"VESTED INTERESTS."
Lady in Possession loquitur:—
Ah, well! They keeps a rouging up, these papers, or a trying to,
But I don't think they'll oust us yet, as hobvious they're a-dying to.
Their Rogeberries, and their Haskwidges and 'Erbert Gladstings 'urry up,
As per wire-pulling horders; and they tries to keep the flurry up,
But somehow it's a fizzle, like a fire as keeps on smouldery,
And the public, when they'd poke it up, looks chilly and cold-shouldery.
Drat 'em, what do they want to do? Their "demmycratic polity"
Means nothink more nor less than sheer upsetting of the Quality!
They'd treat the Hupper Ten like srimps, pull off their 'eds and swoller 'em;
And when they raves agin our perks, they only longs to collar 'em.
Down with all priwilege indeed? Wy, priwilege is the honly thing
As keeps hus from the wildernedge. I'm but a poor, old, lonely thing,
But if they mends or ends the Lords—wich 'evvin forbid they ever do!—
They'll take my livelyhood away! No, drat it, that will never do!
A world without no priwilege, no pickings, and no perks in it,
Wy—'twould be like Big Ben up there if it 'ad got no works in it.
These demmycratic levellers is the butchers of Society,
They'd take its tops and innards off and hout. I loves wariety.
Them Commons is a common lot, as like all round as winkleses,
But Marquiges—lord bless 'em!—they is like bright stars as twinkleses
And makes the sky respectable; and its a old, old story
As stars—and likeways garters—must 'ave differences in glory.
Wy, even street lamps wary, and I says the harrystocracy
Is like to 'eavenly 'lectric lights outshining the democracy
As the Clock-tower's 'fulgence do the flare at some fried-fish shop, Mum.
Oh, there's a somethink soothing in a Dook, or Earl, or Bishop, Mum,
As makes yer mere M.P.'s sing small, as may be taller-chandlerses.
Its henvy, Mum, that's wot it is, they've got the yaller janderses
Along o' bilious jealousy; though wy young Rogeberry ever did
Allow hisself to herd with them—well, drat it, there, I never did!—
As long as I can twirl a mop or sluice a floor or ceiling for
The blessed Peers, I'll 'old with 'em, as I've a feller feeling for.
Birds of a feather flock—well, well! I 'ope I knows my place, I do;
Likeways that I shall keep it. Wich I think it a 'ard case, I do,
This downing on Old Women!
'Owsomever, Mister Morley is
A long ways from his hobject yet. The House o' Lords, Mum, surely is
Most different from Jericho, it will not fall with shouting, Mum,
Nor yet no platform trumpets will not down it, there's no doubting, Mum.
Their tongues and loud Rad ram's-horns do their level best to win it, Mum.
But—they ain't got rid of Hus—not yet,—nor won't direckly-minute, Mum!
From the Birmingham Festival.—An eminent musician sends us this note:—Nothing Brummagem about the Birmingham Festival. Dr. Parry's oratorio, King Saul, a big success. Of course this subject has been Handel'd before; but the composer of King Saul, Junior, (so to be termed for sake of distinction, and distinction it has certainly attained,) need fear no com-parry-songs. Perhaps another title might be, "Le Roi Saul à la mode de Parry." (Private, to Ed.—Shall be much pleased if you'll admit this as a Parry-graph.)
Hope Dispelled.—The music-hall proprietors must have been in high spirits at the commencement of the sittings of the Licensing Committee when they heard that "Mr. Roberts" was to be the chairman. Of course, to them there is but one "Roberts," which his prénom is "Arthur"—and unfortunately there appeared as chairman "not this Arthur, but another."
In the course of conversation, the other evening, Mrs. R. remembered that "The Margarine" is a German title. "Isn't there," she asked, "a Margarine of Hesse?"
Anti-fatness.—Excellent receipt for getting thin. Back horses, and you will lose many pounds in no time. (Advice gratis by one who has tried it.)