["The House of Lords, for some reason, always assumes special care of Ireland, a fact which may account for a few of the curiosities of Irish political and domestic economy."--_Mr. Punch's Essence of Parliament, June 3, 1861._] AIR--"_Widow Machree."_ Wilful Markee, it's loike thunder ye frown, _Ochone! Wilful Markee!_ Faith ye'd plase yer proud Parthy by kicking _me_ down, _Ochone! Wilful Markee!_ How haughty your air, As you kick me down-stair! Faix, I wondher ye dare In this oisle of the free! Och, ye autocrat churl, Me poor head's in a whirl. _Ochone! Wilful Markee!_ Wilful Markee, Oireland's chance is now come, _Ochone! Wilful Markee!_ Whin everything smoiles must the Tories look glum? _Ochone! Wilful Markee!_ Sure the Commons, wid prayers, Have sint me upstairs; Who is it that dares Wid me form disagree? _Don't_ haughtily pish At ould Oireland's last wish! _Ochone! Wilful Markee!_ Wilful Markee, whin a Bill enters in. _Ochone! Wilful Markee!_ To be kicking it out in this stoyle is a sin. _Ochone! Wilful Markee!_ Surely hammer and tongs To bad ould days belongs; Far betther sing songs Full of family glee. Oireland's bad bitter cup Do not harshly fill up, _Ochone! Wilful Markee!_ And do ye not know wid yer bearing so bould,-- _Ochone! Wilful Markee!_ How ye're kaping the poor tinants out in the could? _Ochone! Wilful Markee!_ Wid such sins on your head, Sure your peace will be fled; Could you slape in your bed Widout thinking to see My ghost or my sprite That will wake ye each night Groaning _Ochone! Wilful Markee!_ Then take my advice haughty Wilful Markee, _Ochone! Wilful Markee!_ And loike "Compensation Bill" do not trate _me_! _Ochone! Wilful Markee!_ Of stroife we all tire, Then why stir the ould fire? Sure hope is no liar In whisperin' to me, Hate's ould ghost will depart When you win Oireland's heart! _Ochone! Wilful Markee!_ * * * * * [Illustration: "PUTTING HIS FOOT IN IT."] * * * * * [Illustration: STROLL IN THE ZOO. SUNDAY AFTERNOON.] * * * * * THE MESSAGE FROM MARS. (_Per favour of Mr. Punch._) _Mr. Punch._ So you've not been signalling to Mother Earth, after all, my noble Warrior? _Mars (with a wink)._ What do _you_ think? Why should I dig canals 100 miles wide, and 2,000 miles long, or build bonfires as big as Scotland, when I can always communicate what I may have to say through you? Because Mars looks spotty or misty, Some dreamers, with intellects twisty, Imagine, old horse, Mars is playing at Morse! All bosh! You ask DYSON or CHRISTIE. _Mr. Punch._ Mr. MAUNDER "has you under his special charge," hasn't he?