Fresh as osier withy.

How they strove your togs to tear; Hinder, or capsize us!

But, hurroo! we've scrambled through!

Nought need now surprise us!

"_Lock! Lock! Lock!_"

Faint cry, far before us!

Lot of toffs my efforts mock; Menace us in chorus.

Swear they'll swamp us at the weir.

Fate there's no controlling, But the Grand Old River Hand Puts his faith in pol(l)ing!

Sit tight, my dear, and as we drop down with the tide towards the next lock, I'll sing you a new river-song to an old air. [_Sings._

And did you ne'er hear of a jolly old punting man, Who near Westminster his calling doth ply?

He handles his pole with such skill and dexterity, Winning each "No" and enchanting each "Aye."

He looks so neat, he steers so steadily, The ladies all flock to his punt so readily; And he's so celebrated for courage and care, That he's seldom in want of a freight or a fare.

But o'er his last pa.s.senger rivals made merry.

She _did_ look so feeble, and frightened withal: "A fair sample this of your fine Irish ladies!

In a Party like yours won't she kick up a squall?"

Thus oft they'd be chaffing, and shouting and jeering, But 'twas all one to w.i.l.l.y; he stuck to his steering; For hissing or hooting he little did care, He handled his pole, and looked after his fare.

And ah! just to think now how strangely things happen!

He poled along, caring for no one at all; By a crush in the lock, foes his fare meant alarming, And hoped in deep water she fainting might fall.

But he bade the young damsel to banish all sorrow, "If they block us to-day, dear, we'll get through to-morrow."

And now the old Puntsman is through! But they swear They'll yet flummox the future of him and his fare!

GOOD GRACIOUS!--Mrs. R. went to Lord's the other day, to see Doctor GRACE play. She says, "Until then I had no idea he was a man of such splendid _physic_."

SYMPATHY.

_A Colloquy after the Eton and Harrow Cricket Match._

_Old Buffer to Small Boy, solicitously_:--

Why are you hoa.r.s.e, my little lad, So husky and so hoa.r.s.e?

Your voice is almost gone! 'Tis sad!

You'll seek advice, of course?

Diphtheria is much about!

And--well you know, there's cancer!!!

Dear me, you're choking now! Don't shout, But write me down an answer.

_Small Boy to Old Buffer, spasmodically_:--

Cancer--be blowed!--_Cricket_--of course!

Harrow--for years--has beaten; And--I've been howling till I'm hoa.r.s.e To see 'em--licked by Eton!!!

Hooray!!!

THE MOAN OF THE MINOR POET.

This (says Mr. JAMES PAYN) is what TOM HOOD wrote about the treatment meted out to the Minor Poet in his time:--

"What is a Modern Poet's fate?

To write his thoughts upon a slate-- The critic spits on what is done, Gives it a wipe--and all is gone."

And this (says _Mr. Punch_) is the Minor Poet's reply to-day:--

I write not on a slate, but foolscap fair: It falls to the Waste-paper Basket's care.

If _not_, the Minor Poet's still ill-fated, 'Tis by some Minor Critic now he's "slated."

Far better than that stabber's spiteful lunge, Were "a clean slate" and kind oblivion's "sponge."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "THROUGH THE LOCK."]

[Ill.u.s.tration: QUITE A LITTLE PARABLE.

_The Rector (returning from day's fishing--in reply to usual question)._ "SPORT? OH! WRETCHED!! WRETCHED!!! TRIED EVERY DODGE I COULD THINK OF, BUT NOTHING WOULD TEMPT 'EM."

_Canny Scot (who rather suspects the Rector of a fondness for good living)._ "A--WEEL RECTHOR, NA DOOT THEY SET SOME ON US A POORFUL EXAMPLE I' NO GIVIN' WAY TO THEIR CARNAL PROCLEEVITIES, AND REFUSIN'

TO BE TA'EN IN BY THE FA'SE BLANDISHMENTS O' THE DEEVIL, I' THE SHAPE O' YER _AWN_ ARTIFEECIAL FLEES."]

THE VOICE OF THE THAMES.

Leave, dweller in the smoke-bound street, Your native London's ceaseless noise.

With aching head and weary feet Turn from the town's delusive joys.

On dusty terrace, grimy square, A dismal pall seems settling down; Be not the Season's slave, and dare, Oh town-bred man, to leave the town.

The town can spare you; it may chance The Park will fill without your aid; And still at many a matron's dance Moist man will whirl with panting maid.

Vast dinners still will be as slow, The night will still be turned to day, And all the giddy round will go As wild and well with you away.

But here the days are pa.s.sing fair, The sun shines bright, the leaves are green; Cool on your forehead breathes the air, The very smoke seems fresh and clean.

And over all the winding miles, Where erst his foaming torrents ran, The clear, calm Thames breaks forth in smiles Of welcome to the London man.

Bend to your oars, away, away!

Then rest awhile, or deftly steer Where topped with rainbow clouds of spray The waters tumble o'er the weir.

Nor scorn the man whom, moored for hours, Nor failure daunts nor jeers affront, Who sits, unheeding sun or showers, A fishless angler in a punt.

Then, when at eve the ringdove's call Is hushed upon the wooded hill, And slowly lengthening shadows fall On field and stream, and all is still, Drift homewards, thanking Heaven that made You free to dream awhile your dream In this fair scene of sun and shade, On gentle Thames's crystal stream.