THE OMNIBUS

  The horrors of an omnibus,
    Indeed, I’ve cause to curse;
  And if I ride in one again,
    I hope ’twill be my hearse. 
  If you a journey have to go,
    And they make no delay,
  ’Tis ten to one you’re serv’d like curds,
    They spill you on the WHEY.

  A short time since my wife and I
    A short call had to make,
  And giving me a kiss, she said—­
    “A buss you’d better take!”
  We journey’d on—­two lively cads,
    Were for our custom triers;
  And in a twinkling we were fix’d
    Fast by this pair of pliers!

  My wife’s arm I had lock’d in mine,
    But soon they forced her from it;
  And she was lugg’d into the Sun,
    And I into the Comet! 
  Jamm’d to a jelly, there I sat,
    Each one against me pushing;
  And my poor gouty legs seem’d made
    For each one’s pins—­a cushion!

  My wife some time had gone before: 
    I urged the jarvey’s speed,
  When all at once the bus set off
    At fearful pace, indeed! 
  I ask’d the coachee what caused this? 
    When thus his story ran:—­
  “Vy, a man shied at an oss, and so
    An oss shied at a man!”

  Oh, fearful crash! oh, fearful smash! 
    At such a rate we run,
  That presently the Comet came
    In contact with the Sun. 
  At that sad time each body felt,
    As parting with its soul,
  We were, indeed, a little whirl’d,
    And shook from pole to pole!

* * * * *

Dunn, the miller of Wimbledon, has recently given his infant the Christian name of Cardigan.  If there is truth in the adage of “give a dog a bad name and hang him,” the poor child has little else in perspective than the gallows.

* * * * *

PRAY DON’T TELL THE GOVERNOR.

A SONG OF TON.

  Why, y-e-s—­’twas rather late last night;
    In fact, past six this morning. 
  My rascal valet, in a fright,
    Awoke, and gave me warning. 
  But what of that?—­I’m very young. 
    And you’ve “been in the Oven,” or,
  Like me, you’re wrong’d by rumour’s tongue,
    So—­pray don’t tell the Governor.[1]

  I dined a quarter after seven,
    With Dashall of the Lancers;
  Went to the opera at eleven,
    To see the ballet-dancers. 
  From thence I saunter’d to the club—­
    Fortune to me’s a sloven—­or,
  I surely must have won one rub,
    But—­mind! don’t tell the Governor!

  I went to Ascot t’other day,
    Drove Kitty in a tandem;
  Upset it ’gainst a brewer’s dray—­
    I’d dined, so drove at random. 
  I betted high—­an “outside” won—­
    I’d swear its hoofs were cloven, or
  It ne’er the favourite horse had done,
    But—­don’t you tell the Governor.