My Jemmy looked at Crump very fierce. "Take that feller away," says she, "he has insulted a French nobleman, and deserves transportation, at the least." Poor Orlando was carried off. "I've no patience with the little minx," says Jemmy, giving Jemimarann a pinch. "She might be a Baron's lady; and she screams out because his Excellency did but squeeze her hand." "Oh, mamma! mamma!" sobs poor Jemimarann, "but he was t-t-tipsy." "T-t-tipsy! and the more shame for you, you hussy, to be offended with a nobleman who does not know what he is doing." [Illustration: AUGUST—A Tournament. ] [Illustration] RETURNING BY WATER [Sidenote: Clock before the Sun. [Illustration] Too soon for dinner. Between Month and Monarch this difference is just; ♂ ☿ ♄ ♈ the Month it is _Au_gust, the Monarch Au_gust_.] The _rain_ of terror's come—the horse to go At a smart pace has made himself to smart; 'Tis bad enough to bear the shafts of woe, But who would bear the shafts of such a cart! What a nice party—twelve inside—to drag, Each fat and full, and heavy as a dunce, And all, besides the man wot drives the nag, Holding the _rains_ together—all at once! The horse is urged—most tired and half dead; "Come up," they cry—when shall we get to town? Fierce _pours_ the shower—_their pores_ are stopped instead, The more they cry _come_ up—the rain _comes down_! Now, you may see, by every sorry face, The water party wails its wretched doom, And in that cart—that wends with lingering pace, Altho' there's little _room_, there's lots of _rheum_! 17. Metropolitan Police Bill passed. The bill has pass'd, the sharpest bill of latter days, Gin shops must close by twelve o'clock o' Saturdays; And lively landlords now, whate'er their merits, After that time must not _keep up_ their spirits, Nor suffer the most fascinating fox Of all their customers to turn their _cocks_! 29. Eglintoun Tournament. [Illustration: Running a-muck.] Oh! that Ayr tournament in that _ere_ shire; With lots of gentlemen in _male_ attire, And many a Don, and many a Skvire! Took several _days_ and lots of _knights_ to mount; And a great many _pages_ to recount Its deeds of glory—Chivalry their fount! Though lances _shivered_ (and no wonder, for 'Twas cold and rainy) no sword flesh'd its hilt; And we'd pass all unnoticed: but, O lor! We draw our own existence from a _Tilt_! AUGUST.—A TOURNAMENT.