[A provincial schoolmaster wrote to the Daily Mail to say that he had canvassed his employees on the subject of the Insurance Bill and found that out of forty-two domestics only one—'Sarah Owen, sewing-maid'—was in favour of the Servant Tax.]

Come, children, gather round and hark
To my entrancing tale!
For though you've heard of Joan of Arc,
Of brave Grace Darling in her barque,
Of Florence Nightingale,
Not one of these such nerve displayed
As Sarah Owen, sewing-maid!
Her master ranged his forty-two
Domestics in a row.
As from his breast the Bill he drew,
'Shall this be borne,' he asked, 'by you?'
Though forty-one said 'No!'
'My threepence will be gladly paid!'
Said Sarah Owen, sewing-maid.
In vain his head the butler shook,
The gard'ner's grins grew broad,
The housemaids wore a scornful look,
'What imperence!' exclaimed the cook,
The 'handy man' guffawed.
Serene, intrepid, unafraid,
Stood Sarah Owen, sewing-maid!
And whether she was right or wrong,
She showed a dauntless will,
A firm resolve, a purpose strong,
Which move me like a battle-song
And make my bosom thrill!
The fame and name shall never fade
Of Sarah Owen, sewing-maid!

THE LAST HORSED 'BUS

Fare thee well, thou plum-faced driver,
Poised upon thine airy seat!
Final, ultimate survivor
Of an order obsolete!
Fare thee well! Thy days are numbered.
Long, full long, by weight encumbered,
Tardily thy team hath lumbered
Down each London Street,
Passed by carts, bath-chairs, and hearses,
And the cause of constant curses!
Fare thee well, conductor sprightly,
Gay and buoyant pachyderm,
Holding up thy 'bus politely
For each passenger infirm;
Yet, when roused to indignation
By a rival's reprobation,
How adroit in the creation
Of some caustic term!
Deft to ridicule or rally,
Swift with satire as with sally!
Ancient Omnibus ungainly,
We shall miss thee, day by day,
When thy swift successors vainly
We with signals would delay;
When upon their platforms perching,
With each oscillation lurching,
We are perilously searching
For the safest way
To alight without disaster,
While we speed each moment faster!
As our means of locomotion,
Year by year, more deadly grow,
We shall think with fond devotion
Of thy stately gait and slow.
Harassed, vexed, fatigued, and flurried,
Shaken, discomposed, and worried,
As in motors we are hurried
Wildly to and fro,
We perchance shall not disparage
Horse-drawn omnibus or carriage!

STAGE SUPPORT

[The prospective Unionist candidate for Hoxton, at his first meeting, was supported by Lord Shrewsbury, the Hon. Claude Hay, and Mr. George Robey.]

When I stand as 'Independent' next election,
I shall vanquish my opponents, Smith and Brown.
(Smith's a Unionist, in favour of Protection,
Brown's a Radical Free Trader of renown.)
But my triumph at the polls I shall attribute, I confess,
To the men of light and leading whose assistance spelt success.
Smith may marshal Austen Chamberlains and Carsons
On his platform, for the populace to view;
Brown may muster all his Nonconformist parsons,
And a member of the Cabinet or two;
I shall need no brilliant orators, no Ministers of State,
If I only can rely on the support of Harry Tate!
Brown has posters: 'Vote for Brown and Old Age Pensions!'
Smith has placards: 'Vote for Smith and Work for All!'
I shall calmly call constituents' attentions
To the pet of ev'ry London music hall,
When I publish, as his message, on each flaming window-card:
'Every Vote you give to Johnson is a vote for Wilkie Bard!'

Can you wonder, then, that Independents rally
Round a candidate to whom the Fates allot
That his meetings shall be graced by Cinquevalli,
And his policy endorsed by Malcolm Scott?
Or that ev'ry one should mention—proud and humble, poor and rich—
That a vote for Mr. Johnson is a vote for Little Tich?

SCRIBBLERS ALL!

[In the House of Commons, Lord Claud Hamilton referred to Mr. Birrell as a 'distinguished scribbler.']

Who would be a Man of Letters,
Ink on paper daily dribbling,
In a fashion which his betters
Scornfully describe as 'scribbling'?
Who would practise a vocation
So unlucrative and painful,
To deserve a designation
Cruelly disdainful?
Pity pen- or pencil-nibblers
Labelled as 'distinguished scribblers'!
Sculptors are but seldom branded—
'Those illustrious plaster-shapers';
Violinists' friends, though candid,
Never call them 'catgut-scrapers.'
Styling painters 'canvas-scratchers'
Would offend against convention;
Surgeons as 'appendix-snatchers'
Nobody would mention.
Who would term Lord Claud's directors
'Guinea-pigs' or 'fee collectors'?
Yet, although no politicians
We entitle 'platform-stumpers,'
Nor refer to great musicians
As 'immortal pedal-thumpers,'
Though we name no leading jurist:
'This notorious legal-quibbler,'
Ev'ry writer of the purest
Prose shall be a 'scribbler,'
Till the Gribbles cease to gribble
And no more the Whibleys whibble!