But the scenes wos ‘splendiferous, CHARLIE.  About arf a mile o’
          stage front,
  With some thousands of ’eroes and supers, as seemed all the time
          on the ’unt. 
  Lor! ’ow they did scoot up and down that there stage at the
          double, old man,
  All their legs on the waggle, like flies, and their armour a-chink
          as they ran!

  Old Shylock turns up quite permiskus, and always upon the full
          trot;
  He seemed mixed up with Portias, and Doges, smart gals, and the
          dickens knows wot. 
  All kep waving their arms like mad semy-phores, doin’ the akrybat
          prank,
  As if they was swimming in nothink, or ’ailing a ’bus for the Bank.

  I sez to a party beside me, “Old man, wot the doose does it mean?”
  Sez he, “A dry attic, yer know, of wich Venice, yer see, wos the
          Queen. 
  That cove in a nightcap’s the Doge; for an old ’un he can move
          about. 
  They had G.O.M.’s, mate, in Venice; of that there is not the least
          doubt.

  “That’s VETTORE PISANI, the Hadmiral; t’other is General ZENO
  Defending the State, I persoom, and they’re ’aving a fust-class
          old beano. 
  Wy PEDRO THE SECOND, of Cyprus, and Portia is made a rum blend
  With Turps Siccory’s Revels, and so on, no doubt we shall twig at
          the hend.”

  I sez, “Thankee! that’s werry instructive.  You do know a lot,
          mate, you do!”
  Then the fight at Chioggia came on.  Sech a rum pully-haully all
          through. 
  But the Victory Percession wos proper, and so was the All Frisky
          feet,
  And the way as they worked the gondolers, them streaky-legged
          chaps, wos a treat.

  But the best o’ the barney came arter.  I took a gondoler, old man,
  Sort o’ wobbly black coffin afloat, and perpelled on the rummiest
          plan
  With one oar and a kind of notched post.  But a dressy young party
          in pink
  ’Ad a seat in my ship, and seemed skeery. I cheered ’er up—­wot
          do you think?

  “No danger,” sez I, “not a mossel!  Now is there, old lollipop-legs? 
  Sit ’ere, Miss, and trim the old barky!  Go gently now, young
          ’Am-and-Eggs! 
  ’Ow much for yer mustard-striped kicksies?  Way-oh!  Wy, you nearly
          run down
  The Ryhalto that time, you young josser.  Look hout, Miss, he’ll
          crack your sweet crown!”

  Larf, CHARLIE?  She did a fair chortle.  I ’ave sech a way with
          the shes. 
  We ’ad six sixpennorths together—­I tell you ’twos go-as-you-please! 
  Modern Venice, took out of a toy-box, with palaces fourteen foot
          ’igh. 
  And Bridges o’ Sighs cut in pasteboard, is larks all the same, and
          no fly.