If some of Mr. Punch's readers, while recognising the force and go of the lines, shall think them tant soit peu coarse and brutal, the fault must not be ascribed to Mr. Punch, but to the brilliant young author. Moreover, Mr. Punch begs leave to say, that squeamishness of that kind is becoming more and more absurd every day under the influence of the New Poetry and its professors. Here then is—
KNOCKED OUT.
By Mr. R*d**rd K*pl*ng.
Oh it's bully when I land 'em with a counter on the jaw,
When the ruby's all a drippin' and the conks are red and raw;
And it's bully when I've downed 'em, and the lords are standin' booze,
Them lords with shiny shirt-fronts, and their patent-leather shoes.
But you'd best look jolly meek
When you're up afore the beak,
For they hustle you, and bustle you, and treat you like a dog.