WITCHES.

"Finns, they're witches," said Murphy, "'tis born in 'em maybe,

The same as fits an' freckles an' follerin' the sea,

An' ginger hair in some folks—an' likin' beer in me.

"Finns, they're witches," said Murphy, "an' powerful strong ones too;

They'll whistle a wind from nowhere an' a storm out o' the blue

'Ud sink this here old hooker an' all her bloomin' crew.

"Finns, they're witches," said Murphy, rubbing his hairy chin,

"An' some counts witchcraft bunkum, an' some a deadly sin,

But—there ain't no harm as I see in standing well with a Finn."

C.F.S.

"Mr. ——, M.P., is leaving home for a fortnight's rest."—Scotch Paper.