With their sandwiches so salt and stale,
Their buns with the fly-blown glaze,
Their Melton pies of weight and size,
Soup too hot down to fling,
And sausage-rolls, if not men's souls,
Their stomachs made to wring.

As you jumped from your first-class car,
The minxes at Mugby Bar

Your change tossed down,
With a flounce and a frown,
And a haughty, "There you are!"
Five minutes, a frantic fixture,

You strove with might and main
To gulp some scalding mixture,

While the bell rang-for the train !
Your tea or soup you swallowed,
As much as did not fly

On your shirt-front or your waistcoat,
From the dense crowd hustling by:
While the minxes at Mugby Bar,
Smiled, serene, upon the war,
For they'd learnt the art,
And looked the part-

Of "We are your betters far."

But in PULLMAN's dining-car, Sir,

Now run on the Northern Line,
You've a soup, and a roast and entrées,
And your cheese and your pint of wine.
At his table snug the passenger sits,

Or to the smoke-room moves,
While on either side the landscape flits,
Like a world in well-greased grooves.
Thanks to PULLMAN'S dining-car,
No more Mugby Junction Bar-
No more tough ham and chicken,
Nor passenger-pickin'
For the minxes behind the Bar!

Then success to the Dining-Car, Sir,
With elbow-room allowed,
And leisure to dine and sip your wine,
And blow the digestive cloud.
Punch takes off his hat to PULLMAN,
And his sleeping and eating car,
In the cause of British digestions,
Against Mugby Junction Bar !
Be the journey never so far,
With his dining and sleeping-car,
At our ease in our inn,
Along we spin,

Nor dread Mugby Junction Bar!

Punch. November 1, 1879.

·:0:

THE OLD BRIGADE.

WHERE are the boys of the Old Brigade
Who fought with us side by side?
Shoulder to shoulder, and blade by blade,
Fought till they fell and died!
Who so ready and undismayed?
Who so merry aud true?

Where are the boys of the Old Brigade ;
Where are the lads we knew?

Then steadily, shoulder to shoulder
Steadily blade by blade!
Ready and strong, marching along,
Like the boys of the Old Brigade.

*

F. E. WEAtherly,

This stirring song, set to a martial air by Odoardo Barri, was dedicated to the Royal Artillery Brigade, it is also a favourite march of the celebrated old corps, the London Rifle Brigade, whose band generally plays it on parade after the Regimental march "Ninetyfive," of which a parody is given on page 20.

THE LIBERAL Brigade,

SONS of the old and staunch brigade,
Who marched on side by side,
Muster your forces of every grade,
And scatter the foemen wide.

Let us be ready and none dismayed,
Let us be steady and true;

As sons of the old and staunch brigade,
The old pioneers we knew,

Steadily shoulder to shoulder,
Ready and none dismayed,
Marching along, steady and strong,
Like sons of the old brigade.

Form in the streets of the busy town,
Form in the rural lane,

Form where the turreted mansions frown,
And form on the open plain.
Liberals all, give your cheerful aid,
Manfully play your part;

And, like your sires of the old brigade,
You'll live in your country's heart.

Steadily shoulder to shoulder,
Ready and none dismayed;
Marching along, steady and strong,
Like sons of the old brigade.

From Songs for Liberal Electors, 1886.

PROFESSOR BROWNE'S WONDERFUL TONIC LOTION.

RARE were the joys when our hair decayed,

We'd Laught but to hide our pride:

Older and older, shade did fade,

Naught but to tell it died.

Who so ready as Browne to aid
With Tonic Lotion true?
Try, and with joy see, undismayed,
Hair where before none grew.

Then steadily bolder and bolder,
Steadily shade by shade,
Healthy and strong, hairs come along,
Oh the joys of Browne's potent aid.

Over the sea far and wide they cry-
"Browne's Tonic Lotion we love;
Roots gain new strength, young shoots look spry,
And fresh comes a crop above.

Not weak and shabby, now they are made
Strong, full of grace, and smart;

So great our joy, thanks to Browne's best aid.
That deeply we'll praise Browne's art."
Then steadily bolder and bolder,

Steadily shade by shade,

Healthy and strong, hairs come along,
Oh! the joys of Browne's potent aid

:0:

Solo.-MRS. KENDAL.

I'm thirty-five! I'm thirty five !
And so to keep I shall contrive,
Until I long enough have played
An ample fortune to have made,
Then I, with bitter scorn, intend
The stage to fiercely reprehend,
And publicly to set my face
Against this national disgrace.

Meanwhile, 'till I can this contrive,
I'm thirty-five! I'm thirty-five!

When I the age of forty see,

No more the stage shall know of me;
No more will I take leading parts
With actresses who show their cartes;
That is, I won't unless, of course,
Things unforeseen my hand should force.
If all goes well, though, at that age
I mean to gladly quit the stage!

Meantime, until my time arrive,
I'm thirty-five! I'm thirty-five!
Truth Christmas Number, 1884.

Mis. Kendal (of the St. James's Theatre, London) read a paper on the modern stage at the Social Science Congress, held in Birmingham, in September, 1884. Some of the opinions she expressed gave great offence in theatrical circles.

Where are those "specs

we made?

Far, far away!

Where is our quiet trade!

Far, far away!

Once we had mansions fine,
Now lodgings are our line;
In two-pair backs we pine-
Far, far away!

Far away! Far away!

Gone are our prancing steeds,
Far, far away!

Gone those expensive weeds.
Far, far away!

Gone with our mashing suits,
Gone with our varnished boots;
Gone with our hothouse fruits-
Far, far away!

Far away, far away! Once there were "bogus" lines, Far, far away! Likewise much "salted" mines, Far, far away!

THERE is a fine old sow,

Down Farn-boro' way,
She belongs to Brave Joe Stow.
And people say,

The Parson tried to sneak that sow
In a dirty way.

But Joe, he made the mud to fly,
Splashed the Bailiffs hip and thigh,
And made them from the village hie
Far, far, away.

Oh! where is the old Sow now?
Safe Farn-boro' way.

And where is the Parson gone,
Nobody can say.

But Kentish Farmers all have swore
To pay his monstrous tithes no more,
And spite of Bailiffs by the score,
The Farmers win the day.

Let us lend Joe Stow a hand,
Down Farn-boro' way.

To fight the Parson and his band
Who will ruin him they say:

Let's fight against this cruel law, Which from our labours fill the maw Of hungry Parsons Rook and Daw, Let's sweep the curse away,

Far, far away! week, Far, far away!

A parody of this famous song, entitled The Rhino, appeared in The Spirit of the Public Journals, 1824. It was devoted to insulting Queen Caroline (the unfortunate wife of George IV). and her advisers, Lord Brougham and Alderman Wood, and is quite obsolete now.

In "The Bentley Ballads" (London. Richard Bentley) is a complete Latin version of Sally in our Alley, entitled In Saram. It will be found on page 406 of the 162 edition, and is signed G. K. Gillespie, A.M,

I sent off thirty stamps so meek,

To learn to earn five pounds per

It turned out a swindling plan, The answer came, and thus it ran, Start a baked potato can ;

Far, far away!

"Dulce est desipere in loco."

WHERE is now the merry party
I was with a month ago,
At that jovial Nuneham picnic,
Where the ladies flirted so?
On that balmy summer evening
Chaperons behind did stay;

All the rest dispersed and wandered
In the woods, far away.

Some of us in paths secluded.

With the girls we loved did roam, Mothers' knew their pretty daughters Soon would find another home; So they like indulgent mothers

Were content to let them stay,

With us as we strolled in silence

SOLLY IN OUR ALLEY.

(By a grateful Cadger.)

Of all the flats with blunt that part,
There's none so green as Solly;
He's got a kind benevolent 'art,
And is know'd in our Alley.
Oh, don't I like the blessed day
As comes afore the Monday!
Cause why, it is old Solly's way
To go to church on Sunday.
And there a-watching nigh the door,
We beggars waits for Solly;
He takes sitch pity on the poor-
My eye, wot precious folly!

In mud and wet I slops about
Without a shoe or stockin,'
And all in rags, there's not a doubt
But what my looks is shockin'.

But wet and dirt I never minds;
A hobjec' melancholy,

I bears it all, because I finds

Thereby a friend in Solly.

I'm bound I'd get a underd pounds,
By cadgin' out of Solly,

His wealth and riches so abounds,
And he's a muff so jolly.

Punch. September 18, 1852,

A SALLY IN FAVOUR OF OLD HARRY.

OF all the Peers within the House,
(And pretty well I know 'em),
There isn't one with half the nouse
Of gallant HENRY BROUGHAM.

We for his equals look in vain,

'Twill take some time to grow 'em :

So let us hope we shall retain

Some long time yet-old BROUGHAM,

Punch. June 23, 1855.

SALLY IN OUR ALLEY.

[As corrected by the Rev. Howling Blazes, of Clapham, to meet the views of the Directors of Exeter Hall, who refused to allow the song to be sung with the "objectionable" verse describing the singer's enjoyment of Sunday. OF all the days that's in the week,

I 'umbly love but one day,

To which I give a Jewish name,

But heathens call a Sunday;

For then between three sermon-times,

I sit in my dark alley,

And think upon the wickedness,
Of this here worldly Walley.

Punch. March 29, 1856:

BALLAD FOR JOHN BULL.

Of all the folks in purse that smart
I best know money's valley;
My pocket lies so near my heart-
I do hate that Shere Ali!

I ne'er enjoy a mind serene

On any blessed one day;

Not e'en on that which comes between
The Saturday and Monday.

Those telegraphs, they break my rest;
From one ere I can rally,

Another comes about that pest

Of pests, Ameer Shere Ali!

But, for a hundred million pounds,

I must not shilly-shally:

With Russia close behind his bounds, 'Twon't do to stand Shere Ali.

Punch. October 26, 1878.

SALLY. (Sarah Bernhardt.)

(From a Comédie Francaise Point of View.)

Of all tragediennes so smart,

There's none like famous Sally;
She'd be the darling of each heart
If she would'nt shilly shally,
There is no actress in the land

Who knows so well her "valley;"
No spoiled child of a noble art
So paid and puffed as Sally.

Of all the pets of the Francaise

There was but one the fashion,
And that's when Sarah had to play
In scene of love and passion;
And then decked out in fine array,
With Hollingshead to rally,
They cared not what they had to pay
If they could witness Sally.

They thought of Sarah when at church,
And for her voice of honey
They left poor Irving in the lurch
To spend unbounded money

Upon this famous Gallic wench,

Who spoke so musically;

And those who knew the least of French

Were loudest praising Sally.

'Tis true that many an English star

Was prone to rail at Sally,

And say the slaves of fashion are
Like slaves who row a galley.
Since, therefore, at the Gaiety

She can no longer dally,

How happy they-and we shall be
To hear no more of Sally.

Funny Folks. July 19, 1879.

BULLY IN OUR ALLEY.

Of all the brutes I loathe to meet,
One lives in our alley;

He leaves his wife with nought to eat
When he for drink doth sally.

Of all the days within the week
He only loves but one day,

And that's the day that comes between
The Saturday and Monday.

For then, until his cash is gone,
He fills a flowing measure,
And ere he goes to bed at dawn,
He kicks his wife for pleasure.
Poor soul! she drinks a little too,
And gets in debt with "Tally,
For which he beats her black and blue
That Bully in our Alley.

She locks him up, but lets him free
By answering shilly-shally,

And he half kills her in his glee,
That Bully in our Alley.

May Justice, lately something slack,
And much inclined to dally,

Soon leave her mark upon his back-
That Bully in our Alley!

Funny Folks.

THE LAST DAYS OF SALLY AND OUR ALLEY.

(A Sanitary Comic Song by S. BRETT.)

Of all the girls in our town

There was none that suffered like Sally;

For Sal and her parents got broken down,

And with them, our alley.

Her mother sold sprats, and her father caught rats,
Round Holborn Hill and its valley;
And Sal sold mats and bought old hats,
When out she chose to sally. Chorus.

One unlucky night, the cats did afright,

And broke the sweet slumbers of Sally;
Then she threw all her hats, at the wicked old cats
That kicked up a row in the alley.

Repeat 1st verse for Chorus.
The very next night, the cats out of spite,
Stole a first-class door mat from Sally,
Then the rest of her mats she threw at the cats
That stole all the lost goods in the alley.

Next day, the same cats, stole a bushel of sprats,
That belonged to the mother of Sally;

Then Sal let loose her father's rats,

That destroyed all the cats in the alley.

Now the landlord, an old sot, a bull terrier had got,
And he tarried to bully poor Sally,

And he sat on his dog, which went the whole hog,
And destroyed all the rats in the alley.

Then the neighbours joined the cat's meat men,
To have their revenge upon Sally,

And they set all their dogs at her, and then

Sal slew all the dogs in the alley.

The nan inspector came, said he, Whose to blame?
The neighbours said, 'twas Sally!

But the landlord quite calm, said hold out your palm,
And never mind the alley.

Then a fever came hot, and put an end to the plot,
And Sal's neighbours and parents, and Sally,
And to complete the fun, when the mischief was done,
The School Board took the alley.

THE GAIETY BAR.

Of all the days that's in the week,
Your actor loves but one day;
And that's the day that comes betwixt
The Friday and the Sunday.

For then he's dressed all in his best,

At Spiers and Pond's he'll dally;

The ghost has walked, and he doth "part" Like a Prince in Prosser's Alley.

SHILLY-SHALLY,

Of all the follies on our part

There's none like Shilly Shally,

A weakness that the Liberal cart
Upsets continually.

There's not a cry,-Home-Rule, Church, Land,—
To which I will not rally,

But there's one thing I cannot stand,
That's foreign Shilly-Shally.

Of policies absurd and weak

The worst is Shilly-Shally.

If Office we're about to seek,
I fear that principally.
Put to the test, I'll do my best
Enthusiastically,

And follow Gladstone like the rest,
But oh! don't Shilly-Shally!

Let "Pussy "* be allowed to purr,
As Leader, musically;

But not as Foreign Minister,

To play at Shilly-Shally!

If at the F. O. we may see

True nerve and nous, O Halle

Lujah! how happy we shall be

Saved, saved from Shilly-Shally! Punch. February 6, 1886.

But, alas! it is another's,

It never can be mine.

Yet strove I as he never strove,
Efforts without decay;

Oh my heart, my heart is breaking,
For the place of premier Grey.

His table now is loaded,

With notes in black and white,

And his salary so liberal,

He clutches with delight.

The cash, alas! is not for me,
The money's turned away;
Oh! my heart, my heart is breaking
For the place of premier Grey.

For that I'd take the liberal side,
For that the bill call good,
For that I'd dare the rabble strife,
Though it cost a sea of blood.

By night I'd take no slumbers,
Whate'er e'en Praed might say,
But scorn'd is the heart that's breaking,
For the place of premier Grey.

I've sunk beneath Reform's bright sun,
I've shook 'neath Brougham's blast;
But my pilgrimage is nearly done,
The heavy conflict's pass'd.

And when the great Act digs my grave,
Party will haply say,

"Oh! his heart, his heart was broken,
For the place of premier Grey."

Figaro in London. August 11, 1832.

SALLY MAY.

SHE'S naught my fancy painted her,
She's not at all divine;

I wish she was another's

But fate has made her mine:

I'm used as man was never used;

I never have my way

My peace, my peace is broken,

By cruel Sally May!

Her sandy hair is scattered o'er
A face of dingy white,
Her goggle eye now sleepy looks,
Now flashes fierce with spite !
Her sandy hair I hate to see-
Her eyes are set awry,

My rest, my rest is broken,
By cruel Sally May.

From her I've climb'd the mountain's side,
From her have braved the flood!
With her I've felt the battle's strife,

For she has shed my blood

By night she breaks my slumbers,
And watches me by day,
My rest, my rest is broken,
By ugly Sally May.

I've sung beneath that noisy tongue,
And trembled as she passed,