And I much prefers the cornet when ‘e ain’t bin drinkin’ gin. 
  And there’s Concertina-JIMMY, it makes yer want to shout
  When ’e acts just like a windmill and waves ’is arms about. 
  Oh, I’ll lay you ’alf a tanner, you’ll find it ’ard to beat
  The good old ’eaps of music that they gives us in our street.

  And a pore old ragged party, whose shawl is shockin’ torn,
  She sings to suit ’er ’usband while ’e plays on so forlorn. 
  ’Er voice is dreadful wheezy, and I can’t exactly say
  I like ‘er style of singin’ “Tommy Dodd” or “Nancy Gray.” 
  But there, she does ’er best, I’m sure; I musn’t run ’er down,
  When she’s only tryin’ all she can to earn a honest brown. 
  Still, though I’m mad to ’ear ’em play, and sometimes join the dance,
  I often wish one music gave the other kind a chance. 
  The orgin might have two days, and the cornet take a third,
  While the pipe-man tried o’ Thursdays ’ow to imitate a bird. 
  But they allus comes together, singin’ playin’ as they meet
  With their pipes and ’orns and orgins in the middle of our street.

  But there, I can’t stand chatterin’, pore mother’s mortal bad,
  And she’s got to work the whole day long to keep things straight for dad. 
  Complain?  Not she.  She scrubs and rubs with all ’er might and main,
  And the lot’s no sooner finished but she’s got to start again. 
  There’s a patch for JOHNNY’s jacket, a darn for BILLY’s socks,
  And an hour or so o’ needlework a mendin’ POLLY’s frocks;
  With floors to wash, and plates to clean, she’d soon be skin and bone
  (’Er cough’s that aggravatin’) if she did it all alone. 
  There’ll be music while we’re workin’ to keep us on the go—­
  I like my tunes as fast as fast, pore mother likes ’em slow—­
  Ah! we don’t get much to laugh at, nor yet too much to eat,
  And the music stops us thinkin’ when they play it in the street.

* * * * *

“MARIE, COME UP!”—­When Miss MARIE LLOYD, who, unprofessionally, when at home, is known as Mrs. PERCY COURTENAY, which her Christian name is MATILDA, recently appeared at Bow-Street Police Court, having summoned her husband for an assault, the Magistrate, Mr. LUSHINGTON, ought to have called on the Complainant to sing “Whacky, Whacky, Whack!” which would have come in most appropriately.  Let us hope that the pair will make it up, and, as the story-books say, “live happily ever afterwards.”

* * * * *

NIGHT LIGHTS.—­Rumour has it that certain Chorus Ladies have objected to wearing electric glow-lamps in their hair.  Was it for fear of becoming too light-headed?

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[Illustration:  THE POLITICAL WIREPULLER AT WORK.]

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POLITE LITERATURE.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,—­Having seen in the pages of one of your contemporaries several deeply interesting letters telling of “the Courtesy of the CAVENDISH,” I think it will be pleasing to your readers to learn that I have a fund of anecdote concerning the politeness—­the true politeness—­of many other members of the Peerage.  Perhaps you will permit me to give you a few instances of what I may call aristocratic amiability.