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SUPPRESSIO VERI.

Mr. "And how old are you, dear Child?"

Little Miss. "I should like to say I'm eight—but Mamma won't let me!"

YE GENTLEMEN OF HOLLAND.

An Ode to the Dutch Cricketers.

Air—"Ye Mariners of England."

I.

Ye Gentlemen of Holland
That guard your native stumps,
Ye come to bat on wickets damp,
And block the ball that bumps.
The "glorious game" you play amain,
And may you match the foe;
And smite left and right,
While the balls for "boundaries" go;
While your batsmen run 'em fast and long,
And the balls for "boundaries" go!

II.

The spirits of your fathers
Should watch you from the wave!—
The brine, it was their field of fame;
On turf you're just as brave.
As Van Tromp's and De Ruyter's did
Your manly breasts must glow
As you smite left and right,
While the balls for "boundaries" go;
Whilst the batsmen run 'em fast and long,
And the balls for "boundaries" go!

III.

Britannia loves to encounter
Her ancient foes—in peace.
Our march is to the wickets green,
Our home is at the crease.
With volleys from her native wood
She meets the friendly foe,
As they smite left and right,
And the balls for "boundaries" go;
While the batsmen run 'em fast and long,
And the balls for "boundaries" go!

IV.

The willows of old England,
Dutch willows shall not spurn!
Your team we'll cheer when they depart,
We'll welcome their return!
Then, then ye willow-warriors,
Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,
When to Holland back ye go;
When the shout "How's that?" is heard no more,
And to Dutchland back ye go!

PUTTING HIS FOOT IN IT;

Or, The Wilful Markee.

["The House of Lords, for some reason, always assumes special care of Ireland, a fact which may account for a few of the curiosities of Irish political and domestic economy."—Mr. Punch's Essence of Parliament, June 3, 1861.]

Air—"Widow Machree."

Wilful Markee, it's loike thunder ye frown,
Ochone! Wilful Markee!
Faith ye'd plase yer proud Parthy by kicking me down,
Ochone! Wilful Markee!
How haughty your air,
As you kick me down-stair!
Faix, I wondher ye dare
In this oisle of the free!
Och, ye autocrat churl,
Me poor head's in a whirl.
Ochone! Wilful Markee!

Wilful Markee, Oireland's chance is now come,
Ochone! Wilful Markee!
Whin everything smoiles must the Tories look glum?
Ochone! Wilful Markee!
Sure the Commons, wid prayers,
Have sint me upstairs;
Who is it that dares
Wid me form disagree?
Don't haughtily pish
At ould Oireland's last wish!
Ochone! Wilful Markee!

Wilful Markee, whin a Bill enters in.
Ochone! Wilful Markee!
To be kicking it out in this stoyle is a sin.
Ochone! Wilful Markee!
Surely hammer and tongs
To bad ould days belongs;
Far betther sing songs
Full of family glee.
Oireland's bad bitter cup
Do not harshly fill up,
Ochone! Wilful Markee!

And do ye not know wid yer bearing so bould,—
Ochone! Wilful Markee!
How ye're kaping the poor tinants out in the could?
Ochone! Wilful Markee!
Wid such sins on your head,
Sure your peace will be fled;
Could you slape in your bed
Widout thinking to see
My ghost or my sprite
That will wake ye each night
Groaning Ochone! Wilful Markee!

Then take my advice haughty Wilful Markee,
Ochone! Wilful Markee!
And loike "Compensation Bill" do not trate me!
Ochone! Wilful Markee!
Of stroife we all tire,
Then why stir the ould fire?
Sure hope is no liar
In whisperin' to me,
Hate's ould ghost will depart
When you win Oireland's heart!
Ochone! Wilful Markee!