Still drowsing! Oh, drat it! Young PRIMROSE is at it Without half your power of bellows. And cynics are hinting that, while he is sprinting, You're lazy--because you feel jealous. Of course, that's all footle. Still, your rootle-tootle Is wanted our courage to toughen. 'Twas never your habit, like artful Brer Rabbit, Of old to "lie low and say nuffin'!" Your horn, like great ROLAND'S, through high lands and low lands, From Lincoln to Scotland, should blare up. We need its loud rallies, or _our_ Roncesvallês Will come,--when there _will_ be a flare-up! 'Tis surely not rifted? When ROLAND uplifted His Olifant, everyone heard it For thirty miles round. So your sheep-horn should sound, And too long, my Boy Blue, you've deferred it. Their noses foes may cock, whilst under that haycock At Malwood at ease you're reclining. Poor PRIMROSE, our shepherd, is getting will peppered, The flock for your rally are pining. You are only Boy Blue, not the shepherd? That's true; Still, horn-blowing boys have their duty. Wake up, and wake _now_, Sir, and give us a rouser. Your best blast, we know, is a beauty! Our fold's getting thinnish, our flocks fast diminish, Our milch-cows are sickening or straying. Up! back up the _pastor_, or there'll be disaster. The enemy's sheep-horns are braying; _They_'re "calling the cattle home." Rouse, with a rattle-home! Asleep? Well, perhaps you're "purtending"! But though one may easily play up _too_ weaselly, Sheep _do_ demand watchful tending. * * * * * TO A LADY. (_Born so late in the Year, that she nearly missed having a Birthday altogether._) Accept, dear girl, the season's compliments For Christmas and the twenty-ninth December, Your birthday--most auspicious of events-- Is also Mr. GLADSTONE'S, you remember. Yours _was_ a close shave, but I'm bound to say That February the twenty-ninth far worse is, And worst of all, to come on All Fools' Day, Like BISMARCK--or the writer of these verses! *** THE REAL SCHOOL-BOARD.--Its Pupils. [Illustration: "LYING LOW." "LITTLE BOY BLUE, COME BLOW UP YOUR HORN THE SHEEP'S IN THE MEADOW, THE COW'S IN THE CORN. WHERE IS THE BOY WHO LOOKS AFTER THE SHEEP? HE'S UNDER THE HAYCOCK, _FAST ASLEEP (?)_"] [Illustration: THE GENIAL SEASON. _Hungry-looking Acquaintance_ (_with eye to invitation_). "SO GLAD TO SEE YOU ENJOYING YOURSELF!" _Fat Chap_ (_evidently doing well_). "WRONG AGAIN, OLD MAN. I'M ENJOYING MY DINNER!"] *** "THREE CHEERS FOR THE EMPEROR." (_Recommended for translation and use in the German Reichstag._) For he's a jolly good fellow, And so say all of us. But "hochs" at _all_ seasons to bellow Is sycophant folly and fuss. With a hip, hip, hip hooray, For that capital fellow, our Kaiser! If he'll let our cheers come in spontaneous way As loyal _we_'ll be, and _he_ wiser.