BETWEEN THE ROUNDS.
["The record of the Opposition, so far, is one of wasted opportunities and ill-conceived tactics. They have been beaten, out-manœuvred and discredited by a foe on whom, with proper management, they might often have turned the tables.... These are no days for punctilious or overstrained courtesy in dealing with political opponents.... Conservatives and Unionists may be tolerably certain that they will gain nothing by this misplaced delicacy."—The Standard.]
Perturbed Old Party loquitur:—
Wich, Arthur, I'm puffeck aweer as a fighter you're truly tip-top,
Our party's pecooliar pride, and our cause's particular prop!
You can "pop in a slommacking wunner," if ever a lad could, dear boy:
But—well, there, you ain't scored this round; and yer foes is a-chortling with joy!
'Ow is it, my Arthur, 'ow is it! I've nurriged you up from a kid,
And if ever a lathy young scrapper showed pluck and fair promidge, boy, you did;
Wich I've cheridged and cracked you up constant, and backed you in all of your fights.
And I've swore it was you, right as rain, as would do the Grand Ould 'Un to rights!
But he's turned up more younger than ever—O drabbit him; 'ow he do wear!—
I thought he'd be knocked out at once, the fust round, and he ain't turned a hair!
He hits hard and fast as the "Tinman," he's nimble as poor "Young Ducrow."
And now this round's over, where are we? I'm jiggered, dear boy, if I know!
Look at 'im! As perky as pickles! Weaves in like a young 'un, he do,
Jest as limber of limb as a kitten; pops in that perdigious one—two,
Like a new Eighty-tonner. Good gracious, the wetterun's all over the shop!
He can mill you, or throw you a burster; feint, parry, duck, counter, or stop!
Reglar mixture of Mace, Young Dutch Sam, and a Old Pugilistical 'And!
'Ow the dooce does he do it, I wonder? I don't mind admitting it's grand.
But—wot price our Party, my Arthur? He's scoring two points to our one;
And I don't see the fun of it, Arthur, I certinly don't see the fun.
Mustn't take it to heart overmuch, 'Arty! 'Taint as I wants for to scold;
But—you play him too light—entry noo! 'Taint acos you are young, and he's old.
As you need be so precious "punctilious." Delicate 'andling of him
Won't pay; it's misplaced altogether. Go at him, lad! Lam the old limb!
His bellows can't be as they used to wos. Youth will be served—that's your chance;
But, if you play light with Old Shifty, he'll lead you no end of a dance.
Think of Benjy, dear boy, my old champion, bless his black curls! He wired in,
Never thinking of manners or taste, wich is muck when you're fighting to win.
Look at Grandolph, the Marlborough Midget, as often reminds me of Ben!
There—there! Don't turn touchy, and tiff; we all need a straight tip now and then.
You can do him, next round, I've no doubt, if you'll only fight up to your form.
Pull yourself well together, 'it 'ard, bustle up the old boy, make it warm!—
Remember wot Johnny Broome's mother once wrote to her boy—mark, and mind!—
"Be sure you make use of your left; keep away from your man till you find
You can reach him in safety, and then—give him pepper. Avoid being thrown.
But give 'im all the bursters you can!" Wich that Ammyzon, who is beknown
To the fistical world, gave her son—as you're mine—werry proper advice.
When time's called, my Arthur, wire in; and wotever you do, don't be nice!
No "overstrained courtesy" this time! It's blessed nigh bunnicked your chance.
Let me fan you, dear boy, let me fan you! And when it is time to hadvance
Go at 'im for all you are wuth! Bless yer, him and his low Irish lot
Won't be in it with Gentleman Arthur—if only you'll give it him hot!
[Left fanning and fuming.
Shakspearii Juniores.—Sir Augustus Harris's and Pettitt's Prodigal Daughter is going all over the shop. She is coming out in France, in Germany, also, of course, in the Horse-tryin' capital, and will appear, as a matter-of-Corso, in Rome. This for the original English authors is a dramatic triumph which for the universality of their work is second only to that of Shakspeare.
