There bight have bid a protest strog ad sterd, But do! they let the Peers, id sileds, score. Sir WILLIAB dever said a siggle word Whed they kicked "Evicted Tedadst" frob their door. It bight have bid a local turdpike Bill, Or Act to regulate the Scorcher's "bike." I bust idsist od "bizdess," ad I _will_, For I cad be _very_ darsty, whed I like! The Irish are begidded to have doubts (Ad REDBUD, he is goid to give be beads). If "Ids" betray by Cudtry, there _are_ "Outs"! Hobe Rule bust dot be shudted, like stale greeds, The Shabrock bust be shaked at those Peers; Or BcCarthyites _bay_ go upod the Strike!-- Ad the Rads he chucked frob Office--yes, for years!-- Oh! I _cad be precious_ darsty--whed I _like!_ * * * * * [Illustration: "TERRIBLE IN HIS ANGER!" _J-st-n McC-rthy (reading extract from German Emperor's Speech)._ "'I CAN BE VERY DISAGREEABLE TOO, WHEN I LIKE.' AH! SO CAN I!"] * * * * * In Nuce. THE pith of LABBY'S caustic elocution Is that long war of words should end in deeds. After the lead of the Leeds Resolution, He wants to feel that Resolution leads! A House of Words but little help affords In a hot contest with a House of Lords. But LABBY, were the issue quite so glorious If--as some fear--the Lords should prove victorious? * * * * * NEW READING FOR THE NEW ART. ONE might conclude from many a spindly shank, Some read _Ars longa est_ as "Art is Lank"! * * * * * THE LUNNON TWANG. I'VE heard a Frenchman wag his tongue Wi' unco din an' rattle, An', 'faith, my vera lugs hae sung Wi' listenin' tae his prattle; But French is no the worst of a' In point o' noise an' clang, man; There's ane that beats it far awa', And that's the Lunnon twang, man. You wadna think, within this land, That folk could talk sae queerly, But, sure as Death, tae understand The callants beats me fairly. An', 'faith, 'tis little gude their schules Can teach them, as ye'll see, man, For--wad ye credit it?--the fules Can scarcely follow _me_, man. An' yet, tae gie the deils their due, (An' little praise they're worth, man,) They seem tae ken, I kenna hoo. That I come frae the Nor-r-rth, man! They maun be clever, for ye ken There's nought tae tell the chiels, man: I'm jist like a' the ither men That hail frae Galashiels, man. But oh! I'm fain tae see again The bonny hills an' heather! Twa days, and ne'er a drap o' rain-- Sic awfu' drouthy weather! But eh! I doubt the Gala boys Will laugh when hame I gang, man, For oo! I'm awfu' feared my voice Has ta'en the Lunnon twang, man! * * * * * Demolition of Doctors' Commons.