Volume 146 — HIGHWAY LOOT.

Ah! the lapse of courtly manners, Ah! the change from knighthood's code Since the day when oil and spanners Ousted horseflesh from the road! This I realised most fully Last week-end at Potter's Bar When a beetle-flattening bully Held me up in Laura's car. "Where," I shouted, "are the graces, Officer, of days long dead? Never mind how hot our pace is, Conjure up the past instead; Dream of chaises and postilions, Turnpike bars that ope and shut; Try to get some more resilience Into your confounded nut. "Blooms are bursting in the covers Even as they burst to-day (Not to mention tyres); two lovers Post to Scotland, let us say; Sudden from the hedge comes Turpin, Pistols cocked and debonair; Both the horses stand up perpen- dicularly in the air. "What occurs? The gallant caitiff, Noticing the swain is poor (Courtesy with him is native, Not like you, suburban boor), Bows, and says in accents sunny, 'Pass along, Sir—make good speed; I'm convinced you've got no money And I do not want your bleed. "'Sweet be Maytime to your noses; Short is life, but love is sweet, There's a city man named Moses Whom I've simply got to meet; On you go, you two young larkers;' Then he bids his Jew disgorge Or reserves his brace of barkers For the coach of D. Lloyd George. "Such the good high Toby fashion; Surely in your bosom stirs, Constable, a like compassion For our two poor cylinders; All we have is vile and shoddy; See that low-hung touring brute— There's a bonnet! there's a body Worthy of a road-knight's loot!" Thus I spake; but, still phlegmatic, Imperturbable and stout, Rendering Doric for my Attic, Robert pulled his note-book out; Said, "Me dooty is me dooty," And retiring to his trench Pondered further schemes of booty For the footpads on the Bench.