[Sir Thomas Lipton, when stopped by the Chertsey police for 'scorching,' remarked: 'You have your duty to do, boys. I have always found you to be correct. I'm sorry.']

Ye murderous, motoring scorchers,
With manners of Gadarene hogs,
Inflicting unspeakable tortures
On children and chickens and dogs;
Alarming your fellows with hoots and with bellows,
And filling their infants with terror,
Their cattle stampeding, and never conceding
That you could perhaps be in error,
Who fall upon Fido and squash little Florrie,
And hasten away without saying you're sorry!
O listen, I beg, con amore,
Pray pause in your Juggernaut flight,
And hark, while I tell you the story
Of Lipton, that chivalrous knight!
When charged with exceeding the limit of speeding
By constables ambushed in Chertsey,
He scorned to tell 'whoppers' or browbeat those 'coppers,'
But, donning (with marvellous court'sy)
The smile that he wears at a ball or a 'swarry,'
Remarked: 'You are always correct, boys. I'm sorry!'
With awe and respect did each 'cop' watch
A creature so rare, so unique,
Who questioned no constable's stop-watch,
Who showed neither temper nor pique,
But said, 'Do your duty!' in tones rich and fruity,
Admitting at once his transgression,
Content to take their word, with never a swear-word,
To leave an unpleasant impression;
Exclaiming—his parents were Irish—'Begorry!
''Tis me that's the scorcher, and faith, bhoys, I'm sorry!'
Then follow his brilliant example,
Ye chauffeurs to 'joy-riding' prone,
And seek by apologies ample
For sins of the past to atone.
Your pace do not quicken when dog or when chicken
In 'bonnet' or brake gets entangled,
Nor fly in a flutter, and leave in the gutter
The man whom your motor has mangled;
But after you've pounced like a hawk on your quarry,
Just stop for a moment, and say that you're sorry!

THE PARISH PUMP

(A BALLADE)

['The parish pump is the best friend of the teacher of history, and the man who, on the basis of Imperialism, sneers at the parish pump, does not know what he is talking about.'—Canon Masterman.]

The pedagogue his desk may thump
And lecture, with a skill profound,
On Parliaments called 'Long' or 'Rump,'
On Scone (where Scottish kings were crowned);
On butts of Malmsey wine which drowned
The Prince who chanced therein to jump;
On Richard, Gloucester's Duke, renowned
For having a perpetual 'hump';
On Runnymede's immoral clump,
Where poor King John was run to ground
And signed the Charter (on a stump)
Whereon our liberties we found;
On Windsor, where, with horse and hound,
The eighth King Henry grew so plump,
And where the doleful courtiers frowned
When George the Third went off his chump!
Such facts I simply cannot lump,
Preferring greatly to expound
The tale of how Sir Joseph Crump
Expended many a well-earned pound
(No better Mayor was ever found,
Although his lady is a frump!)
On giving Mugley-on-the-Mound
A presentation Parish Pump.
Then beat the tabor, blow the trump!
Let welkins with your shouts resound!
The cause of Empire cannot slump
While noble deeds like this abound!
Go, children, pass the story round
Of how the head of Crump and Comp:
(Whose enemies may Fate confound!)
Supplied the Parish with a Pump!

POLICE COURT SENSE

['The evidence that I heard totally failed to satisfy me that he was drunk at all in what, for want of a better definition of the term, I may call the Police Court sense.'—Mr. Chester Jones.]

When Uncle Edward comes to dine,
He drinks such quantities of wine,
You never know
How far he'll go,
Or what he'll leave unsaid;
He frequently insults his host,
And quotes things from the Winning Post,
Until, with sighs,
His friends arise
And bear him off to bed.
But as they leave him in his bunk,
With what a joy intense
They realise he is not drunk—
In the Police Court sense!
He played bezique with me, one day,
To find that, at the close of play,
He'd lost each game;
The total came
To three pounds seventeen.
He never paid a cent of that,
And took away my new top-hat,
Leaving behind
A hideous kind
Of gibus, old and green.
But still it filled me with relief,
Observing his offence,
To think that he was not a thief—
In the Police Court sense!
The details of his private life,
The way he treats his luckless wife,
Make all aware
That he can care
For nothing but himself;
But what on earth is she to do,
Though snubbed and beaten black and blue?
To sue, of course,
For a divorce
Would be a waste of pelf.
Yet, all the same, my aunt avows,
It saves her much expense
To feel she has a faithful spouse—
In the Police Court sense!