’ARRY ain’t no Astronomer, leastways I ain’t never made it my mark
  To go nap on star-gazing; I’ve mostly got other good biz arter dark. 
  But when Mister Punch give me the tip ’ow he’d take poor old
      TIME on the fly,
  Wy I tumbled to it like a shot; ’ARRY’s bound to be in it, sez I.

  So I took on the Lockyers and Procters, and mugged up the planets
      and stars. 
  With their gods and their goddesses, likeways their thunderbolts,
      tridents and cars. 
  I jogged on with old Jupiter, CHARLIE, and gave young Apoller
      a turn,
  While as to DIANNER!—­but there, that is jest wot you’re going
      to learn.

  It wos dry and a little bit dazing, this cram, and you won’t
      think it’s odd
  If yours truly got doosedly drowsy.  In fact I wos napped on
      the nod,
  But the way I got woke wos a wunner.  Oh!  CHARLIE, my precious
      old pal,
  If you’d know wot’s fair yum-yum, ’ook on to a genuine celestial
      gal.

  “Smack!” “Hillo!” sez I, starting sudden, “where ham I, and
      wot’s this ’ere game?”
  Then a pair o’ blue eyes looked in mine with a lime-lighty sort of
      a flame,
  As made me feel moony immediate.  “Great Pompey,” thinks I, “here’s
      a spree! 
  It’s DIANNER by all that is proper, and as for Enjimmyun—­that’s
      Me!”

  [Illustration]

  For I see a young person in—­well, I ain’t much up in classical
      togs,
  But she called it a “chlamys,” I think.  She’d a bow, and a couple
      of dogs,
  “Rayther forward and sportive young party,” thinks I, Sandown-Parky
      in style;
  But pooty, and larky no doubt, so I tips her a wink and a smile.

  “All right, Miss DIANNER,” sez I.  “You ’ave won ’em—­the gloves—­and
      no kid. 
  Wot size, Miss, and ’ow many buttons?” But she never lowered a lid,
  And the red on her cheeks warn’t no blush but a reglar indignant
      flare-up,
  Whilst the look from her proud pair of lamps ’it as ’ard and as
      straight as a Krupp.

  Brought me sharp to my bearings, I tell yer.  “Young mortal,” she sez,
      “it is plain
  An Enjimmyun is not to be found in the purlieus of Chancery Lane. 
  And that Primrose ’Ill isn’t a Latmos.  The things you call gloves I
      don’t wear,
  Only buskins.  But don’t you be rude, or the fate of Actaeon you’ll
      share.”

  I wosn’t quite fly to her patter, but “mortal” might jest ’ave bin
      “cub,”
  From the high-perlite way she pernounced it, and plainly DIANNER
      meant “snub.” 
  Struck me moony, her manner, did CHARLIE, she hypnertised me with
      her looks,
  And the next thing I knowed I was padding the ’oof in a region of
      spooks.