DEAR MARY,--"_Rule, Britannyer!_" To that sentiment I'm partial, As there isn't not one like it, not to make a man feel martial, Pattryottic, and all that, dear. But at this serblime conjunction-- Of ryalties and regattas--wy I hutters it with hunction. Rule, _Britannyer!_ As you'll understand I mean the Ryal yot! Hah! Haitch-Har-Haitch--Eving bless him!--knows hexactly wot is wot In the way of yots and racing; wich I'm free to own, my dear, As I _don't_. And moresomever it do make me faint and queer When I think of Hengland's 'Ope aboard that skittish, sloping thing, As looks to my shore-going eyes like a white bird _all wing_. Well, I own I'm not a Wiking; all _I_ want of the blue sea Is a kipper for my breakfust, and a winkle with my tea. But the Guv'nor, _he_'s a topper at the nortickle. Great Scott! 'Ow he _do_ put on the Brayvo 'Icks when once aboard a yot! He's a puffeck pocket Neptune, wich a chubby little chap, Looks perticularly fetchin' in a trotty yotting cap. Then he loves the swells--like I do--and it's sweet to 'ear him tork Of his pal the P. of W. and his chum the DOOK O' YORK. He's just like a locomotive on the everlastin' puff, He enjys hisself like fifty, and he's never 'ad enuff: I _do_ like to 'ear him patter to the cumpany ashore, He keeps his friends a-bustin', and the table in a roar. I on'y wish, dear MARY, I could phonygraff his chat, And kinettyscope his haction; you would roar all round your 'at. The Cowes Week _would_ 'ave been rippin' if it 'adn't bin for rain;-- (As was bad for Ryal Princes, and likeways for Messrs. PAIN). And them tuppenny-apenny "trippers," as did ought to be kep out When hus gentry is a-swarmin', and there's Ryalties about. The Solent should be cordon'd hoff for Hemperors once a year, For a mix o' Margit manners, and Salvationists, and beer, Ain't no welcome for a Kyser, no, nor yet a Shazydar, As demmocrycy is gettin' too permiskus like, by far. A orty OWEN ZOLLERN didn't ought to be mixed hup With Bank 'Olidays and bikes, when _he_'s a runnin' for a Cup. 'Tis his seventh Solent wisit, and things went a trifle rum; And if he took the Himperial 'Ump and nex' year _didn't come_, W'y it wouldn't be serprisink, and hus BULLS, and Cowes, would suffer. Whate'er that HEMPEROR _may_ be, he ain't no idle duffer! The Guv'nor, he hadmires him most tremenjus; so do _hi_. It is suthink a'most touchin' for to see him, smart and spry In his simple yotting costoom, with his snowy cap an' ducks, A-taking it so heasy, though he'd none the best of lucks. And his hironclads!!! Great Gumbo--as the Guv'nor loves to say-- They do not spare the powder, and if this is but their play, _I_ don't want to see'em _workin'_. The young HEMPEROR whisked about-- With our Guv'nor on his track, too, don't you make no sort of doubt-- His hork-heye--the Guv's--wos heverywhere. He watchin' each puff an' pop.