Tommy Atkins, loquitur:—­

  Oh, where and wot am I?  A spindle-shank’d stripling,
    As blue-gilled old Tory ex-Colonels protest? 
  Or a ’ero, as pictured by young Rudyard Kipling,
    Six foot in my socks, forty-inch round the chest? 
  I’m blowed if I know arter all the discussion. 
    But if I’m the cove as they’re going to trust,
  To give good account of yer Frenchy or Russian,
    At least they’d best give me a gun as won’t bust. 
  They’ve bin fighting this battle of barrels and breeches,—­
   Ah yus, from the days of our poor old Brown Bess,
  And wot’s the result as their ’speriments teaches? 
    They’d better jest settle it sharp-like, I guess. 
  If once of a rattlin’ good rifle I’m owner,
    A thing as won’t jack-up or jam, I don’t care. 
  But if they stand squabblin’ till Missis BELLONER
    Puts in ’er appearance, there’ll be a big scare. 
  Ah, she’s the true “Expert”; wuth fifty Committees! 
    But then ’er decision means money—­and blood. 
  Wot price TOMMY ATKINS, then?  Everyone pities
    His fate, when he’s snuffed it, and pity’s no good. 
  Whether STANHOPE is right, or the Times, I ain’t sayin’;
    But here Marm BELLONER gives both a big hint,
  As it’s rayther a touch-and-go game they are playin’,
    And TOMMY, he thinks she is right,—­plain as print!]

* * * * *

“SIC ITUR AD ASTRA!”

Look out for Mr. Punch Among the Planets!  He is a Star of the first magnitude, and the above is the title of his Christmas Number.  It will issue from, to use astrological language, the House of BRADBURY-AGNEW-&-CO., although the sidereal and celestial subjects of the forthcoming Christmas Number are suggestive of the old days of “BRADBURY and Heavens.”

* * * * *

THREE TASTES.

I.

  My pipe, he tastes of turpentine—­
    He is a penny pipe—­
  A taste that every pipe of mine
    Has when he is not ripe. 
  I bought him at a little shop
    Where they sell fruit and cheese,
  Tobacco, toys, and ginger-pop,
    And said, “A cheap pipe, please.”

  It was a maiden sold him me,
    And she was proud and cold;
  She’d briar pipes at two-and-three
    For them that squandered gold;
  She’d one that had a leather case. 
    Item, a curly stem;
  And cheap pipes make her shrug her face,
    She had such scorn of them.

II.

  My pipe he tastes of cherry now;
    Gone, like the foam of wine,
  Gone, like the mist from mountain-brow,
    Gone is that turpentine. 
  With the pure herb I feel it blend—­
   That charm of cherry-wood,
  And smoke him six times straight on end,
    Because he is so good.