When laws can turn the pratie into the Frenchman's bean,
An' when the Russian Ballet comes to dance on College Green,
Then I'll accept the title, though I'm a patriot keen,
But till that day Tara shall stay in front of Aberdeen.
Chorus (to the tune of Tarara-Boom-de-ay.)
Tara and Aberdeen—that's what it should have been,
For never has there been an insult so obscene
To dear Dark Rosaleen, our holy Island Queen,
As letting Tara's sheen be dimmed by Aberdeen.
"Grease Spots on Milk.—Take a lump of magnesia, and, having wetted it, rub it over the grease-marks. Let it dry, and then brush the powder off, when the spots will be found to have disappeared."—North Wilts Herald.
They didn't. Perhaps we had the wrong kind of milk.
Lady. "I want some studs, please, for my son."
Shopman. "Yes, Madam—for the front?"