Circles a gallant arm about her waist,
  And takes unflinching the cheek-slap of the chaste
  And giggling fair, nor counts his labour lost. 
  Then, beer, beer, beer. 
  Spume-headed, bitter, golden like the gold
  Buried by cutlassed pirates tempest-tossed,
  Red-capped, immitigable, over-bold
  With blood and rapine, spreaders of fire and fear. 
  The kitchen table
  Is figured with the ancient, circular stains
  Of the pint-pot’s bottom; beer is all the go. 
  And every soul in the servants’ hall is able
  To drink his pint or hers until they grow
  Glorious with golden beer, and count as gains
  The glowing draughts that presage morning pains.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  QUITE UNANSWERABLE.

Ethel. “MAMMY DEAR!  WHY DO YOU POWDER YOUR FACE, AND WHY DOES THOMAS POWDER HIS HAIR?  I DON’T DO EITHER!”]

* * * * *

EPISCOPACY IN DANGER.—­Mr. Punch congratulates Dr. PEROWNE, Bishop of Worcester, on his narrow fire-escape some days ago, when his lawn sleeves (a costume more appropriate for a garden-party than a pulpit) caught fire.  It was extinguished by a bold Churchwarden.  In future let Churchwardens be prepared with hose whenever a prelate runs any chance of ignition from his own “burning eloquence.”  If Mr. Punch’s advice as above is acted upon, a Bishop if “put out” may probably mutter, “Darn your hose.”  But this can be easily explained away.

* * * * *

BETTER AND BETTER.—­The Report last week about Sir ARTHUR SULLIVAN was that “he hopes to go to the country shortly.”  So do our political parties.  Sir ARTHUR cannot restrain himself from writing new and original music at a rapid pace.  This, is a consequence of his having taken so many composing draughts.

* * * * *

“OUR BOOKING OFFICE.”—­Not open this week, as the Baron has been making a book.  Interesting subject, “On the Derby and Oaks.”  Being in sporting mood, the Baron adopts as his motto King SOLOMON’s words of wisdom, out of his (King SOLOMON’s) own mines of golden treasures,—­“And of book-making there is no end.”  He substitutes “book-making” for “making of books,” and with the poetic CAMPBELL (HERBERT of that ilk) he sings, “it makes no difference.”

* * * * *

AFTER THE EVENT.—­Last Sunday week was the one day in the year when ancient Joe Millers were permissible.  It was “Chestnut Sunday.”  We didn’t like to mention it before.

* * * * *

The Royal General Theatrical Fund Dinner, held last Thursday, will be remembered in the annals of the Stage as “ALEXANDER’s Feast.”

* * * * *

HORACE IN LONDON.  TO A COQUETTE. (AD PYRRHAM.)