[Addressed to the lady or gentleman who had abstracted two pictures from the Royal Academy.] My friend, why did you hold your hand, Why falter, why desist, When there are treasures in the land That never would be missed? Next time you plunder the R.A., Its precincts do not quit Till you have made, as plumbers say, A thorough job of it. Take ev'ry so-called work of art And (with a nation's thanks) depart! Remove each Royal Portrait, do, Each Presentation Bust, And all those Problem Pictures, too, Which have to be discussed. Take ev'ry daub that's labelled 'Spring' Or 'Chelsea in a Fog,' Or 'Home again!' or 'Baby's Swing,' Or 'Mrs. A. and Dog.' Take 'Hanging up the Mistletoe!' And (with the public's blessing) go! Then prosecute your search elsewhere, If fame you wish to win; Take Shakespeare's bust from Leicester Square And Cleopatra's Pin. Take sculptured Statesmen, hand to breast, Who on our pavements smile, And half the statues that congest The Abbey's crowded aisle. And, last of all, whate'er befall, Don't fail to take the Albert Hall! THE MODEL MOTORIST [Sir Thomas Lipton, when stopped by the Chertsey police for 'scorching,' remarked: 'You have your duty to do, boys. I have always found you to be correct. I'm sorry.'] Ye murderous, motoring scorchers, With manners of Gadarene hogs, Inflicting unspeakable tortures On children and chickens and dogs; Alarming your fellows with hoots and with bellows, And filling their infants with terror, Their cattle stampeding, and never conceding That _you_ could perhaps be in error, Who fall upon Fido and squash little Florrie, And hasten away without saying you're sorry! [Illustration] O listen, I beg, _con amore_, Pray pause in your Juggernaut flight, And hark, while I tell you the story Of Lipton, that chivalrous knight! When charged with exceeding the limit of speeding By constables ambushed in Chertsey, He scorned to tell 'whoppers' or browbeat those 'coppers,' But, donning (with marvellous court'sy) The smile that he wears at a ball or a 'swarry,' Remarked: 'You are always correct, boys. I'm sorry!' With awe and respect did each 'cop' watch A creature so rare, so unique, Who questioned no constable's stop-watch, Who showed neither temper nor pique, But said, 'Do your duty!' in tones rich and fruity, Admitting at once his transgression, Content to take _their_ word, with never a swear-word, To leave an unpleasant impression; Exclaiming--his parents were Irish--'Begorry! ''Tis me that's the scorcher, and faith, bhoys, I'm sorry!'