Oh, where and _wot_ am I? A spindle-shank'd stripling, As blue-gilled old Tory ex-Colonels protest? Or a 'ero, as pictured by young RUDYARD KIPLING, Six foot in my socks, forty-inch round the chest? I'm blowed if _I_ know arter all the discussion. But if I'm the cove as they're going to trust, To give good account of yer Frenchy or Russian, At least they'd best give me a gun as won't _bust_. They've bin fighting this battle of barrels and breeches,-- Ah yus, from the days of our poor old Brown Bess, And wot's the result as their 'speriments teaches? They'd better jest settle it sharp-like, I guess. If once of a rattlin' good rifle I'm owner, A thing as won't jack-up or jam, I don't care. But if they stand squabblin' till Missis BELLONER Puts in _'er_ appearance, there'll be a big scare. Ah, she's the true "Expert"; wuth fifty Committees! But then '_er_ decision means money--and blood. Wot price TOMMY ATKINS, _then_? Everyone pities His fate, when he's snuffed it, and pity's no good. Whether STANHOPE is right, or the _Times_, I ain't sayin'; But here Marm BELLONER gives both a big hint, As it's rayther a touch-and-go game they are playin', And TOMMY, he thinks she is right,--plain as print!] * * * * * "SIC ITUR AD ASTRA!" Look out for _Mr. Punch Among the Planets_! He is a Star of the first magnitude, and the above is the title of his Christmas Number. It will issue from, to use astrological language, the House of BRADBURY-AGNEW-&-CO., although the sidereal and celestial subjects of the forthcoming Christmas Number are suggestive of the old days of "BRADBURY and Heavens." * * * * * THREE TASTES. I. My pipe, he tastes of turpentine-- He is a penny pipe-- A taste that every pipe of mine Has when he is not ripe. I bought him at a little shop Where they sell fruit and cheese, Tobacco, toys, and ginger-pop, And said, "A _cheap_ pipe, please." It was a maiden sold him me, And she was proud and cold; She'd briar pipes at two-and-three For them that squandered gold; She'd one that had a leather case. Item, a curly stem; And cheap pipes make her shrug her face, She had such scorn of them. II. My pipe he tastes of cherry now; Gone, like the foam of wine, Gone, like the mist from mountain-brow, Gone is that turpentine. With the pure herb I feel it blend-- That charm of cherry-wood, And smoke him six times straight on end, Because he is so good. And yet my aunt gets up, and sniffs, And therewith wags her head; And warns me in between the whiffs That I shall soon be dead; And says excessive smoking must Debase and bring me low, She makes herself offensive, just Because she loves me so. III.