FOUND WANTING. Appoint a Poet Laureate, some prate, But that's impossible, and wise men know it, Because, 'midst many a would-be Laureate, We cannot find a--Poet! Well, there is _one_; but him both Whig and Tory hate; Whence he, although a Poet, is not Laureate! And, after all, JOHN BULL is little loth To wait, until he finds one who is both. For, after TENNYSON, the choice, we see, Doth lie 'twixt--Tweedledum and Tweedledee! Because they are not good enough who crave it, Whilst one or two more worthy will not have it. * * * * * ADDITION TO MAGISTRATE'S DECISION.--Professor to be henceforth entitled "_Il Ré Galantuomo_." Who? RAY! Hooray! * * * * * SCRAPS FROM CHAPS.--A SPIRIT LICENCE.--At the Limerick Quarter Sessions, a landlord at Loughgur sought a new licence for his inn. The applicant stated that he intended to keep a boat there for the convenience of tourists. _His Honour_--What are the features of antiquity there? _The Applicant_--there are old castles and ruins. _Mr. Lowndes_--And the White Knight of Desmond crosses the lake once every five or ten years. _His Honour_--And he is only seen by your patrols. (_Laughter._) If this licence were granted, I suppose the White Knight would cross the lake every night! (_Laughter._) Of course he would! A phantom in a boat, if properly advertised, would probably "draw" the Saxon tourist in his hundreds. Here is a chance for the Psychical Research Society. * * * * * WOODMAN, SPARE _NOT_ THAT TREE! (_Song of the Suburban tree-slaughtering savage, whose axe and saw and cord are rapidly making umbrageous neighbourhoods hideous._) Woodman, spare not that tree! Leave not a single bough! In youth it sheltered me, So I'll destroy it now. Tall trees infest the land, Rurality is rot! Nought but a stump shall stand On this once shady spot. An old umbrageous tree Makes suburb less like town; It spreads too far for me, Up, axe, and hew it down! Woodman, ply stroke on stroke, Till prone on earth it lies; (Oh! isn't it a joke?) Once towering to the skies! Woodman, and woodman's boy, Bring axe, and saw, and spade, Hack, lop and top, with joy; Destruction is your trade! It grew for many a year; It's growth, fools say, is grand. Eh? Spare its charms? No fear! No bough of it shall stand! When comes again the spring No leafage forth 'twill send; No bird thereon shall sing, No breeze its branches bend. Old tree, no more thou'lt wave O'er this suburban spot! If _I_ my will might have, The axe should fell the lot! * * * * *