Volume 101 — BLACKFRIARS TO SLOANE SQUARE.

The man who got in at Blackfriars Was smoking the foulest of briars, But it went out all right— Could I give him a light?— Hadn't got one—well, all men are liars. I've frequently noticed the Temple Is a place there are not enough rhymes to; And that's why I've made This verse somewhat blank, And rather disregarded the metre. How do you pronounce Charing Cross? It's a point where I'm quite at a loss. Some people, of course, Would rhyme it with "horse," But I always rhyme it with "hoss." A woman at Westminster Bridge Had got just a speck on the ridge Of her Romanesque nose. "It's a black, I suppose," She observed. Then it flew—'twas a midge. One man from the Park of St. James, Had really the loftiest aims; In the hat-rack he sat, Used my hair as a mat, And when I demurred called me names. I bought from the stall at Victoria A horrible sixpenny story, a Book of a kind It pained me to find For sale at our English emporia. I found when I got to Sloane Square That my ticket was gone; my despair Was awful to see, Till at last to my glee I looked in my hat—it was there!