Volume 99 — THE FINAL TEST.

Oh, where and wot am I? A spindle-shank'd stripling, As blue-gilled old Tory ex-Colonels protest? Or a 'ero, as pictured by young RUDYARD KIPLING, Six foot in my socks, forty-inch round the chest? I'm blowed if I know arter all the discussion. But if I'm the cove as they're going to trust, To give good account of yer Frenchy or Russian, At least they'd best give me a gun as won't bust. They've bin fighting this battle of barrels and breeches,— Ah yus, from the days of our poor old Brown Bess, And wot's the result as their 'speriments teaches? They'd better jest settle it sharp-like, I guess. If once of a rattlin' good rifle I'm owner, A thing as won't jack-up or jam, I don't care. But if they stand squabblin' till Missis BELLONER Puts in 'er appearance, there'll be a big scare. Ah, she's the true "Expert"; wuth fifty Committees! But then 'er decision means money—and blood. Wot price TOMMY ATKINS, then? Everyone pities His fate, when he's snuffed it, and pity's no good. Whether STANHOPE is right, or the Times, I ain't sayin'; But here Marm BELLONER gives both a big hint, As it's rayther a touch-and-go game they are playin', And TOMMY, he thinks she is right,—plain as print!