By a victory for you in this fiercest of labour fights. And these, too, who _must_ lose, yet have--shall they not maintain?-- _Their_ rights! * * * * * [Illustration: "AND _SHE_ OUGHT TO KNOW!" "THAT'S SUPPOSED TO BE A PORTOGRAPH OF LADY SOLSBURY. BUT, BLESS YER, IT AIN'T LIKE HER A BIT IN PRIVATE!"] * * * * * RIPPIN'. (_A Song of the Modern Masher_.) Oh! other centuries have had their blades, their bucks, their dandies, Who had redeeming qualities, but what no man can stand is The up-to-date variety, that miserable nonny, The self-conceited jackanapes who calls himself a "Johnny." He hasn't got the brawn or brains to go in for excesses, His faults are feeble--like himself,--he dawdles, dines, and dresses, His words, his hair, his silly speech to sheer negation clippin', And when he wants to praise a thing, his only word is "Rippin'." _Chorus_. Oh! he's rippin', rippin'! A tailor's block set skippin', He's all bad debts and cigarettes and bets and kümmel-nippin', His head's without a grain of sense, his hand he's got no grip in, He drags his walk and tags his talk with "Rippin', rippin', rippin'"! His faultless dress is the result of unremitting study, He's quite the perfect "Johnny," never messed and never muddy, His coat is always baggy and his hat is always shiny, His boots are always varnished to their pointed toes so tiny. His shirts, his ties, his walking-sticks are marvels to remember, And with the seasons change from January to December. He always wears a "buttonhole," and in a huge carnation Of hideous hue 'twixt green and blue finds special delectation. He has a language of his own which he elects to talk in; He cuts his final g's and speaks of shootin', huntin', walkin'; With slipshod phrase and hybrid slang his speeches fairly bristle, And vulgarisms "smart" he loves as donkeys love a thistle. He'll lay "a hun_derd_ poun_d_," or say "he ain't," quite uncompunctive; He systematically spurns the use of the subjunctive. He knows "how the best people talk," and quite ignores the clamour Of any "dash'd low nonsense," such as euphony and grammar.