VENICE IN LONDON.

Oh, it's all very fine, Mr. IMRE KARALFY,

Thus to blazon your "Venice in London" around,

To portray the Piazzetta for 'ARRY and ALFY,

But dispense with my tintinnabulary sound.

Ask the Tourist if, reft of my wee fellow-creatures,

On the face of the waters (and watermen) blown,

He can honestly recognise Venice's features

In their miniature—or, for that matter, his own.

Ever watchful, we guard, Messrs. ALFY and 'ARRY,

With our trumpet and spear for the Doges, their mute,

Opalescent, profanity-proof sanctuary,

And we swell the lagoon—and lagoonster, to boot.

Stare away at this pageant of eld—ever new 'tis,—

In the glimmering gondolas loll, if you like;

But I'll warrant one eye would be closed to their beauties,

Could I only escape for a second on strike.

Could I quiver concealed by yon mimic Rialto,

Till I swooped with a warrior's music and swing,

Were I only allowed, as I ought, and I shall, to

Be avenged on your barbarous hordes with my sting.

I would tilt at the fogs that mock Italy's glory,

I would pounce on the rabble—an insolent fry;—

With my forefathers' motto, "Pro Patria mori,"

I'd annihilate ALFY and 'ARRY—and die!