THE WAITERS' STRIKE.

The German Waiter waxeth fat; he grows exceeding proud;

He is a shade more kicksome than can fairly be allowed.

The British Press goes out to dine—the Teuton, they relate,

Throws down his napkin like a gage, and swears he will not wait.

Now there are many proverbs—some are good and some are not—

But the Teuton was misled who cried, "Strike while the entrée's hot!"

Like readers with no book-marks, all the rebels lost their place,

And vanished out of Chelsea in their dress-suits and disgrace.

And I'm told that there were murmurings and curses deep and low

In darksome public-houses in the road of Pimlico,

And a general impression that it was not safe to cross

The temper of that caterer, Mr. MACKENZIE ROSS.

O Waiter, German Waiter! there are many other lands

Where you can take your creaking boots and eke your dirty hands;

And we think you'll have discovered, ere you reach your next address,

That in England German Waiters aren't the Censors of the Press.