RHYMES OF THE UNDERGROUND.

I never heard of Ruislip, I never saw its name,

Till Underground advertisements had brought it into fame;

I've never been to Ruislip, I never yet have heard

The true pronunciation of so singular a word.

I'd like to go to Ruislip; I'd like to feast my eyes

On "scenes of sylvan beauty" that the posters advertise;

But, though I long to view the spot, while I am in the dark

About its name I dare not face the booking-office clerk.

Suppose I ventured "Riz-lip" and in answer to his "Eh?"

Stammered "Ruse-lip, Rise-lip, Rees-lip," just imagine how he'd say,

"Well, where do you want to book to?" and the voices from behind,

"Must we wait until this gentleman has ascertained his mind?"

II.

The trains that stop at Down Street—(Sing willow-waly-O!)—

They run through Hyde Park Corner as fast as they can go;

And trains at Hyde Park Corner that stop—(Oh dearie me!)—

Contrariwise at Down Street are "non-stop" as can be.

There's a man at Down Street Station—he came there years ago

To get to Hyde Park Corner—(Sing willow-waly-O!)—

And, as the trains go past him, 'tis pitiful to see

Him beat his breast and murmur, "Oh dearie, dearie me!"

'"The Rev. R.S. —— has accepted the post of librarian of Pussy House, Oxford."—Local Paper.

And will soon get to work on the catalogue.

"Wanted—a middle-aged Witty Indian to read Bengali religious books and capable of telling witty and fairy tales from 12 to 3 p.m."—Indian Paper.

This might suit Mr. Gandhi. If not witty, he is very good at fairy-tales.