Hey diddle diddle,
  The voters we’d fiddle
    With Free Education—­that “boon.” 
  But Wisbech birds laugh
  At such plain party “chaff,”
    And the “Dish”—­at the polls—­proves a “Spoon.”

* * * * *

From GRANDOLPH the explorer.

Oh, for one hour of the Amphytrion!  I can’t even send you a digest of the news generally, for my power to digest is already becoming seriously impaired.  Here, indeed, as say the Witches in Macbeth (I think it’s the Witches, but haven’t my Shakspeare handy, I mean my Handy Shakspeare, with me—­wish I had), “Fowl is Fare.”  Send my Pilgrim’s Scrip next week.  Till then, Yours ever, GRANDOLPH.

* * * * *

IN THE NAME OF CHARLES DIBDIN!

A LAY FOR THE LIFEBOAT SERVICE.

[An urgent appeal is made on behalf of the Royal National Lifeboat Institution, which is declared to be “in dire financial straits,” the deficit for last year being L33,000.  Subscriptions and donations will be thankfully received by CHARLES DIBDIN, Esq., Secretary, R.N.L.I., 14, St. John Street, Adelphi, London, W.C.]

  True “tuneful CHARLEY is no more,”
    As DIBDIN’s Monument informs us;
  But memory of the man who bore
    That honoured name still stirs and warms us. 
  And here’s another of his name,
    Who still the British Sailor’s serving;
  Then who could see without sore shame
    JOHN BULL from his plain duty swerving?

  Thirty-three Thousand to the bad,
    Our Lifeboat Service, once our glory? 
  Nay, JOHN, that will not do, my lad;
    Next year must tell a different story. 
  Think, what would “tuneful CHARLEY” say
    To such a thing?  In racy lingo,
  Upon our backs his lash he’d lay,
    And give the slothful Britons “stingo.”

  Thirty-five thousand lives they’ve saved,
    Our Life-boat rescuers, already. 
  The seas around our shores they’ve braved,
    With valour prompt and patience steady. 
  Shall they be floored for L.S.D.,
    Because JOHN BULL his pockets buttons? 
  Then the old keepers of the Sea
    Must be, in pluck, as dead as muttons.

  True, lads, on such a text as this
    “We sadly miss old CHARLEY’s line;”
  But were we mute, Neptune would hiss
    His sons degenerate off the brine. 
  Old “CHARLEY” spins his yarns no more! 
    He’s dead, as Scrooge declared old Marley. 
  What then?  Wake up, from shore to shore,
     And—­send your guineas to Young CHARLEY!

* * * * *

“GREAT SCOT!”