But in spite of Yank and Scot, and the Bimetallic lot,
They who're fly to what is what, back the Gold 'un.
And did I bet—for fun—ere this Standard fight is done,
I should plank my ten to one
On the Old 'Un!
SUN-SPOTS.
Fog, haze, smoke or cloud, almost daily enshroud
The Metropolis—place we should shun—
And day after day the reports briefly say,