Volume 102 — "THERE'S THE RUB!"

"Bill-stickers beware!" Ah! that's all very well, A wondrously wise, if conventional, warning. But I'm the legitimate "Poster"—a swell In the paste-pot profession, all "notices" scorning. A brush surreptitious, and Bills unofficial, No doubt, are a nuisance to people of taste, To Order offensive, to Law prejudicial, But who can object to my pot and my paste? 'Tis time that this Poster were up! Slap-dap-slosh! I think it a telling one. Brave, Big, Blue letters! Some rivals about, but their programmes won't wash; Those Newcastle noodles must own us their betters. I'm Champion Bill-Poster! Even Brum JOEY, Who flouted me once will acknowledge that fact. My Bills are so goey, and fetching, and showy, My paste so adhesive, my brush so exact! Slap-slop-slidder-slosh! There's "stick-phast," if you like. Bill-sticking like this is an Art, and no error. Bold letters, brave colour! A poster to strike,— Admiration with some, and with some, perhaps, terror. I wish I quite knew that the former preponderate,— That is, sufficiently. Mutterings I hear,— But there, 'tis a Bill to admire, and to wonder at. Why, after five seasons' success, should I fear? Hist! What is that? Thought I heard a low grunt. Hope not, I'm sure, for I'm sick of stye-voices ARTHUR of those, has no doubt, borne the brunt; Now in a semi-relief he rejoices Pigs are fit only for styes and nose-ringing. Never let Irish ones run loose and root, Rather wish ARTHUR were less sweet on flinging Pearls before pigs; as well feed 'em on fruit. Hrumph! There. I thought so! Hrumph! hrumph! What a pest! Sure that big brute has his eye on my ladder. Has ARTHUR loosed him? He thinks he knows best, But a nasty spill now!—nothing well could be sadder Brutes always rub their broad backs and stiff bristles Against—anything that comes handy. Oh lor! How the brute shoulders, and snorts, grunts and whistles! Off to the gutter, you big Irish boar! Not he! He nears me! It is ARTHUR's pet. Light ladder this; would capsize in a jiffy. His bristles he'd scrape and his tusks he would whet Against it, I wish he were drowned in the Liffey! Whisht! Get away! He's so heavy and big. There! round the ladder he's playing the fooler. Ah! there's the rub. PATRICK scumfish that Pig! If he doesn't mean deviltry I'm a—Home Ruler! [Left fidgetting.

Unasked, the Tax-Collector wild Presents to smirking MARY his Demand—on what the Roman styled "Kalendis Januariis." Unasked, a Christmas-box to gain, Sweeps, lamplighters, and postmen come; Unasked—too often to remain— The wife's mammas of most men come. Unasked, it looms—that ophicleide From Germany, with melodies Whereat the cow of story died; Whereat a modern fellow dies. Unasked, partakes my Christmas cheer, (Whom oft, my front-door bell at, I've Surprised, the better much for beer)— My Cook's fraternal relative. Unasked, my bills appear in shoals, "With compliments" from creditors; Unasked, in verse I send my soul's Throbs—with a stamp—to Editors. Unasked, that editorial pack Return my "throbs" in heavy, new, Crisp envelopes, unstamped, alack! While I defray the Revenue.