The Vultures, dear Joe?  Nay, it needs no apology To say you are out in your new ornithology.  The Vultures are carrion-birds, be it said; And the Man and the Cause you detest are not dead!  Much as his decease was desired, he’s alive, And the Cause is no carcase.  So, Joe, you must strive To get nearer the truth.  Shall we help you?  All fowls Are not Vultures.  For instance, dear Joe, there are Owls, (Like Jesse) and Ravens much given to croaking, (in Ulster they’re noisy, though some think they’re joking), Then Parrots are plentiful everywhere, Joe, (They keep on repeating your chatter, you know, As they did in the days when you railed about ransom; But Parrots are never wise birds, Joe, though handsome); Then Geese, Jays, and Daws; yet they’re birds of a feather, And they, my dear Joseph, are gathered together, To hiss, squeal and peck at the Party they’d foil, But who’re like to secure—­as you phrase it—­“the spoil.”  Yes, these be the birds most en evidence now; And by Jingo, my Joe, they are raising a row.  They’re full of cacophonous fuss, and loud spite; And they don’t take their licking as well as they might.  In fact, they’re a rather contemptible crew; And—­well, of which species, dear Joseph, are you?

* * * * *

[Illustration:  The bewildered tourist and the Rival sirens.

(A LONG WAY AFTER TENNYSON’S “THE DESERTED HOUSE.”)

    “June and July have passed away,
    Like a tide.
    Doors are open, windows wide.
  Why in stuffy London stay?”
  Sing the Sirens (slyboots they!)
    With a Tennysonian twang,
        To the Tourist,
        (Not the poorest
  You may bet your bottom dollar,
  Which those Sirens aim to “collar.”
  Demoiselles, excuse the slang!)

  “All within is dark as night,
  In Town’s windows is no light,
  And no caller at your door,
  Swell or beggar, chum or bore! 
  Close the door, the shutters close,
  Or thro’ windows folks will see,
  The nakedness and vacancy,
  Of the dark deserted house!”

  “Come away! no more of mirth
    Is here, or merry-making sound. 
  The house is shut, and o’er the earth
    Man roves upon the Regular Round
  Come away!  Life, Love, Trade, Thought,
        Here no longer dwell;
        Shopkeepers censorious
  Sigh, “What swells would buy, they’ve bought. 
  They are off!  No more we’ll sell. 
  Would they could have stayed with us!”

  “Come away!” So Sirens sing—­
    Sly, seducious, and skittish—­
    To the Tourist, wealthy, British,
  When Society’s on the wing,
    Or should be, for “Foreign Parts.” 
  British BULL mistrusts their arts. 
        “Come