_Or, Some Words about CARTER_. Not always for the noblest martyr, My countrymen, ye forge The crown of gold nor wreathe the laurel; One protestant ye count as moral, Neglect another. Take the quarrel Extant between myself and CARTER (Henchman of D. LLOYD GEORGE). I see the Unionists grow oranger, I mark the wigs upon the green, The rooted hairs of Ulster bristle And all men talk of CARSON'S gristle, Then why should this absurd epistle, Put down beside my little porringer, Provoke not England's spleen? Did HAMPDEN positively jeopardise His life, and did the axe Extinguish CHARLES'S hopes of boodle And all the wrongs of bad days feudal For this--that CARTER, the old noodle, With t's all crossed and dot-bepeppered i's, Should change my income-tax? Thank heaven that one heart in Albion Retains its oaken core; Alone I can withstand my duty, And so my answer to this beauty Is simply "Rats!" and "Rooti-tooti! My toll for this year _must_ and _shall_ be on The sums declared before." If not--if all things go by jobbery And tape dyed red with sin, Come, let him make a small collusion And, when he writes his next effusion, Grant me, we'll say, six years' exclusion From re-assessments of his robbery. And then--I _may_ come in. But, if the fiend still stays importunate, My blood is up. _Ad lib._, Till at the door the bailiff rattles And rude men reave me of my chattels, I shall prolong these wordy battles, And may the just cause prove the fortunate; Phoebus defend my nib! So long as gray goose yields a pinion, So long as ink is damp, Mine to resist the loathly fetters Of D. LLOYD GEORGE and his abettors, Posting innumerable letters To CARTER (D. LLOYD GEORGE'S minion), Minus the penny stamp. EVOE. * * * * * From _The Birmingham Daily Mail's_ report of a fire:-- "The night-watchman was aroused." A shame to disturb the poor fellow's sleep. * * * * * [Illustration: _Squire._ "WELL, MATTHEW, AND HOW ARE YOU NOW?" _Convalescent._ "THANKEE, SIR, I BE BETTER THAN I WERE, BUT I BEANT AS WELL AS I WERE AFORE I WAS AS BAD AS I BE NOW."] * * * * * ASKING FOR IT. The big clock in the station pointed three minutes to the hour, and my train went at one minute past, so I didn't waste words with the man in the booking-office. "Third r'turn, Wat'loo." Nothing happened. He was there all right, but he neither spoke nor made any attempt to give me my ticket; he merely looked. "Third r'turn, Wat'loo," I repeated, and again, inserting my face as far as possible into the window, very firmly, distinctly and offensively. "Third re-turn, Wat-er-loo."