Now, I always was a 'ardly-treated bloke, I'm a martyr to my cause, as you may say-- I used to own a barrer and a moke, And I'd sometimes earn a thick-un in the day. But them Socialists they comes along our court, And they says as 'ow all things should common be, So, to 'elp the cause on quicker, I goes off and lifts a ticker, 'Cause the bloke 'ad no more right to it than me. Well, for that I 'ad to do a bit o' time, Though I argued it afore the majerstrit As I'd done it out o' politics, not crime; But the cuckoo couldn't understand a bit. So I says when I 'ad left the bloomin' jug, "I must strike a bigger blow to set us free; I must play a nobler game." So I forges Rothschild's name, 'Cause the bloke 'ad no more right to it than me. Now, living in a 'ouse acrost the street, There used to be a very tasty gal; She'd curly 'air and dainty 'ands and feet, And was married to my very dearest pal. 'E says to me, says 'e, "When you're our way Step in, old cull, and 'ave a dish o' tea." Thinks I, "My dooty this is." So I offs it with 'is missis, 'Cause the bloke 'ad no more right to 'er than me. But I won't be beat by any bloomin' lor, To 'ave my rights, I tell yer straight, I'm game; And, once I gets outside this prison door, I'll strike another blow in Freedom's name-- The lor and all its engines I defy, From the Stepper to the gloomy gallows-tree; I'll go and get a knife, and I'll take some joker's life, 'Cause the bloke 'as no more right to it than me." _For my motto is: All should be common to all, This covey is equal to that; And if I'm short you've no right to be tall, If I'm thin you've no right to be fat. To call me a criminal's fair tommy-rot, It's on principle all what I've done: Yet, perish me, all the reward as I've got Is my number_--201. * * * * * "SMART." BY MARK THYME. (_Being a few hints to any of the fair citizens of this town who may contemplate spending a season or two in London._) Ye Belles of Bloemfontein, pray hearken unto me, And I'll show you how to sparkle in polite Society. Never fear that you'll be visited with contumely or scorn If you happen not to be aristocratically born, For mere birth is not essential to means, if only you Have the luck to be related to a brewer or a few; And if only you have money, you need never be afraid To swagger of the swindles of your former days of trade. And your friends, as they receive you to their heart, Each to each will the opinion impart: "She is vulgar, I admit, I don't like her, not a bit, But then you know, my dear, she's smart."