THE END OF THE DROUGHT.
(By a Cab-horse.)
Don't talk to us in praise of rain!
When we are slipping once again;
This beastly shower
Has made wood-pavements thick with slime.
Suppose you try another time,
By mile or hour;
See how you'd like to trot and trip,
To stop and stagger, slide and slip,
Pulled up affrighted,
Urged madly on, then checked once more,
Whilst from some omnibus's door
Some lout alighted.
You would not find much cause to laugh,
Like us, you would not care for chaff
Were you such draggers;
Your shoes would soon be off, or worn,
You'd get, what we don't often, corn,
And end with staggers.
You'd long to be put out to grass,
Infrequent so far with your class—
Nebuchadnezzar
Was quite an isolated case—
You would be tired of life's long-race;
Slaves who in Fez are,
On the Sahara could not bear
Such toil as falleth to our share,
For death would free them.
You say the farmer wants the wet
For meadows; pray do not forget
We never see them.
Philanthropists, why don't you walk?
Of slaves' hard lives you blandly talk,
Like "Uncle Tom"—nay,
You think what your own horses do,
But we—there, get along with you!
Allez vous promener!
Change Its Name!—An estate in the Island of Fowlness, Essex, of 382 acres, was put up to auction last week, and, according to the Daily News there was only one bid at a little short of eight pounds per acre. "The property was withdrawn." This step was judicious and correct. It was an act of fairness to Fowlness. But then, does it sound nice for anyone to say, "I'm living in the midst of Fowlness"? It may be a Paradise, but it doesn't sound like it.
