He hasn't a waistband, I could grip, Nor anythink I could kick, I'd like to fetch him a trip, but ah! To think of it, makes me sick He hasn't a face, to black his eye, Or even a hat to block, But all the same, in the corner there, He gives the fares a shock! He dosses himself in the favourite seat, And while he's nestlin' there, The passengers cawnt shove up to the end, To make my regular fare. For some insist that the seat is cold! And others complain it's hot! And some it's damp, and some remark, It's a most infernal spot! And some keep shovin' their sticks above, To let in the atmosphere, While others are closin' them up with a curse, The thing is devilish queer. It's pisonous hard on a man like me, Who lives on what he can get, But I'll have to try and see if I cawnt, Jest manage to shuffle him yet. Ha! there, he's gone! I knew that he would, Waltz out of my bloomin' sight! His regular trick with my thruppeny fare, Now--jump with the car, good night." [Decoration] MARGATE SANDS. SHE was five, or six, he four years old, When they met on the Margate Sands, And he gravely looked in her great blue eyes With hold of her little fat hands, And he said, "I love oo well Rosie; I know, dat I'd rather have oo, Dan all de lickel girls on de sands to-day, Iss, even dan de girl in blue!" "I'm glad oo do; and I love oo too!" Thro' a heaven of golden hair, Like silvery bells, was her sweet response, On the ozoned rose lit air, And then with his bucket, and spade, he built For his love, on the sand, that day, A castle, and pie, till the tide came in, And washed his castle away. * * * * * In many a year thereafter 'twas, In a box in Drury Lane, Said a gent, as he used his opera glass, "Yon lady's remarkably plain!" And the lady exclaimed, at the self-same time, When she saw his glass in hand, "What an ugly fright!" they did not know, They had loved, on the Margate sand! [Illustration: JOHN MC KUNE] O PADDY MURPHY--carman of the stand in College Green-- You've had your sudden ups and downs, and busy days you've seen, We're waiting for your story; how the mare struck up the tune, Of sparks amongst the gravel, on the road to Knockmaroon. "O faith an' I may tell you, you will not be waitin' long, Whin the piebald mare Asooker, is the sweetheart of me song, For sure it was a mastherpiece, of how she dhragged McKune, Behind her whiskin' tail, along the road, to Knockmaroon.