"_Lock! Lock! Lock!_" Faint cry, far before us! Lot of toffs my efforts mock; Menace us in chorus. Swear they'll swamp us at the weir. Fate there's no controlling, But the Grand Old River Hand Puts his faith in pol(l)ing! Sit tight, my dear, and as we drop down with the tide towards the next lock, I'll sing you a new river-song to an old air. [_Sings._ And did you ne'er hear of a jolly old punting man, Who near Westminster his calling doth ply? He handles his pole with such skill and dexterity, Winning each "No" and enchanting each "Aye." He looks so neat, he steers so steadily, The ladies all flock to his punt so readily; And he's so celebrated for courage and care, That he's seldom in want of a freight or a fare. But o'er his last passenger rivals made merry. She _did_ look so feeble, and frightened withal: "A fair sample this of your fine Irish ladies! In a Party like yours won't she kick up a squall?" Thus oft they'd be chaffing, and shouting and jeering, But 'twas all one to WILLY; he stuck to his steering; For hissing or hooting he little did care, He handled his pole, and looked after his fare. And ah! just to think now how strangely things happen! He poled along, caring for no one at all; By a crush in the lock, foes his fare meant alarming, And hoped in deep water she fainting might fall. But he bade the young damsel to banish all sorrow, "If they block us to-day, dear, we'll get through to-morrow." And now the old Puntsman is through! But they swear They'll yet flummox the future of him and his fare! * * * * * GOOD GRACIOUS!--Mrs. R. went to Lord's the other day, to see Doctor GRACE play. She says, "Until then I had no idea he was a man of such splendid _physic_." * * * * * SYMPATHY. _A Colloquy after the Eton and Harrow Cricket Match._ _Old Buffer to Small Boy, solicitously_:-- Why are you hoarse, my little lad, So husky and so hoarse? Your voice is almost gone! 'Tis sad! You'll seek advice, of course? Diphtheria is much about! And--well you know, there's cancer!!! Dear me, you're choking now! Don't shout, But write me down an answer. _Small Boy to Old Buffer, spasmodically_:-- Cancer--be blowed!--_Cricket_--of course! Harrow--for years--has beaten; And--I've been howling till I'm hoarse To see 'em--licked by Eton!!! Hooray!!! * * * * * THE MOAN OF THE MINOR POET. This (says Mr. JAMES PAYN) is what TOM HOOD wrote about the treatment meted out to the Minor Poet in his time:-- "What is a Modern Poet's fate? To write his thoughts upon a slate-- The critic spits on what is done, Gives it a wipe--and all is gone." And this (says _Mr. Punch_) is the Minor Poet's reply to-day:--