How loath we are by nature to intrude In things outside our own concern Is witnessed by the European feud In which we lately took a turn; Ere WILSON'S mind was fixed to see you through it, For years he wondered if he ought to do it. And, when for Ireland's good we intervene In matters patently remote, You must not count our loyalty less keen-- We simply want the Irish vote; 'Tis an election stunt, this lion-baiting, Designed for local Kelts who need placating. So, when our Yankee delegates rehearse Their tale of Erin's bitter woe, Of crimes, almost too bad to quote in Erse, Committed by the Saxon foe, Please understand why our apparent bias is In favour of these nimble Ananiases. And also why, for Ireland's dear, dear sake (Meaning of course "Ourselves Alone"), A lot of us would gladly let her take Our WILSON for her very own, To worship, like a god inside a tin fane, As WOODROW ONE, First President of Sinn Fein. O. S. * * * * * GOING TO THE BANK. She thought she had got a bargain. It was only marked "20/-," and would have been double the price at any of the West-end places. So she whipped out her Japanese note-case, paid for it, and carried it off like a whirlwind lest the shopman should find he had made a mistake. But it was she who had made a mistake, and she broke the news to me at breakfast on the following morning. Two of her one-pound notes (or, to be exact, _my_ one pound notes) must have stuck together. She had paid the West-end price after all. Then, instead of blaming her own carelessness, as I should have done, what must she do but attack Mr. LLOYD GEORGE? "It's all his fault, this horrid dirty paper-money... Spreading infection wherever it goes!" It devolved upon me to defend the Government, which I did with some heat, drawing forth another one-pound note casually, as though I were made of them, and flourishing it in my hand. "And anyway," I argued, "Mr. LLOYD GEORGE is not to blame. The note does not bear his signature, but that of Sir JOHN BRADBURY. And a fine bold signature it is--why, it's dirt-cheap for the lesson in handwriting alone." She did not appreciate that, because hers is a small scrabbed writing. But I continued mercilessly-- "I bet he doesn't bite _his_ lips when he's signing his name." "Extremely bad writing, I should call it," she retorted. "Look, you cannot tell where the '_u_' ends and the '_r_' begins." "But aside from that," I resumed (I was very proud of this expression, having picked it up from President WILSON)--"aside from that, turn the note over, feast your eyes on the picture of the Houses of Parliament. It too is thrown in for nothing. This at least ought to appeal to you, with your enthusiasm for Gothic architecture." If looks could annihilate, that would have been my last boiled egg.