(MODERN MONETARY VERSION.)

’Twas the gallant Golden Knight downed his visor for the fight. 
All true champions delight in hard tussles. 
With his yellow Standard reared at his back, no foe he feared,
And his gaze all comers queered,
There at Brussels.

Like Sir Kenneth, only more so, he expanded his fine torso. 
His Standard—­bold he swore so—­flying proudly,
Still supreme should flow and flaunt, its defenders none should
daunt. 
’Twas a very valiant vaunt. 
Shouted loudly.

Now the Silver Knight had sworn—­that the Standard so long borne
By the Aureate One, in scorn irreducible
Should not solitary wave.  He’d squabosh that champion brave,
Or would find a torrid grave—­
In some crucible!

Such cremation he would dare if that Standard he might bear
To the dust, and upraise there one more Silvery. 
For this Argent Knight, though pale, was right sure he could not
fail,
He was proud of his white mail,
And his skill—­very!

So here, Gentles, you behold that brave Knight in mail of Gold,
Sworn his Standard to uphold high and aureate;
And that blusterous battle-bout, twixt those champions stern and
stout,
Will inspire, I have no doubt,
Our next Laureate!

Yank Knights-Errant may evince interest grave; that Indian Prince
Will alternate swell and wince as they struggle;
The young Scottish Knight Balfour (who looks callow more than dour)
Hopes the Silver Knight may score,
By some juggle.

But in spite of Yank and Scot, and the Bimetallic lot,
They who’re fly to what is what, back the Gold ’un. 
And did I bet—­for fun—­ere this Standard fight is done,
I should plank my ten to one
On the Old ’Un!

* * * * *

Sun-spots.

Fog, haze, smoke or cloud, almost daily enshroud
The Metropolis—­place we should shun—­
And day after day the reports briefly say,
“Bright sunshine at Westminster—­none,”
Yes, none! 
O Sol, not a ray; no, not one!

The Times says that lots, quite a fine group of spots,
Are discernible now on the sun;
Have these stopped heat or light, so that weather-wise write,
“Bright sunshine at Westminster—­none?”
Yes, none! 
O Sol, what have you been and done?

Have these sun-spots increased?  We know London, at least,
Is a spot unconnected with sun;
All day long we burn gas, the report is, alas! 
“Bright sunshine at Westminster—­none,”
Yes, none! 
O Sol, you old son of a gun!

* * * * *

Lady GAY’S selection.

Mount Street, Berkeley Square.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,