The Journalists of Fleet Street Have precious little cash, They put their all in papers Which swiftly go to smash; But Publishers, my Publishers, Sit twirling of their thumbs While sweated clerks with ledgers Tot up colossal sums. The Journalists of Fleet Street While taking of their ease, Invoke the frequent tankard That haunts the Cheshire Cheese; But Publishers, my Publishers, As epicures enjoy The wines of Mr. Nicols, And soups of the Savoy. THE RHYMERS’ CLUB. Another club which affected the stern, uncushioned comforts of the “Cheese” was known as the Rhymers’ Club, and we betray no secret when we give the names of the members, for are they not written in the book of their poetic deeds? In this book, published through Elkin Mathews in 1892, the composition of the club is thus recorded: Ernest Dowson, Edwin J. Ellis, G. A. Greene, Lionel Johnson, Richard Le Gallienne, Victor Plarr, Ernest Radford, Ernest Rhys, T. W. Rolleston, Arthur Symons, John Todhunter, W. B. Yeats. When such sweet singers meet, it may well be believed that the night was ambrosial, care and the world were banished, and the contests of the “Cheese” and of the “Mermaid”—in miniature, it is no discourtesy to say—live again, as Mr. Rhys sings: As once Rare Ben and Herrick Set older Fleet Street mad, With wit not esoteric, And laughter that was lyric, And roystering rhymes and glad. As they, we drink defiance To-night to all but Rhyme, And most of all to Science And all such skins of lions That hide the ass of time.