Volume 146 — UNCLE STEVE'S FAIRY.

You've 'eard 'em tell o' fairy folk An' all the luck they bring? Now don't you 'eed the lies that's spoke; They don't do no such thing; You see my thumb, Sir, 'ow it's tore? You'll say, may'ap, a badger boar 'As done it? By your leave, An' that's a bloomin' fairy, Sir, that bit old Uncle Steve! 'Twas me an' Ebenezer Mogg An' little Essex Jim, The chap that's got the lurcher dog That's cleverer than 'im, As met to 'ave a bit o' sport Among the covers at the Court, Upon the strict q.t.— That's Ebenezer, then, an' Jim, an' Toby-dog an' me. At 'alf-past ten or so that night We left "The Chequers'" bar; 'Twas dark, an' down the velvet 'eight Of 'eaven fell a star; The moon was settin' through the trees As big an' white as 'alf a cheese, The very best she could, Since we 'ad got the long-net out to try the 'Ome Park wood. We laid it 'long the cover side, A furlong "mesh an'-pin"; We sent the lurcher rangin' wide To drive the rabbits in; A soft, sweet night in late July We lay among the bracken 'igh That 'eld the mid-day sun, While mute an' wise ole Toby ranged enjoyin' of the fun. But soon we 'ears the rabbits squeak, A-kickin' in the cords, An' gets among 'em, so to speak, Like gentlemen an' lords; We slips along their necks to wring, When Mogg 'e 'oilers out, "By Jing! Look, lads, 'ere's summut fresh— A bloomin' fairy-airy 's got 'isself into the mesh!" We flashed the lanthorn on to 'im; I tell you, Sir, 'e lay A nasty, ugly little limb, An' yallerer than clay; An' wicious—Ebenezer Mogg Wanted to back 'im 'gainst the dog; But Jim 'e says, "No go; This 'ere'll fetch a mort o' brass for Mr. Barnum's show!" I grabs the little jumpin'-jack; Says I, "It's gettin' late; We'll shove the beggar in the sack An' see, at any rate." 'Twas then ole Buckshot an' his crew Come dashin' at us 'cross the dew; The varmint bit like mad; I shook 'im off—'e disappeared; but I was fairly 'ad! They brought me up at Thornleigh 'Eath; I got a fortnight's stretch; An' still I feels 'is wicked teeth, That spiteful little wretch; An' still my thumb 's all any'ow In weather (as it is just now) That's frosty, 'ard an' chill; 'Tis few things seems to do it good.... Why, thank 'ee, Sir, I will!