Ah! he's really the usefullest boy, that

young Primrose, that ever we've had,

And I'm sure I don't know, not sometimes,

how we'd get along, but for that lad!

So willing, and so civil-spoken, yet none too

much given to mag.

He does the House credit all round, and I'm

sure he's the pick o' the bag.

Gets through his own work without

worrit, and then he's so good at odd jobs!

Which some servants are awfully uppish, and

thinks themselves no end of nobs.

But Primrose is pleasant and modest, you

know where the boy's to be found,

And there's nothing he won't turn his hand

to, to make things agreeable all round.

Heigho! How I wish——But no matter!

Young Primrose, he knows such a lot,

And he seems to be trusted by all, which

some of us, I fear,—well, are not.

There is William, the butler, and John, now;

they 're excellent servants, of course,

Yet they don't seem as happy as Primrose,

although the boy works like a horse!

His task's to attend to the door, which needs

wonderful quickness and tact;

For our visitors, foreign and others, are

troublesome, that is a fact.

But Russian, or Frenchman, or L.C.C. boss

from out Battersea way,

Or a working-man out of a job, Primmy

always knows just what to say.

He's a treasure, that boy; and I'm always

a-putting fresh work on his back!

There's this Coal Question now! Awful

worry! He has such a wonderful knack

I am sure he might settle that shindy. If

so he will just be a jewel!

If pig-headedness holds on both sides, we

shall presently run out of fuel.

If he can "conciliate" them, it will truly be

very good biz:

And so I've suggested—no more!—that "the

boy"—ah! by Jove, here he is!

Poor chap! Two big scuttles—up-stairs!

He must find it a terrible pull,

With his work too! But if he succeeds—well,

the cup of his credit is full.

Ah, Primrose, my boy! This is good of you!

Two at a time, too. Oh, dear!—

It is not just your work, I'll allow, and you

find they are heavy, I fear.

But you know what a bother it's been. Some

chaps are such obstinate souls!—

But I was quite sure that you wouldn't mind

stooping to—taking up coals!

They come to me (a poor old chap!)

And take one room—mostly the same;

A quiet spot, they say, for Nap:

(But "Crib's" their real game.)

Their luggage is a smallish trunk,

A whopping walking-stick—alway!

When for a month they've fed and drunk,

I gently hint at pay.

They say, "Why, certainly! They mean

To dwell some months beneath my roof.

So happy they have never been!"

(I think they call this "Spoof.")

They swear my wife's the best of cooks,

They hint they're half in love with Sukey,

My daughter, who can boast good looks

(And here begins Blind Hookey).

Then, when they're some more weeks in debt,

I tell them Tick's last door is shut;

When—their knave's tricks not ended yet—

They shuffle—pack—and cut!

Who says that Franco-Russian gush

Means naught, to reason's optic?

The Russ will help the Frank to rush

England, from regions Coptic;

And—here John Bull must surely flinch,

While Gallia's bosom swells!—

The Bear, if but allowed an inch,

Will take—the Dardanelles!