To-day in our myriads we muster. 
Friendly warning is all that we mean. 
About SOLLY’s “incitement” Rads fluster;
We’re thrue to the Crown and the QUEEN: 
But Ulster no “pathriot” shall sever,
And Ulster no “Papish” shall school. 
Whillaloo!  Here’s the Union for ever,
And into the Boyne wid Home Rule! 
Ri fol didder rol didder rol!

Och!  Here’s to Dutch WILLIAM the Pious! 
And here’s to VICTORIA the Good! 
If they think we won’t foight, let ’em try us! 
They mock at an Orangeman’s mood,
But once set the Green ’gainst the Yellow,
(Wid no one our coat-tails to pull,)
And I pity the pathriots who bellow
(Like bhoys in a bog) for Home Rule! 
Ri fol didder rol didder rol!

Come, all loyal props of the nation,
Come fill up a bumper all round! 
Drink success to our great federation;
With Brummy JOE’s blessing ’tis crowned.
He says we are heroes, right stingo,
He vows W.G.’s an old fool. 
No, we don’t want to fight, but, by Jingo,
Whin we do—­it’s all up wid Home Rule! 
Ri fol didder rol didder rol!
[Left “bombinating."

* * * * *

A BACHELOR’S GROWL.

Oh, the beautiful women, the women of ancient days,
The ripe and the red, who are done and dead,
With never a word of praise;
The rich, round SALLIES and SUSANS, the POLLIES and JOANS and PRUES,
Who guarded their fame, and saw no shame
In walking in low-heeled shoes.

  They never shrieked on a platform; they never desired a vote;
    They sat in a row and liked things slow,
      While they knitted or patched a coat. 
  They lived with nothing of Latin, and a jolly sight less of Greek,
    And made up their books, and changed their cooks
      On an average once a week.

  They never ventured in hansoms, nor climbed to the topmost ’bus,
    Nor talked with a twang in the latest slang;
      They left these fashions to us. 
  But, ah, she was sweet and pleasant, though possibly not well-read,
    The excellent wife who cheered your life,
      And vanished at ten to bed.

  And it’s oh the pity, the pity that time should ever annul
    The wearers of skirts who mended shirts,
      And never thought nurseries dull. 
  For everything’s topsy-turvy now, the men are bedded at ten,
    While the women sit up, and smoke and sup
      In the Club of the Chickless Hen.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  AN OLD SONG REVIVED.

COLONEL S-ND-RS-N (the Irish “Lion Comique”) sings—­

  “WE DON’T WANT TO FIGHT,
  BUT, BY JINGO, IF WE DO, ——­“]

* * * * *

THE USEFUL CRICKETER.

(A CANDID VETERAN’S CONFESSION.)

[Illustration]