A Yankee Inspector is all very fine,
But if pleuro-pneumonia crosses the line,
And with BULL’S bulls and heifers should play up the deuce,
A Yankee Inspector won’t be of much use,

                                                Which nobody can dispute.

A Yankee Inspector you seem to suppose is
A buckler and barrier against trichinosis;
Bat trichinae pass without passports.  Bacilli
And microbes that Yankee might miss willy-nilly,

                                                Which nobody can deny.

Port-slaughter restrictions may limit your trade. 
Well, your Tariffs Protective to help us aren’t made,
And we cannot run dangers to plump up your wealth,
Until you can show us a clean bill of health,

                                                Which nobody can assert.

And as to that cudgel tucked under your arm,
You fancy, perhaps, it will act as a charm. 
No, Jonathan!  John to your argument’s dull,
And you will not convince him by cracking his skull,

                                                Which nobody can suppose.

The Gaul and the Teuton seem much of my mind,
And, despite your new Law, you will probably find
That Yankee Inspectors, plus menaces big,
Rehabilitate not the American Pig,

                                                Which nobody can affirm.

No, Jonathan, Johnny feels no animosity,
He’d like, with yourself, to have true Reciprocity;
But neither your Law, nor a smart cudgel-stroke,
Will make him—­or them—­buy your Pig in a Poke—­
Which nobody can particularly
wonder at, after all; now can
they, Jonathan?

* * * * *

“NOMINE MUTATO.”—­For some weeks there was a considerable amount of correspondence in the Times, anent “Ecclesiastical Titles,” which suddenly disappeared.  Was the topic resumed one day last week under the new heading, “The Symbolical Representation of Ciphers?”

* * * * *

Latest from the lyceum.—­With a view to supplying the entire world with the current number, Mr. Punch goes to press at a date too early to permit of a criticism of Ravenswood.  So he contents himself (for the present) by merely recording that at the initial performance on Saturday last all went as happily ("merrily,” with so sombre a plot, is not the word) as a marriage-bell.  There was a striking situation towards the end of the drama which was both novel and interesting.  Mr. IRVING received and deserved a grand reception, and it was generally admitted that amongst the many admirable impersonations for which MISS ELLEN TERRY is celebrated, her Bride of Lammermoor appropriately “takes the cake!”