If all t’ kisses as Oi ha’ tuke
      Wuz zet down vair an’ square inter buke,
      Lard!  Lard! ‘twud make t’ greaaet volk say: 
      "What a tur’ble chap is ole Joe Gay!"
      Vor it du zet ma brain a-swimmin’
      Tu think o’ all t’ hundered wimmin
      As Oi ha’ bussed ‘hind hedge an’ door
      Zince vust Oi cuddled dree or vour. 
  Polly Potter, Trixie Trotter, Gertie Gillard, Zairy Zlee,
  Zusan Zettle, Connie Kettle, Daisy Doble, La’ra Lee,
  Hesther Holley, Jinny Jolly, Nelly Northam, Vanny Vail,
  Ivery maid in Coompton Regis—­dang it, whoy,
        Oi’ve bussed ’em all!

      When Oi vust went to Zunday skule,
      Passen’s darter, on greaaet high stule,
      Taakes me oop on ’ur lady knee,
      An’ kissed ov Oi, zo Oi kissed ov she! 
      An’, arter skule, zure-ly, Oi vollers
      T’ little blushin’ vemale scholars
      All round t’ orchards, an’ under stacks,
      Oi bussed t’ lot, an’ yew can ax—­
  Polly Potter, Trixie Trotter, Gertie Gillard, Zairy Zlee,
  Zusan Zettle, Connie Kettle, Daisy Doble, La’ra Lee,
  Hesther Holley, Jinny Jolly, Nelly Northam, Vanny Vall,
  Ivery gal in Coompton Regis—­ax the lot, Oi’ve kissed ’em all!

      Thur’s not a lane vur moiles around
      But hassen heerd ma kisses zound,
      Nor dru t’ parish will ’ee vind
      A door Oi hanna kissed behind;
      An’ now, wid crutch, an’ back bent double,
      T’ rheumatiz doaen’t gie naw trouble,
      Vor all t’ ould grannies handy-boi
      Iz mazed, vair mazed, on cuddlin’ Oi! 
  Pore-house Potter, toothless Trotter, gouty Gillard, splea-foot Zlee,
  Zilly Zettle, cock-eyed Kettle, deaf ould Doble, limpin’ Lee,
  Husky Holley, jaundy Jolly, Nanny Northam, vractious Vall,
  All t’ ould gals in Coompton Regis, bless their hearts, Oi love ’em all!

MR. BROOKFIELD IN HIS YOUTH
[Sidenote:  W.H.  Brookfield]

My Dear Venables,

Notwithstanding the proverbial irregularity of the English mails and the infamous practice of Government in embezzling all private letters for the King’s private reading, yours of the 17th eluded observation at the post office so as to reach me; and was as acceptable as, considering the wearisome frequency of your communications lately, could possibly be expected.

My last was a scrawl from Althorp—­where we spent six weeks.  That there are 60,000 volumes you know.  I read them all, excepting a pamphlet in a patois of the Sanscrit, written by a learned, but, I regret to add, profane Hindoo Sectarian, the blasphemous drift of which was to prove that Bramah’s locks were not all patent.