Alas! The Busy "B" is dead, No more we'll hear him buzz a-wing, Nor picture with a smiling dread The pungent terrors of his sting. As Io's gadfly was this "B" To Sentiment and to Pretence. Oh, Property! Ah, Liberty! Fallen in your supreme defence! Gone is the friend that in a phrase The "Common Sense" of things could settle, That with a stroke could slay a craze, And folly lash with flail of nettle. Who now will thunder in the _Times_ Against the Socialistic Rad's tone? Who'll flout the cant and check the crimes Of him, the all-surviving GLADSTONE? * * * * * Military Tournament at Islington successful as ever. All the glory of war, as Mr. JORROCKS observed in his lecture, with one-half per cent. of its danger. Under command of Major TULLY. For seats, apply per Tully-phone. * * * * * [Illustration: UNDER WHICH THIMBLE?] * * * * * ON MY LADY'S POODLE. [Illustration] I wonder what on earth it is That makes me think my lady's poodle (Her minion smug of solemn phiz,) The pink and pattern of a noodle: Its eyes are deep; their look, serene; Its lips are sensitive and smiling; But oh! the gross effect, I ween, Is, passing measure, dull and riling. It is not that its locks are crisp; Your humble servant's hair is crisper, It is not that its accents lisp; I, too, affect a stammered whisper: Nor that a gorgeous bow it wears And struts with particoloured bib on; I like these macaronic airs; I'm very fond of rainbow ribbon. Nor can it be--of this I'm sure-- Because she pampers all its wishes And tempts her peevish epicure With dainty meats in dainty dishes. To tell the truth, while _I'm_ her guest, _My_ little wants and whims she studies; If "Beau"'s a rival, I protest No jealous tincture in my blood is. I wonder, wonder, at a loss To justify such wayward snarling-- It makes her very, _very_ cross My poor opinion of her darling; The cause (should pride the cause withhold, She bodes and I deserve a scrimmage,) The cause is this--she calls, I'm told, The little brute my "_Living image!_" * * * * * LADY GAY'S SELECTIONS. DEAR MR. PUNCH,--My dear friend, Lady HARRIET ENTOUCAS, said to me, the other day at Kempton, when I told her to have a sovereign on _Conifer_:--"My dear Lady GAY, your tips are so marvellous that I really wonder you don't write to the papers!" Being struck with the idea, my thoughts naturally flew to you--not only as the most gallant Editor of my acquaintance, but also as probably the only one hitherto unrepresented with a regular Turf Correspondent.