Volume 159 — Rhymes of Unrest.
Reading edition
There was a young miner of Ayr Who gave himself up to despair; For he said, "If we’re paid On our ’get,’ I’m afraid That I canna ca’ canny no mair." "Strike while the iron is hot," Said the wise old saw of old; But the miners say, "What rot! Strike while the weather’s cold."
"The art of decoration is alien to painting in this—that you must mix your colours with your brains."—Daily Paper.
We await a reply from the intellectuals of Chelsea.
"There is one building now being erected, within a few miles of Manchester as the cock crows."—Provincial Paper.
We are unfamiliar with this method of mensuration.