HANBURY, BOWLES, and BARTLEY, Talk and wrangle tartly; Sour as unripe cranberry Are BARTLET, BOWLES, and HANBURY; Three most sorrel souls Are HANBURY, BARTLEY, BOWLES! They the blame would fix On the Liberal Thirty-six. As "tyrants," what are we Compared with that "Tartar Three," Who--but I'll be mum:-- "I hear the Tartar drum!" Loudly thumped, and smartly, By HANBURY, BOWLES, and BARTLEY! * * * * * Cherchez l'Homme. ["The appearance of a Ladies' Eight on the Thames in the Cookham district has attracted considerable attention.... Mr. R. C. LEHMANN has handled the rudder-lines on more than one occasion, and General HAMMERSLEY has also been out as coxswain."--_Daily News._] The Ladies' Eight at Cookham rows right well, There's many a crew of men would not get near them; But is it not a saddening truth to tell? The ladies often take a man to steer them! * * * * * GOLDEN MEMORIES. (_By a (not) Dumb Waiter._) Summers come and Summers go, Sir, As appints the course of Nater: In the winter I'm a grocer, In the Summer I'm a waiter. I'm a waiter at the sea-side; There's the "Grand Hotel" up yonder-- Never hancient Rome or Greece eyed Poet of the Summer fonder. Though I'm quite self-heddycated, Yet I love the Summer golden; Every gent on whom I've waited Feels 'isself to me beholden; As appropriate verse I quote, Sir, I can watch 'em growing gladder: They're aweer 'ow much I dote, Sir, On the golden light and shadder. "_Tipped with gold_" the clouds and copses, "_Tipped with gold_" yon arf-awake ox, "_Tipped with gold_" the sheep and wapses, "_Tipped with gold_" the 'arvest 'aycocks; "_Tipped with gold_" the cows as browses, Ditto waves and fish and sea-things, Ditto shops and dwellin'-'ouses, Ditto our hotel and tea-things. "_Tipped with gold._" It's langwidge splendid, Summing hup the Summer brightly-- Good for Nater, good for men, did Gentlemen but read it rightly. "_TIPPED with gold_" still what I quote is: 'Umble folk should not be proud, Sir,-- Which I 'opes you've marked our notice-- "No gratuities allowed," Sir! * * * * * LINES ON (AND OFF) AN ITALIAN MULE. [Illustration] O dubious hybrid, what your patronymic Or pedigree may be, does not much matter; But if my own attire you mean to mimic, And flaunt the fact that you, too, have a hatter-- Well then, in self-defence I'll pick with you A bone or two. Perchance you have a motive, deep, ulterior, In donning head-gear borrowed from banditti? You wish to show an intellect superior, (And hide a profile which is not too pretty?) Or is it, simply, you prefer to go _Incognito_?