Take some crumbs of truth, and spread them with a covering of bosh, And conceal them in a pie-crust labelled "Promises to pay"; Hide away all dirty linen, or remove it home to wash, And then begin the process which the wise ones call "Convey." Next collect a band of brothers, all inspired by one desire. To subserve the public interest, single-hearted men and true; Stuff with shares, and thus permit them in your kindness to acquire, At a price, the vendor's property,--the vendor being you. Then, since _you_ must make a profit, call the public to your aid; Let them give you all their money, which they think they only lend: And of course you mustn't tell them, till the fools have safely paid, Mines were made for sinking money, not for raising dividend. And the clergy bring their savings, the widows bring their store, And they push to reach your presence, and they jostle and they fall, And at last they pile their money in a heap before your door; And, just to make them happy, you accept and keep it all. So you make your mine by begging--(modern miners never dig),-- And you float a gorgeous Company. The shares go spinning up; But you never "rig the market." (What an awkward word is "rig"!) And you drain success in bumpers from an overflowing cup. Then one day the thing gets shaky, and it goes from bad to worse, And the public grasps a shadow where it tried to hold a share; And in vain the country clergy most unclerically curse, _You_ have "realised your property," and end a millionnaire. * * * * * COMING SEA-SCRAPES AT CHELSEA. (_DRAWN BY AN INSIDER._) MR. PUNCH, SIR,