"What! a new Magazine!" just so,

First number, January, "Oh!

So far? yet farther sure will go

The Mother."

A is an Afghan, whose knife bids one quail;

B is a Boer, who made England turn pale;

C is a Chinaman, proud of his tail;

D is a Dutchman, who loves pipe and ale;

E is an Eskimo, packed like a bale;

F is a Frenchman, à Paris fidèle;

G is a German, he fought tooth and nail;

H is a Highlander, otherwise Gael;

I is an Irishman, just out of gaol;

J is a Jew at a furniture sale;

K is a Kalmuck, not high in the scale;

L is a Lowlander, swallowing kale;

M a Malay, a most murderous male;

N a Norwegian, who dwells near the whale;

O is an Ojibway, brave on the trail;

P is a Pole with a past to bewail;

Q is a Queenslander, sunburnt and hale;

R is a Russian, against whom we rail;

S is a Spaniard, as slow as a snail;

T is a Turk with his wife in a veil;

U a United States' Student at Yale;

V a Venetian in gondola frail;

W Welshman, with coal, slate,—and shale;

X is a Xanthian—or is he too stale?—

Y is a Yorkshireman, bred by the Swale;

Z is a Zulu;—and now letters fail.

Ah! Who talks of the reversion of the Laurel,

Of your Morrisses, and Swinburnes, and that gang?

I could lick them in a canter—that's a moral!

I'm the most prolific bard who ever sang.

Of the modern Music Hall I'm chosen Laureate,

My cackle and my patter fill the Town;

I'm more popular than Burns, a thing to glory at;

My name is Pindar Boanerges Brown.

You have never heard it mentioned? Highly probable

A hundred duffers flourish on my fame;

But the Muse is so peculiarly rob-able,

And I am very little known—by name?

But ask the Big Bonassus—on the Q. T.—

Or ask the Sisters Squorks, of P. B. B.

And they'll tell you Titan Talent, Siren Beauty,

Would be both the frostiest fizzles but for Me!

Gracious Heavens! When I think of all the cackle

I have turned out for the heroes of the Halls!!!

No wonder that the task I've now to tackle—

Something new and smart for Tricksy Trip!—appals.

I have tried three several songs—and had to "stock 'em,"

She's imperative; her last Great Hit's played out,

And she wants "a new big thing that's bound to knock 'em."

And "she'd like it by return of post!"—No doubt!!!

She does four turns a night, and rakes the shekels;

She sports a suit of sables and a brougham.

Five years ago a lanky girl, with freckles,

First fetched 'em with my hit, "The Masher Groom."

And now her limbs spread pink on all the posters,

And now she drives her pony-chaise—and Me!

Poet-Laureate? I should like to set the boasters

The tasks I have to try for "Tricksy T."

I am vivid, I am various, I am versatile;

I did "Up to the Nines" for Dandy Dobbs,