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SAPPHICS OF THE CABSTAND.*

PUNOH.

Friend of Self-Government. Seedy Cab-driver, whither art thou going? Sad is thy fate-reduced to law and order, Local self-government yielding to the gripe of

Centralization.

Victim of Fitzroy! little think the M.P.S,
Lording it o'er cab, 'bus, lodging-house, and grave-yard,
Of the good times when every Anglo Saxon's

House was his castle.

Say, hapless sufferer, was it Mr. Chadwick-
Underground foe to the British Constitution-
Or my LORD SHAFTESBURY, put up MR. FITZROY

Thus to assail you?

Was it the growth of Continental notions,
Or was it the Metropolitan police force
Prompted this blow at Laissez-faire, that free and

Easiest of doctrines ?

Have you not read Mr. Toulmin Smith's great work on
Centralization? If you have n't, buy it;
Meanwhile I should be glad at once to hear your

View on the subject.

Cab-driver.

View on the subjeck? jiggered if I've got one;
Only I wants no centrylisin', I don't-
Which I suppose it's a crusher standin' sentry

Hover a cabstand.

Whereby if we gives e'er a word o' cheek to
Parties as rides, they pulls us up like winkin' -
And them there blessed beaks is down upon us

Dead as an 'ammer!

See page 384.

As for Mr. TOULMIN Smith, can't say I knows him-
But as you talks so werry like a gem'man,
Perhaps you 're goin in ’ansome style to stand a

Shillin' a mile, sir?

Friend of Self-Government.
I give a shilling? I will see thee hanged first-
Sixpence a mile-or drive me straight to Bow-street--
Idle, ill-mannered, dissipated, dirty,

Insolent rascal!

JUSTICE TO SCOTLAND.*

[AN UNPUBLISHED POEM BY BURNS.]

OOMMUNICATED BY THE EDINBURG SOCIETY FOR PROMOTING CIVILIZATION IN ENGLAND.

PUNCH,

O MICKLE yeuks the keckle doup,

An' a' unsicker girns the graith,
For wae and wae! the crowdies loup

O'er jouk an' hallan, braw an' baith.
Where ance the coggie hirpled fair,

And blithesome poortith toomed the loof,
There's nae a burnie giglet rare

But blaws in ilka jinking coof.

The routhie bield that

gars
the

gear
Is gone where glint the pawky een,
And aye the stound is birkin lear

Where sconnered yowies wheeped yestreen,
The creeshie rax wi' skelpin' kaes

Nae mair the howdie bicker whangs,
Nor weanies in their wee bit claes

Glour light as lammies wi' their sangs.

Yet leeze me on my bonnie byke!

My drappie aiblins blinks the noo,

. In this poem the Scottish words and phrases are all ludicrously misapplied.

An' leesome luve has lapt the dyke

Forgatherin' just a wee bit fou. And Scotia! while thy rantin' lunt

Is mirk and moop with gowans fine, I'll stowlins pit my unco brunt,

An' cleek my duds for auld lang syne.

THE POETICAL COOKERY-BOOK.

PUNCH.

THE STEAK.

AIR.-" The Sea."

OF Steak-of Steak-of prime Rump Steak-
A slice of half-inch thickness take,
Without a blemish, soft and sound;
In weight a little more than a pound.
Who'd cook a Stake-who'd cook a Steak-
Must a fire clear proceed to make:
With the red above and the red below,
In one delicious genial glow.
If a coal should come, a blaze to make,
Have patience! You must n't put on your Steak.
First rub-yes, rub—with suet fat,
The gridiron's bars, then on it flat
Impose the meat; and the fire soon
Will make it sing a delicious tune.
And when 'tis brown'd by the genial glow,
Just turn the upper side below.
Both sides with brown being cover'd o'er,
For a moment you broil your Steak no more,
But on a hot dish let it rest,
And add of butter a slice of the best;
In a minute or two the pepper-box take,
And with it gently dredge your Steak.

When seasoned quite, upon the fire
Some further time it will require;
And over and over be sure to turn
Your Steak till done—nor let it burn;

a

For nothing drives me half so wild
As a nice Rump Steak in the cooking spiled.
I've lived in pleasure mixed with grief,
On fish and fowl, and mutton and beef;
With plenty of cash, and power to range,
But my Steak I never wished to change:
For a Steak was always a treat to me,
At breakfast, luncheon, dinner, or tea.

ROASTED SUCKING-PIG.

AIR" Scots wha hae."

Cooks who'd roast a Sucking-pig,
Purchase one not over big;
Coarse ones are not worth a fig;

So a young one buy.
See that he is scalded well
(That is done by those who sell),
Therefore on that point to dwell,

Were absurility.

Sage and bread, mix just enough,
Salt and pepper quantum suff,
And the Pig's interior stuff,

With the whole combined.
To a fire that's rather high,
Lay it till completely dry;
Then to every part apply

Cloth, with butter lined.

Dredge with flour o'er and o'er,
Till the Pig will hold no more;
Then do nothing else before

'Tis for serving fit.
Then scrape off the flour with care ;
Then a butter'd cloth prepare ;
Rub it well; then cut-not tear-

Off the head of it.

Then take out and mix the brains
With the gravy it contains ;
While it on the spit remains,

Cut the Pig in two.
Chop the sage, and chop the bread
Fine as very finest shred;
O'er it melted butter spread-

Stinginess won't do.

When it in the dish appears,
Garnish with the jaws and ears;
And when dinner-hour nears,

Ready let it be.
Who can offer such a dish
May dispense with fowl and fish;
And if he a guest should wish,

Let him send for me!

BEIGNET DE POMME.

AIR"Home, Sweet Home."

'Mid fritters and lollipops though we may roam,
On the whole, there is nothing like Beignet de Pomme.
Of flour a pound, with a glass of milk share,
And a half pound of butter the mixture will bear.

Pomme! Pomme! Beignet de Pomme!
Of Beignets there's none like the Beignet de Pomme!

A Beignet de Pomme, you will work at in vain,
If you stir not the mixture again and again;
Some beer, just to thin it, may into it fall;
Stir up that, with three whites of eggs, added to all.

Pomme! Pomme ! Beignet de Pomme!
Of Beignets there's none like the Beignet de Pomme!

Six apples, when peeled, you must carefully slice,
And cut out the cores—if you 'll take my advice;
Then dip them in batter, and fry till they foam,
And you 'll have in six minutes your Beignet de Pomme.

Pomme! Pomme! Beignet de Pomme!
Of Beignets there 's none like the Beignet di Pommel

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