Being a loyal letter from Mr. Jeames, at Cowes Regatta, to Mary in Mayfair.
Dear Mary,—"Rule, Britannyer!" To that sentiment I'm partial,
As there isn't not one like it, not to make a man feel martial,
Pattryottic, and all that, dear. But at this serblime conjunction—
Of ryalties and regattas—wy I hutters it with hunction.
Rule, Britannyer! As you'll understand I mean the Ryal yot!
Hah! Haitch-Har-Haitch—Eving bless him!—knows hexactly wot is wot
In the way of yots and racing; wich I'm free to own, my dear,
As I don't. And moresomever it do make me faint and queer
When I think of Hengland's 'Ope aboard that skittish, sloping thing,
As looks to my shore-going eyes like a white bird all wing.
Well, I own I'm not a Wiking; all I want of the blue sea
Is a kipper for my breakfust, and a winkle with my tea.
But the Guv'nor, he's a topper at the nortickle. Great Scott!
'Ow he do put on the Brayvo 'Icks when once aboard a yot!
He's a puffeck pocket Neptune, wich a chubby little chap,
Looks perticularly fetchin' in a trotty yotting cap.
Then he loves the swells—like I do—and it's sweet to 'ear him tork
Of his pal the P. of W. and his chum the Dook o' York.
He's just like a locomotive on the everlastin' puff,
He enjys hisself like fifty, and he's never 'ad enuff:
I do like to 'ear him patter to the cumpany ashore,
He keeps his friends a-bustin', and the table in a roar.
I on'y wish, dear Mary, I could phonygraff his chat,
And kinettyscope his haction; you would roar all round your 'at.
The Cowes Week would 'ave been rippin' if it 'adn't bin for rain;—
(As was bad for Ryal Princes, and likeways for Messrs. Pain).
And them tuppenny-apenny "trippers," as did ought to be kep out
When hus gentry is a-swarmin', and there's Ryalties about.
The Solent should be cordon'd hoff for Hemperors once a year,
For a mix o' Margit manners, and Salvationists, and beer,
Ain't no welcome for a Kyser, no, nor yet a Shazydar,
As demmocrycy is gettin' too permiskus like, by far.
A orty Owen Zollern didn't ought to be mixed hup
With Bank 'Olidays and bikes, when he's a runnin' for a Cup.
'Tis his seventh Solent wisit, and things went a trifle rum;
And if he took the Himperial 'Ump and nex' year didn't come,
W'y it wouldn't be serprisink, and hus Bulls, and Cowes, would suffer.
Whate'er that Hemperor may be, he ain't no idle duffer!
The Guv'nor, he hadmires him most tremenjus; so do hi.
It is suthink a'most touchin' for to see him, smart and spry
In his simple yotting costoom, with his snowy cap an' ducks,
A-taking it so heasy, though he'd none the best of lucks.
And his hironclads!!! Great Gumbo—as the Guv'nor loves to say—
They do not spare the powder, and if this is but their play,
I don't want to see'em workin'. The young Hemperor whisked about—
With our Guv'nor on his track, too, don't you make no sort of doubt—
His hork-heye—the Guv's—wos heverywhere. He watchin' each puff an' pop.
From the scrubbin' of a binnycle or the twirlin' of a mop,
To polishin' the funnel-tops with rottenstone and ile,
Wich he said he watched each mornin', Guv wos in it all the while.
He fair shaddered the young Kyser. And the story he'd reherse,
With a eloquence and hunction quite like droppin' into werse.
And he always soots the haction to the word in sech a way,
That when fairly on the cackle he's as good as any play.
But, O, Mary! it wos orkerd, and yumillyhating too,
When our yot—her name's the Polywog—to git a better view,
Shoved 'erself a bit too forrad, and, amidst a general skoff,
Wos tackled by a snortin' tug, and coolly carted hoff!
Guv swore he'd tell his pal the Dook but p'r'aps that wos his fun;
He also said he'd arsk him why the Meteor didn't run.
Owsomever "Rule, Britannyer" is quite good enuff for me
(Though the "Hail, Sir" 'ad a hinnings). I am nuts on Germany,
But when Haitch-Har-Haitch wos winnin', why I felt a bustin' throb
Swell this buzzum, for I thinks, thinks I, "Old England's on the job!"
Wich to see her rule the waves, dear, is the hackmy of my dreams,
So no more at present, Mary, from your fellow-servant,
Jeames.
At a banquet given in Bristol in honour of the invincible bicyclist, Mr. A. A. Zimmerman, a reverend gentleman suggested that the Town Councillors should present the freedom of that city to the two champions W. G. Grace and A. A. Zimmerman. Another spokesman, on the same festive occasion, remarked that he had heard of a book called Zimmerman on Solitude. He had never seen Zimmerman on Solitude, but he had beheld him on a safety. Really in Bristol their badinage is quite brilliant!
ESSENCE of PARLIAMENT.
EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.
House of Commons, Monday, August 12.—Back in the old place. Same address; same walls; same benches; same stage in short, but almost entirely new company. Squire of Malwood lends friendly look to Front Opposition Bench. But there are many vacant places to right and left of him. Where is John Morley, and Arnold Morley, and Shaw-Lefevre who saved our Commons but could not save his seat among them? What has become of John Hibbert, gentlest mannered man that ever repulsed attack on the public purse? And George Russell and Leveson-Gower? Was not even a Brand plucked from the burning? Was "Bobby," in laager behind his collar, cut off in the full fragrance of youth and beauty?