He bit his lips, he ground his teeth, he tore out hunks of hair, He looked the full embodiment of desperate despair; Then with a shriek of agony, the hideous truth found vent, "There's _ad valorem_ on the lot of ninety-five per cent.! "My new amended Tariff comes in force this very day, I little dreamt that you and I should be the first to pay; Besides, I haven't got the cash! oh dear, how bad I feel!" The maiden smiled a scornful smile and turned upon her heel. The miserable Dobbins gave a second piercing shriek, Then leaped into the briny flood, and stayed there for a week; Though Jobbins tried to find him hard, but failed, with these remarks, "He always _was_ too deep for me--besides, there might be sharks." The very night of Dobbins' loss, the Ministry went out, The Jobbins' party took their place 'midst many a ringing shout; And of our Jobbins in a trice, their Treasurer they made. Because, as everybody knew, he gloried in Free Trade. He took the dues off everything, from thimbles up to tanks, And passed Miss Bobbins' goods himself, and won that virgin's thanks; And what is more, he won her hand, her chattels and her heart, And she is Mrs. Jobbins now, till death them twain doth part. As Dobbins to import his love had spared nor cash nor pains-- They raised a handsome monument above his cold remains; The carved inscription to this day is there his tale to tell, "He _did_ his duties--and himself--not wisely but too well." GARNET WALCH. _THE LION'S CUBS._ PATRIOTIC SONG AND CHORUS. Australia's sons are we, And the freest of the free, But Love enchains us still with fetters strong To the dear old land at Home, Far across the rolling foam-- The little isle to which our hearts belong. It shall always be our boast, Our bumper-honoured toast, That, should Britain bid us help her, we'll obey; Then, if e'er the call is made, And Old England needs our aid, These are the words Australia's sons will say-- There is not a strong right hand, Throughout this Southern land, But will draw a sword in dear old England's cause; Our numbers may be few, But we've loyal hearts and true, And the Lion's cubs have got the Lion's claws. From our ocean-guarded strand, O'er the sunny plains inland, To the cloud-kissed mountain summits faint and far, Australians bred and born, Behold yon banner torn, And greet it with a lusty-lunged hurrah! 'Tis the brave old Union Jack, That nothing can beat back-- Ever waving where the brunt of battle lies; For each frayed and faded thread Britain counts a hero dead, Who died to gain the liberties we prize. Then there's not, &c.