And the smell of damp straw mixed with pep’mint ain’t nice to a dalicot
      nose,
  Likeways neat “Oh be Joyful’s” a thing as with orange and snuff hardly
      goes. 
  But we ain’t all rekerky nor rich, we can’t all afford sixpence a mile,
  And when we are old, late, and tired, or it’s wet, we can’t think about
      style. 
  The ’Bus is the poor body’s kerridge, young feller—­and as for your talk
  About not never missing a lift, or forgetting—­dear sakes!—­how to walk,
  And the nice quiet streets and all that; why it’s clear you ain’t been
      a poor clerk
  With a precious small “screw,” in wet weather.  Ah! you wouldn’t find it
      no lark
  With thin boots and a ’ard ’acking cough, and three mile every day to and
      thro’,
  Or a puffy old woman like me, out at Witsuntide wisiting JOE,
  (My young son in the greengrocer line); or a governess, peaky and pale,
  As has just overslep herself slightly, and can’t git by cab or by rail. 
  “Ugly lumbering wehicles?” Ah! and we’re ugly and lumbering too,
  A lot of us poor Penny ’Bus fares, as isn’t high-born or true-blue. 
  But the ’Bus is our help.  Wery like some do ride as had far better walk,
  Whether tip-toppy swells or poor shop-girls.  But all that is trumpery talk. 
  What I arsk is, why shouldn’t the ’Buses be kept a bit reglar, like Cabs,
  In the matter of fares and of distances?  Oh, a old woman it crabs
  To hear of Perprietors pinching pore fellers as drive or conduck,
  While the “Pirates” play up merry mag with the poor helpless fare, as gets
      stuck
  Betwixt Dividend-grinders and Strikers?  It ought to be altered, I say. 
  Whilst they talk of what ’Bus-folk should earn, they forget the pore
      Publick—­who pay!

* * * * *

LE PRINCE S’AMUSE.

AN APOLOGETIC IDYL.

  My life is held to be a round of Pleasures;
  All I can say is, they who thus would rate it,
  For life’s delights have most peculiar measures: 
  For though in plainest English they don’t state it,
  ’Tis clear “no recreation” meets their views,
  Or why that sneering cry, “Le Prince s’amuse?”

  Or do they think a Prince, without repining,
  Foundation-stones unceasingly is laying,
  Rewarded with a glut of public dining,
  The pangs of hunger ever to be staying,
  Is recreation such as he would choose? 
  If so—­I understand “Le Prince s’amuse!”

  But how a world that notes his daily doings,
  The everlasting round of weary function,—­
  The health-returnings, speeches, interviewings. 
  Can grudge him some relief, without compunction,
  Seems quite to me “another pair of shoes!”
  Dyspeptic is that cry, “Le Prince s’amuse!”

* * * * *