Ye’ve all heard of the Lion
    Who a rival cast his eye on,
  (You’ll find him in Bombastes) and thought the brute a bore. 
    Such rival Leos flourish,
    And mutual hatred nourish,
  With a snapping almost currish, upon Afric’s shore.

    Faith their manes are always waving,
    And their claws for contest craving,
  And their forms are always rampant, and they’re ever at full roar,
    And in book and morning paper,
    They still clapperclaw and caper,
  And they worry, snarl and vapour about Afric’s shore.

    There was EMIN, sage pacific,
    The serene and scientific,
  Who a wondrous reputation in a hero-patriot bore,
    Until “rescued” by brave STANLEY,
    Who declared him weak, unmanly. 
  Oh! ’tis strange how heroes can lie about Afric’s shore.

    Then BARTTELOT and TROUP,
    JEPHSON, JAMESON—­a group
  Who each of each “made soup”—­off each other tried to score;
    And in many a verjuiced “vollum”
    STANLEY’s jovial “Rear Column”
  Was discussed in manner solemn, anent Afric’s shore.

    Then the “foreign element”
    To it tooth and nail they went,
  And the Battle of the Heroes it grew livelier than before. 
    Now that man, and now this man,
    Now DE BRAZZA and now WISSMANN,
  Made it hot for poor Old England upon Afric’s shore.

    Now comes PETERS!  He has slanged
    STANLEY awfully, and banged
  The “Rescue” party badly.  It is getting a big bore,
    When, with tempers hot as Indies,
    Heroes smash each other’s windies,
  Pursuing of their shindies about Afric’s shore.

    It is doubtless “moighty fine,”
    Being what Titmarsh called “a line,”
  And it does Society’s “sowl” good (no doubt) to hear him roar;
    But ’tis folly to suppose
    He must rush upon his foes,
  And hit them on the nose, upon Afric’s shore.

* * * * *

EARLY CLOSING MOVEMENT.—­When Mr. SMITH proposed shutting up shop early on Tuesdays and Fridays, SIR ROBERT FOWLER was all for singing, “We won’t go home till morning (three times), Till daylight doth appear.”  But, as Falstaff asks, “What doth gravity out of bed after midnight?” No, Sir ROBERT, doughty knight, take good advice, and hie thee, armed Night-cap-a-pie, to thy couch.  Don’t get up till morning, Till (long after) daylight doth appear!

* * * * *

[Illustration:  IBSEN IN BRIXTON.

Mrs. Harris.  “YES, WILLIAM, I’VE THOUGHT A DEAL ABOUT IT, AND I FIND I’M NOTHING BUT YOUR DOLL AND DICKEY-BIRD, AND SO I’M GOING!”]

* * * * *

THE PARTY PETER BELL.

  A potterer, Sir, he was by trade,
    A Party Potterer, much respected,
  And every year, when Spring appeared,
  The yellow blooms, to bards endeared,
    In swarms by PETER were collected.