Volume 101 — A COMMON COMPLAINT.

O Editors, who earn your daily bread By giving us all kinds of information, There's something that I fear ought to be said, Which may—which will arouse your indignation; For you may not be happy when it's more than hinted Your news is such that we can't read it when it's printed. Yet I would have you fully understand The real reason why I choose to quarrel With what you print—your columns are not banned Because their contents are at all immoral Yet if there is a scandal, though a small amount of it, You sometimes soil your pages with a long account of it. Far other reasons urge me to reveal My feelings on this matter—to assail your Too common practice, and say why I feel Your daily efforts are a daily failure; Your paper by its columns and its size confuses me, And worse—there's nothing in it in the least amuses me. Can you indeed in seriousness suppose— To me, I tell you, naught could be absurder— That anywhere at all there can be those Who read the noisome details of a murder, Or take delight in knowing that in such a county Some teeming, triple mother earns the Royal Bounty? Ibsenity! Amid the maze of words I find it difficult to pick my way right; This critic at the Master only girds, That promptly hails him as the "premier playwright." Whilst I don't mind confessing that I swear right roundly At mention of a subject that I hate profoundly. Then Parliament—without the slightest doubt Of all dull things the dullest. What could be more Distressing than to have to read about The coming (?) KEAY, whose other name is SEYMOUR? And now that Patriots' speeches flow with milk and honey, They're very much less Irish, and of course less funny. The Bye-Elections are a little fun, I laugh to note the jubilant precision With which you tell me that a seat that's won Exactly counts two votes on a division, Though this is all I care for, and am bored at knowing How pleased is Mr. GLADSTONE with the tide that's flowing. Yet all these many, varied forms of pain Are trifling, small and hardly worth attention. One thing is so much worse—oh! pray again The "epidemic" never, never mention, And promptly tell your poet that the rhyme "cadenza" Must never more be worked in for the Influenza!

When a few months ago on the Thames with the oar The 'Varsities met in a contest of strength, 7 to 2 were the odds that the Dark Blues would score A win, which they did—by a lucky half-length: And last week, when the thousands assembled at Lord's To see Cambridge win by an innings—at Cricket's Great luck they're astonished, as Fortune awards The Light Blues the game—by a couple of wickets!