Oh, Company, scourge, tyrant, tease! "Uncertain, coy, and hard to please," (Like woman,) And variable--in supply-- As your excuses (all my eye!). Inhuman, Brutal, and bumptious (corporate) beast! Harsh as the wind when in the east! Were water "Supplied" to Wealth as 'tis to me, Short is the shrift that you would see! Last quarter You "froze me out," you "cut me off," And at my plaintive cries would scoff, (Confuse you all!) Claiming for what I did not have, And treating me like a mere slave, (As usual.) And now, in Summer, just to suit Your interests, you (corporate) brute, You slacken My poor, inadequate supply. Yah! I should like your (corporate) eye To blacken! When care and heat bedew my brow, A ministering _demon_ thou! My fickle Supply, upon a day quite torrid, You slacken to a thread-like, horrid, Slow trickle. I cannot wash, I dare not drink, And fever lurks in pipe and sink. You, scorning My needs, my health, may turn the screw, In mercy, for an hour or two Each morning,-- Or you may _not!_ Or when my throat is Heat-parched you come and--without notice-- Dissever Me from the main for a whole day, As is your little funny way; And never Do I complain, with visage meek, But you administer more cheek, You Tartar! And for redress I've little chance Unless I've stumped up in advance; Your "charter" Always exonerating _you_, Whether for "putting on the screw" Or turning The service off. Oh, Company! There are, ah! thousands like poor me, Who're burning With indignation at the capers You play with laundresses, and drapers, And poor fishmongers. Beware! The public yet, you bet, On you that dire revenge will get For which it hungers!! * * * * * ON THE SENIOR SCULLS. (_By our Water Wagtail._) [The Hon. R. GUINNESS won the Senior Sculls at the Metropolitan Amateur Regatta, beating the redoubtable brothers GUY and VIVIAN NICKALLS, believed to be almost invincible.] The rank is but the "Guinness" stamp, But scullers of the stamp of GUINNESS Are not too common. What a damp To GUY and VIVIAN this win is! The Honourable R. has found How fickle fortune gives hope pickles; But in this last--aquatic--round True Guinness gold has beaten Nickalls. They'll meet, perchance, again, to settle The game--for all are men of mettle. * * * * * THE GLASS HOUSE OF COMMONS.--Some fine "Pairs" already on view. * * * * * [Illustration: AWKWARDLY PUT. _She._ "BY THE WAY, GEORGE, HAVE YOU GOT ANYTHING ON THIS EVENING?" _He._ "NOTHING WHATEVER." _She._ "THEN COME AND DINE WITH US--AND DON'T DRESS!"]