We're a breed of good old bulldogs as a nation,
And we never stop to bark before we bite!"
And then the singer, a fat-necked man, in a kind of military uniform, drew a sword and struck an attitude, amidst red fire, which aroused vociferous enthusiasm.
TIME seemed to be getting restless again, so they moved on once. more, and presently entered a hall where they found a stout lady with a powdered face and extremely short skirts, about to sing a pathetic song, which had been expressly written to suit her talents.
She began in a quavering treble that was instinct with intense feeling:—
"Under the dysies to rest I have lyed him;
My little cock-sparrer so fythful and tyme!
And the duckweed he loved so is blooming besoide him,
But I clean out his cyge every d'y just the syme!
For it brings him before me so sorcy and sproightly,