Drat 'em, what _do_ they want to do? Their "demmycratic polity" Means nothink more nor less than sheer upsetting of the Quality! They'd treat the Hupper Ten like srimps, pull off their 'eds and swoller 'em; And when they raves agin our perks, they only longs to collar 'em. Down with all priwilege indeed? Wy, priwilege is the honly thing As keeps hus from the wildernedge. I'm but a poor, old, lonely thing, But if they mends or ends the Lords--wich 'evvin forbid they ever do!-- They'll take _my_ livelyhood away! No, drat it, that will never do! A world without no priwilege, no pickings, and no perks in it, Wy--'twould be like Big Ben up there if it 'ad got no works in it. These demmycratic levellers is the butchers of Society, They'd take its tops and innards off and hout. _I_ loves wariety. Them Commons is a common lot, as like all round as winkleses, But Marquiges--lord bless 'em!--they is like bright stars as twinkleses And makes the sky _respectable_; and its a old, old story As stars--and likeways garters--_must_ 'ave differences in glory. Wy, even street lamps wary, and I says the harrystocracy Is like to 'eavenly 'lectric lights outshining the democracy As the Clock-tower's 'fulgence do the flare at some fried-fish shop, Mum. Oh, there's a somethink soothing in a Dook, or Earl, or Bishop, Mum, As makes yer mere M.P.'s sing small, as may be taller-chandlerses. Its henvy, Mum, that's wot it is, they've got the yaller janderses Along o' bilious jealousy; though wy young ROGEBERRY ever did Allow hisself to herd with them--well, drat it, there, I _never_ did!-- As long as I can twirl a mop or sluice a floor or ceiling for The blessed Peers, I'll 'old with 'em, as I've a feller feeling for. Birds of a feather flock--well, well! I 'ope I knows my place, I do; Likeways that I shall _keep_ it. Wich I think it a 'ard case, I do, This downing on Old Women! 'Owsomever, Mister MORLEY is A long ways from his hobject yet. The House o' Lords, Mum, surely is Most different from Jericho, it will not fall with shouting, Mum, Nor yet no platform trumpets will not down it, there's no doubting, Mum. Their tongues and loud Rad ram's-horns do their level best to win it, Mum. But--they ain't got rid of Hus--not yet,--nor _won't_ direckly-minute, Mum! * * * * * FROM THE BIRMINGHAM FESTIVAL.--An eminent musician sends us this note:--Nothing Brummagem about the Birmingham Festival. Dr. PARRY'S oratorio, _King Saul_, a big success. Of course this subject has been Handel'd before; but the composer of _King Saul_, _Junior_, (so to be termed for sake of distinction, and distinction it has certainly attained,) need fear no com-parry-songs. Perhaps another title might be, "_Le Roi Saul à la mode de Parry_." (_Private, to Ed._--Shall be much pleased if you'll admit this as a Parry-graph.)