_Mr. Bull_. Confound these Wandering Minstrels! Oh, the bore of them! Only just settled with yon tow-hair'd fellow Turning the corner, and behold two more of them, Prepared to grind and tootle, blow and bellow, Until I tip _them_ in a liberal fashion. Upon my word, their noise is something shocking; Enough to put a person in a passion. Menaces slighting and remonstrance mocking, They stand and twangle, tootle, grind, and gurgle Their horrible cacophony. Find it funny, Ye grinners? Might as well my mansion burgle, As "row" me forcibly out of my money. The Teuton tootler, being tipped, is "sloping," Patting his pocket with a smile complacent. The Gallic blower, for like treatment hoping, Grins at the Portuguese who grinds adjacent. What a _charivari_! Oh, I _must_ stop it! I say, you rascal with the hurdy-gurdy, More than enough of that vile shindy; drop it! And you, my brazen, blatant, would-be VERDI, Hush that confounded horn, or go and blow it At--Jericho. _My_ walls you will not tumble By windy shindy, and you ought to know it. _Horn-Player_. Bah! ze old hombogs! He sall growl and grumble But he vill _pay_ ven it come to ze pinches; I know him, ze cantankerous _vieux_ chappie. Ze German yonder, vy he take ze inches, And get ze Hel-igoland! Now he quite happy. I do ze same. _Pom! Pom!_ Zat blast vos thunder! How he do tear his hair and tvist his features. He svear, but he vill vat you call "knock under." _Mr. Bull_. I say, you Portugee, smallest of creatures, And noisiest for your size, shut up, and hook it! _Hurdy-gurdy_. _Gr-r-r-r! Gr-r-r-r!_ Zey say zat ze old fool is skveezable, Melting in his own heat. Py gar, he _look_ it. Ze Teuton yonder find zat he vas teaseable Out of ze "tip," ze big _pour-boire_. He got him, He go, he grin! Sall I not take ze hint too? I get him too--_I_ go. But I no let him Drive me away, as he did SERPA PINTO. _Gr-r-r-r! Gr-r-r-r!_ I see zat he no like ze grinding. Soo mooch ze bettare! He sall give mooch money; Ze _pour-boire_, someveres, he sall soon be finding, If I keep on. Zeese Eenglish are so funny. _Tutto_. Ze money for ze Minstrels! Kvick! So sall you Get rid of us. Like to ze artful gloser In Mistare SEYMOUR'S sketch, _ve_ "know ze value Of peace and kvie'ness." Pay us, ve go, Sir! [_Left tootling._ * * * * * IN THE KNOW. (_BY MR. PUNCH'S OWN PROPHET._)