We wos snaking along t’other day, reglar clump of hus—­BUGGINS and
          me,
  MUNGO ’IGGINS, and BILLY BOLAIR, SAMMY SNIPE, and TOFF JONES, and
          MICK SHEE;
  All the right rorty sort, and no flies; when along comes a gurl on
          a ’orse. 
  Well, we spread hout, and started our squeakers, and gave ’er a
          rouser, in course.

  ’Orse shied, and backed into a ’edge, and it looked so remarkable
          rum,
  That we couldn’t ’elp doing a larf, though the gurl wos
          pertikler yum-yum;
  We wos ready to ’elp, ’owsomever, when hup comes a swell, and he
          swore,
  And—­would you believe it, old pal?—­went for BUGGINS, and give
          ’im wot for!!!

  Nasty sperrit, old man; nothink sportsmanlike, surely, about sech
          a hact! 
  Them’s the sort as complains of hus Cyclists, mere crackpots as
          ain’t got no tact. 
  We all did a guy like greased lightning; you can when you’re
          once on your wheel—­
  Stout bobbies carn’t run down a “Safety,” and gurls can do nothink
          but squeal.

  That’s where Wheelin’ gives yer the pull!  Still it’s beastly to
          think a fine sport
  And a smart lot of hathleets like hus must be kiboshed by mugs of
          that sort. 
  All boko! dear boy, those Times letters!  I mean the new barney
          to carry,
  As long as the Slops and the Beaks keep their meddlesome mawleys orf

’ARRY.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  THE FORCE OF EXAMPLE.

Lady Clara Robinson (nee Vere de Vere).  “THANKS!  HOW IS IT OMNIBUS
MEN ARE SO MUCH CIVILLER THAN I’M TOLD THEY USED TO BE?”

Conductor.  “YOU SEE, LADY, THERE’S SO MANY DECAYED ARISTOCRACY
TRAVELS BY US NOWADAYS, THAT WE PICKS UP THEIR MANNERS!”]

* * * * *

SONNET ON THE SOUTH-EASTERN.

(AFTER A CELEBRATED MODEL.)

COMPOSED AT LONDON BRIDGE TERMINUS, APRIL 18, 1892.

    ["One can do nothing with Railways.  You cannot write
    sonnets on the South-Eastern.”—­Mr. Barry Pain, “In the
    Smoking-Room.”]

  Earth has not anything to show less fair: 
  Patient were he of soul who could pass by
  A twenty minutes’ wait amidst the cry
  Of churlish clowns who worn cord jackets wear,
  Without one single, solitary swear. 
  The low, unmeaning grunt, the needless lie,
  The prompt “next platform” (which is all my eye),
  The choky waiting-room, the smoky air;
  Refreshment-bars where nothing nice they keep,
  Whose sandwich chokes, whose whiskey makes one ill;
  The seatless platforms!  Ne’er was gloom so deep! 
  The truck toe-crusheth at its own sweet will. 
  Great Scott! are pluck and common-sense asleep,
  That the long humbugged Public stands it still?