A BRET-HARTEISH BALLAD.

MORAL BILL BUTTONS SINGS:—­

  I reside at Greenlands (Henley), and my name is MORAL BILL;
  I’m a model of well-meaning, which makes up for want of skill;
  And I’ll tell, in simple language, what I know about the shine
  Which demoralised our kitchen, and which bust up our Big Dine.

  But first I would remark that it is not a prudent plan
  For any culinary gent to flout his fellow-man;
  And, if a colleague can’t agree with his peculiar whim,
  To wait on that same colleague, and trip up the heels of him.

  Now nothing could be nicer, or more beautiful to see. 
  Than the first three years’ proceedings of our Cooks (and we had three),
  Till JOACHIM (of Goshen) made a dish (of devilled bones),
  Which he flaunted in the face of ARTHUR B. with swelling tones.

  Then ARTHUR made an entree; he constructed it with care,
  And he vowed that e’en APICIUS would have owned it rich and rare. 
  And when JOACHIM protested that “soup first” was a fixed rule,
  ARTHUR B. insinuated that his colleague was a mule.

  And then he smiled a languid smile; sneering was ARTHUR’S fault,
  And he had one squirmy snigger which was worse than an assault. 
  He was a most sarcastic man, this languid ARTHUR B.,
  And he aimed at being Chef, which JOKIM said was fiddlededee.

  Now I hold it’s not the duty of a culinary gent
  To say his colleague is a Moke—­at least to all intent;
  Nor should the individual who happens to be meant
  Reply by chucking crockery to any great extent.

  Then Number Three Cook tried to raise an ill-done roti, when
  He tripped o’er ARTHUR’S heels, and fell upon his abdomen;
  And presently the various plats were mingled on the floor;
  And the subsequent proceedings let us draw a curtain o’er.

  For in less time than I write it every Cooky dropped his dish,
  And our menu was as mucked as our worst enemy could wish;
  And the way those Cookies chivied in their anger was a sin,
  And the only dinner left ’em was the cheese—­which I took in.

  And this is all I have to say concerning this sad spill;
  For I live at Greenlands (Henley), and my name is Moral BILL;
  And I’ve told in simple language all I know about the shine
  That demoralised our kitchen, and upset the year’s Big Dine!

* * * * *

A SWEET HOME FOR NANCY.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,—­The other evening, wishing to enjoy a little music, I went to the Lyric Theatre, and found that the opera chosen for performance was called Sweet Nancy, founded upon a novel with some similar title by Miss RHODA BROUGHTON.  The prettiest tune I heard was one that I fancy had been played before, and my belief is the stronger as Mr. HENRY NEVILLE referred to it as “a dear old song.”