A ignerent pert L.C.C.,
  To whom Calipash is a mistry, whose soul never loved Calipee,
  A feller elected by groundlings, who can’t tell Madeira from Port,
  Some sour-faced suburban Dissenter—­he, MAGOG, may make us his
          sport,
  Without being popped in the pillory!  Proper old punishment that! 
  As all the old punishments was.  We’re a-getting too flabby,
          that’s flat. 
  The gallows, the stocks, and the pillory kept rebel rascals in hor,
  But now every jumped-up JACK CADE, or WAT TYLER can give us his jor
  Hot-and-hot, without fear of brave WALWORTH’s sharp dagger, or
          even a shower
  Of stones, rotten heggs, and dead cats.  Yah!  The People has far
          too much power
  With their wotes, and free speech, and such fudge.  Ah! if
          GLADSTONE, and ASQUITH, and BURNS,
  And a tidy few more of their sort, in the pillory just took their
          turns,
  Like that rapscallion, DANIEL DEFOE, what a clearance he’d have of
          the cads
  Who worrit us out of our lives with Reform, and such humbugging
          fads!

MAGOG, loquitur:—­

  Ah, GOG, I am quite of your mind!  Which I don’t mind admitting
          that KNILL
  To a Protestant Giant like me was the least little bit of a pill. 
  Stillsomever, he’s Lord Mayor now, and did ought to be backed up
          as such,
  For what City Fathers determine it ain’t for outsiders to touch. 
  But where are the Big Pots?  The Banquet seems shorn of its
          splendour to-day. 
  No Premier, nor no Foreign Sec., nor no Chancellor!!!  Really, I say
  This is rascally Radical imperence!  How can they dare stop away,
  From the greatest event of the year, when the words of ripe
          wisdom, well wined,
  Should fall from grave turtle-fed lips to make heasy the poor
          Public mind,
  As when PALMERSTON, DIZZY, and SALISBURY, spoke from that
          time-honoured Chair! 
  And that GLADSTONE—­he ain’t no great loss!—­but to think the
          Woodchopper should dare
  To neglect his fust duty like this!!!  Oh! it’s Ikybod, just as you
          say,
  My GOG.  Civic glory’s burst up, and the splendour of Lord Mayor’s
          Day
  Is eclipsed by that L.C.C. lot and their backers.  I’m full, GOG,
          of fears;
  The look-out’s enough to depress us, and move the poor Turtle to
          tears. 
  It’s Ikybod, Ikybod, Ikybod!  Oh, for the days that were gayer,
  No GLADSTONE, no ROSEBERY, no HARCOURT!!!  Wy, next we shall have
          no Lord Mayor!

[Left lamenting.

* * * * *

VERY CRUEL.—­Mrs. R. was very much annoyed at something she said having been misreported by a friend.  “I can’t trust him,” said the excellent Lady; “he twists and gargles everything I say.”