MUDDY MILAN.
Once I thought that you could boast Such a perfect southern sky, Flecked with summer clouds at most; Always sunny, always dry, Warm enough, perhaps, to grill an Englishman, O muddy Milan!
Now I find you soaking wet, Underneath an English sky; Pavements, mediæval yet, Whence mud splashes ever fly; And, to make one damp and ill, an Endless downpour, muddy Milan!
Though you boast such works of art, Where is that unclouded sky? Muddy Milan, we must part, I shall gladly say good-bye, Pack, and pay my little bill—an Artless thing—and leave you, Milan.
A Really "Independent of Labour Party."—Mr. Keir Hardie, M.P.
LYRE AND LANCET.
(A Story in Scenes.)