VISIT TO NEPTUNE.

A remarkably pretty young girl tripped daintily on to the platform.

It was a spirited chorus, and the accomplished vocalist reeled in quite a natural manner as he chanted:—

"So every pub I enter, boys,With welcome the room will ring;Make room for him, there, in the centre, boys!For he is the Boozer King!Yes, give him a seat in the centre, boys.Three cheers for our Boozer King!"

"So every pub I enter, boys,

With welcome the room will ring;

Make room for him, there, in the centre, boys!

For he is the Boozer King!

Yes, give him a seat in the centre, boys.

Three cheers for our Boozer King!"

But TIME's worn features exhibited nothing but the strongest disgust.

"Is it possible," he exclaimed, "that this sort of thing can be considered amusing anywhere!"

"It is considered extremely facetious," saidMr. Punch—"in Seriocomix."

"What would they think of such a—such an apotheosis of degradation in one of your Music Halls at home, eh?" demanded TIME.

Privately,Mr. Punchwas of opinion that it would not be at all unpopular. However, he was not going to admit this:—

"It would be hissed off the stage," he said, courageously. "The fact is, that our Eccentric Vocalists have always shrunk from the responsibility of presenting a national vice under an attractive light, and so such exhibitions are absolutely unknown among us."

"I respect them for their scruples," said TIME; "they have their reward in a clear conscience," "No doubt," saidMr. Punch. "Shall we go on?" And as TIME had had enough of the Boozer King, they went on, and entered the next hall, just as a remarkably pretty young girl, with an innocent rosebud mouth and saucy bright eyes like a bird's, tripped daintily on to the platform.

"Come," said TIME, with more approval than he had yet shown, "this is better—muchbetter. We need feel no shame is listening tothisyoung lady, at all events. What is she going to give us? Some tender little love-ditty, I'll be bound?"

She sang of love, certainly, though she treated the subject from rather an advanced point of view, and this was the song she sang:—

"True love—you tyke the tip from me—'s all blooming tommy-rot!And the only test we go by is—'ow much a man has got?So none of you need now despair a girlish 'art to mash,—So long as you're provided with the necessairy cash!"

"True love—you tyke the tip from me—'s all blooming tommy-rot!

And the only test we go by is—'ow much a man has got?

So none of you need now despair a girlish 'art to mash,—

So long as you're provided with the necessairy cash!"

And the chorus was:—

"You may be an 'owling cad;Or be gowing to the bad;Or a hoary centenarian, or empty-headed lad;Or the merest trifle mad—If there's rhino to be had,Why, a modern girl will tyke you—yes, and only be too glad!"

"You may be an 'owling cad;

Or be gowing to the bad;

Or a hoary centenarian, or empty-headed lad;

Or the merest trifle mad—

If there's rhino to be had,

Why, a modern girl will tyke you—yes, and only be too glad!"

As she carolled out this charming ditty in her thin high voice, TIME positively shivered in his stall, "Areallthe girls like that in Seriocomix?" he moaned. "I trust not."

"It seems the fashion to assume so here, at any rate," saidMr. Punch, not without a hazy recollection of having heard very similar sentiments in Music Halls much nearer home than Seriocomix. "The young woman is probably an authority on the subject. Are you off already?"

"Yes," said TIME, as he made for the exit. "I think she is going to sing again presently. Come along!"

At the next Music Hall they were just in time to hear the announcement of a new Patriotic Song, and old TIME, who had in his day seen great and noble deeds accomplished by men who loved and were proud of their Fatherland, was disposed to congratulate both himself and the audience on the choice of topic.

Only, as the song went on, he seemed dissatisfied somehow, as if he had expected some loftier and more exalted strain. And yet it was a high-spirited song, too, and told the Seriocomicans what fine fellows they were, and how naturally superior to the inhabitants of all other planets, while the chorus ran as follows:—

"Yes, we never stand a foreigner's dictation!No matter if we're wrong or if we're right;We're a breed of good old bulldogs as a nation,And we never stop to bark before we bite!"

"Yes, we never stand a foreigner's dictation!

No matter if we're wrong or if we're right;

We're a breed of good old bulldogs as a nation,

And we never stop to bark before we bite!"

And then the singer, a fat-necked man, in a kind of military uniform, drew a sword and struck an attitude, amidst red fire, which aroused vociferous enthusiasm.

TIME seemed to be getting restless again, so they moved on once. more, and presently entered a hall where they found a stout lady with a powdered face and extremely short skirts, about to sing a pathetic song, which had been expressly written to suit her talents.

She began in a quavering treble that was instinct with intense feeling:—

"Under the dysies to rest I have lyed him;My little cock-sparrer so fythful and tyme!And the duckweed he loved so is blooming besoide him,But I clean out his cyge every d'y just the syme!For it brings him before me so sorcy and sproightly,As with seed and fresh water his glorsis I fill:Though the poor little tyle which he waggled so lytelyLoys under the dysies all stiffened and still!"

"Under the dysies to rest I have lyed him;

My little cock-sparrer so fythful and tyme!

And the duckweed he loved so is blooming besoide him,

But I clean out his cyge every d'y just the syme!

For it brings him before me so sorcy and sproightly,

As with seed and fresh water his glorsis I fill:

Though the poor little tyle which he waggled so lytely

Loys under the dysies all stiffened and still!"

—And then, to a subduedobbligatoupon a bird-whistle, came the touching refrain:

"Yes, I hear him singing 'Tweet,' so melodious and sweet!Till his shadder comes and flits about the room. 'Tweet-tweet-tweet!'All my sorrer I forget. For I have the forncy yet,That he twitters while he's loyin' in his tomb—'Tweet-tweet!'Yes, he twitters to me softly from his tomb!"

"Yes, I hear him singing 'Tweet,' so melodious and sweet!

Till his shadder comes and flits about the room. 'Tweet-tweet-tweet!'

All my sorrer I forget. For I have the forncy yet,

That he twitters while he's loyin' in his tomb—'Tweet-tweet!'

Yes, he twitters to me softly from his tomb!"

Mr. Punchobserved his elder attentively during this plaintive ditty, but there was no discernible moisture in TIME's hard old eyes, though among the rest of the audience noses were being freely blown.

Mastodon Mirth-moving Mome.

"Well," he said, "it may be very touching and even elevating, for anything I know—but it's not my notion of cheerful entertainment. I'm off!"

"I should like," said TIME, rather wistfully, as they proceeded to visit yet another establishment, "yes, Ishouldlike to hear somethingcomicbefore the evening is over."

"Now is your opportunity, then," saidMr. Punch, taking his seat and inspecting the programme, "for I observe that the gentleman who is to appear next is described as a 'Mastodon Mirth-moving Mome.'"

"And does that mean that he is funny?" inquired TIME, hopefully.

"If it doesn't, I don't know what itdoesmean," repliedMr. Punch, as the Mastodon entered.

His mere appearance was calculated to provoke—and did provoke—roars of laughter, though TIME only gazed the more sadly at him. He had coarse black hair falling about his ears, a white face, and a crimson nose; he wore a suit of dingy plaid, a battered hat, and long-fingered thread gloves. And he sang, very slowly and dolefully, this side-splitting ballad:—

"We met at the corner, Marire and me.Quite permiscuous! Who'd ha' thought of it?She took and invited me 'ome to tea;Quite permiscuous! Who'd ha' thought of it?I sat in the parler along with her,Tucking into the eggs and the bread and but-tèr,—When in come her Par with the kitching po-kèr!Quitepermiscuous!Who'dha' thought of it?"

"We met at the corner, Marire and me.

Quite permiscuous! Who'd ha' thought of it?

She took and invited me 'ome to tea;

Quite permiscuous! Who'd ha' thought of it?

I sat in the parler along with her,

Tucking into the eggs and the bread and but-tèr,—

When in come her Par with the kitching po-kèr!

Quitepermiscuous!Who'dha' thought of it?"

There was a chorus, of course:—

"Quite permiscuous! Who'd ha' thought of it?Who can guess what's going to be!Whatever you fancy'll fall far short of it.That's the way things 'appen with me!"

"Quite permiscuous! Who'd ha' thought of it?

Who can guess what's going to be!

Whatever you fancy'll fall far short of it.

That's the way things 'appen with me!"

It seemed that this was the first occasion on which the audience had had the privilege of hearing this chaste and simple production, and nothing could exceed their frantic delight—the song was rapturously re-demanded again and again. Tears stood in TIME's eyes, but they were not the tears of excessive mirth; it was almost incredible—but the "Mastodon Mome" had only succeeded in rendering his depression more acute.

"A melancholy performance that," he said, shaking his head, "a sorry piece of vulgar buffoonery, Sir!"

"Aren't you rather severe, Sir?" remonstratedMr. Punch; "the song is an immense hit—it has, as they say on this planet, 'knocked them;' from henceforth that vocalist's fortune is made; he will receive the income of a Cabinet Minister, and his fame will spread from planet to planet. Why, to-morrow, Sir, that commonplace phrase, 'Quite permiscuous! Who'd ha' thought of it?' will be upon the lips of every inhabitant; it will receive brevet-rank as a witticism of the first order, it will enrich the language, and enjoy an immortality, which will endure—ah, till the introduction of a newer catchword! I assure you the most successful book—the wittiest comedy, the divinest poem, have never won for their authors the immediate and sensational reputation which this singer has obtained at a bound with a few doggerel verses and an ungrammatical refrain. Isn't there genius inthat, Sir?"

"Ah!" said TIME, "I'm old-fashioned, I daresay. I'm no longer in the movement. I might have been amused once by the story of a clandestine tea-party and an outraged parent with a poker; I don't know. All Idoknow is, that I find it rather dreary at present. We'll drop in at just one or two more places, Sir, and then go quietly home to bed, eh?" They entered a few more Music Halls, and found the entertainment at each pretty much alike; now and then, instead of songs about mothers-in-law, domestic disagreements, and current scandals, they were entertained by the spectacle of acrobats going through horrible contortions, or women and little children performing feats high up aloft to the imminent peril of life and limb.

"Withus," saidMr. Punch, complacently, "there is a net stretched below the performers."

"An excellent arrangement," said TIME; "and I suppose, if theydidhappen to fall—"

"The spectators underneath would be to some extent protected," saidMr. Punch.

Then there were ballets, so glittering and gorgeous and interminable, that poor old TIME dropped asleep more than once, in spite of the din of the orchestra. At last, although several other places remained to be visited, he broke down altogether. "To tell you the truth," he said, "I've had about enough of it. At my age, Sir, the pursuit of this sort of amusement is rather hard work. I'll do no more Music Halls on this planet. But I tell you what Iwilldo. After all this I want a little rational amusement. I want to be cheered up. Now when will you take me roundyourMusic Halls, eh? Any evening will suit me—shall we say Boxing Night?"

"Not if I know it!" wasMr. Punch'sinternal reflection—but all he said was, "'Boxing Night?' let me see, I'm goingsomewhereon Boxing Night, I know. Well, I'll look up my engagements when I get home, and drop you a line."

"Do," said TIME—"mind you don't forget. I am sure we shall have capital fun."

"Oh, capital," repliedMr. Punch, hurriedly—"capital—but now for (excuse the paradox) the Land of the Sea."

And so again they started. ButMr. Punch'spresentiment will turn out to be quite correct. Hewillbe unfortunately engaged on Boxing Night, and so his tour of the terrestrial Music Halls with TIME will be postponedsine die.

Badgering the engineers on Neptune.

In a very short time the two august travellers found themselves in Neptune. To their surprise they learned that the planet consisted entirely of land. They were met by one of the inhabitants in full naval uniform, who heartily greeted them, promising to show them everything his country contained.

"The only thing that must for the present be unexhibited is the sea," he concluded. "Truth to speak, we have lost sight of it, and the disappearance has caused considerable inconvenience."

Mr. Punchcondoled with the son of Neptune, and asked what were the chief amusements in the planet.

"Well, badgering the Engineers is considered excellent sport—especially just now when their services are not absolutely required. We snub them and underpay them, we refuse them the rank due to them, and lead them a generally happy life! Nothing of that sort of thing down below, I suppose?"

Mr. Punchat the moment this question was put was probably thinking of something else—at any rate he gave no answer.

"But this is about the best thing we have here," continued the Resident, pointing to a scene recalling the traditional pictures of Greenwich Fair, "the Royal Naval Exhibition. You see we have pictures and models and fireworks. Everything connected with the Navy inclusive of ladies' foot-ball."

"Ladies' foot-ball," echoedMr. Punch, "why what has that to do with matters nautical?"

"Pardon me,Mr. Punch," returned the Resident in a tone of impatience, "but to-day you are certainly dense. Ladies' foot-ball is entirely nautical. Are not the ladies, as they play it, quite at sea?"

The Sage of Fleet Street bowed, and admitted that second thoughts were best.

"And now you must really excuse me," continued the Resident, "for it is my duty, as a director of the Royal Naval Exhibition to start the donkey races. I suppose you have had nothing like our Exhibition down below?"

"Nothing," returned the Sage.

"So I thought," was the reply. "If you have time, you can call upon the Admiral Survival of the Fittest."

"Gentlemen," said that illustrious official, after they had entered his bureau, "it is usual to salute me by tugging at your forelocks and scraping the deck with your right feet. While you perform this operation, you will notice that I will hitch up my trousers in true nautical style."

"Oh, certainly," returnedMr. Punch, "Delighted! But, Admiral, isn't that sort of thing a little old-fashioned?"

"And what of that, Sir? In spite of everythingwestill have hearts of oak. We havenotchanged since the time of NELSON and Trafalgar. We can still run up the rigging (there isn't any but that is an unimportant detail) like kittens, and reef a sail (there's not one left, but what doesthatmatter?) in a Nor-Wester as our ancestors did before us. And if you don't believe me, go to any public dinner when response is being made for the Navy."

"But if the ships have changed, would it not be better if the crews had undergone an appropriate transformation?"

"We don't think so. But, there, it's no use palavering. Some day the matter will be put to the test?"

"By a war?"

"No; by the Fleet starting for a cruise in calm weather. Some say we should all go to the bottom. But I am talking of the Planet Neptune. On your little Earth, I suppose, things areverydifferent?"

"Very," repliedMr. Punch. "Wehave the Admiralty!"

And considering this an appropriate moment for departure, the Sage and his Venerable Companion floated amongst the stars.

AIRY FAIRY LILIAN.KING ARTHUR.THE ONLY ADELINA.AIRY FAIRY LILIAN.KING ARTHUR.THE ONLY ADELINA.OUR ELLEN.OUR HENRY.THE GRASSHOPERATIC STAR.OUR ELLEN.OUR HENRY.THE GRASSHOPERATIC STAR.THE SOCIETY CLOWN.'O.K.'OUR JOHNNIE.THE SOCIETY CLOWN."O.K."OUR JOHNNIE.

Artistic Stars.

"It's wonderful!" exclaimed TIME. "We haven't got anything like this on Earth."

"Plenty more where they come from," said his Guide Philosopher and Friend; "but now just give me a lock of your hair, and I'll stand you a fly through the artistic quarter."

And Mr. PUNCH, like Beauty, "drawing him with a single hair," carried the Ancient Wanderer along with him, past galaxies of talent, musical, dramatic, and operatic, refusing to stop and gratify the old Gentleman's pardonable curiosity.

"I know I've got Time for it all," quoth the flying Sage, "but I haven't space, that's where the difficulty is. As for Literary Stars, from TENNYSON and SWINBURNE, to LANG, STEVENSON, BLACK, BESANT, and our excellent friend, Miss BRADDON, with other novelists too numerous to mention, we must leave our cards on them, pay a flying visit, and just skirt the artistic quarter."

"There's the President!" exclaimed Old TIME.

"Ah! everyone knowshim," saidMr. Punch—"artist and orator, and ever a Grand Young Man, the flower of the Royal Academy."

"Sir JOHN, too," cried TIME.

"As fresh as his own paint is our MILLAIS," returnedMr. Punch. "But 'on we goes again,' as the showman said, and you can pick out for yourself the Artist-Operatic-Composer-Painter-Etcher-Fellow-of-All-Souls, and master of a variety of other accomplishments, yclept HUBERT HERKOMER; then the gay and gallant FILDES, the chiseler BOEHME, the big PETTIE, the Flying, not the Soaring, Dutchman, TADEMA, the always-purchased BOUGHT'UN, the gay dog POYNTER, Cavalier Sir JOHN GILBERT, and the chivalric DON CALDERON! There's a galaxy for you, my boy! Can you touch these on Earth?"

"Well," said TIME, slowly scratching the tip of his nose, "I fancy I've heard of 'all the talents' before. Besides these, there are a few more who are celebrated in black and white—"

"Rather!" criedMr. Punch, enthusiastically. "My own dear boys, with JOHN TENNIEL at their head. But they're all so busy just now that I couldn't take up their time."

"But you're takingmeup," observed the aged T., slily.

"Quite so," returned his guide—who if,per impossibile, he evercouldbe old, would be "theaged P.,"—and then giving another tug at his companion's forelock, he cried, "On we goes again! We'll be invisible for awhile, and I'll show you our 'ARRY in the clouds. You remember IXION in Heaven, or as 'ARRY would call him, IXION in 'Eaven. Now see 'ARRY dreamin' o' Goddesses. Here we go Up! Up! Up!"

And what happened is told by 'ARRY in the following letter.

'PHYLLIS IS MY ONLY JOY.'QUEEN OF SONG.THE JERSEY LILY."PHYLLIS IS MY ONLY JOY."QUEEN OF SONG.THE JERSEY LILY.

Dear CHARLIE,—I've bin on the scoop, and no error this time, my dear boy!I must tell yer my rounds; it's a barney I know you are bound to enjoy.Talk ofZadkiel's Halmanack, CHARLIE, JOHN KEATS, or theMan in the Moon—Yah! I've cut alltheirrecords as clean as a comet would lick a balloon.'ARRY ain't no Astronomer, leastways I ain't never made it my markTo go nap on star-gazing; I've mostly got other good biz arter dark.But whenMister Punchgive me the tip 'ow he'd take poor old TIME on the fly,Wy I tumbled to it like a shot; 'ARRY's bound to be in it, sez I.So I took on the Lockyers and Procters, and mugged up the planets and stars.With their gods and their goddesses, likeways their thunderbolts, tridents and cars.I jogged on with old Jupiter, CHARLIE, and gave young Apoller a turn,While as to DIANNER!—but there, that is jest wot you're going to learn.It wos dry and a little bit dazing, this cram, and you won't think it's oddIf yours truly got doosedly drowsy. In fact I wos napped on the nod,But the way I got woke wos a wunner. Oh! CHARLIE, my precious old pal,If you'd know wot's fair yum-yum, 'ook on to a genuine celestial gal."Smack!" "Hillo!" sez I, starting sudden, "where ham I, and wot's this 'ere game?"Then a pair o' blue eyes looked in mine with a lime-lighty sort of a flame,As made me feel moony immediate. "Great Pompey," thinks I, "here's a spree!It's DIANNER by all that is proper, and as for Enjimmyun—that'sMe!"

Dear CHARLIE,—I've bin on the scoop, and no error this time, my dear boy!

I must tell yer my rounds; it's a barney I know you are bound to enjoy.

Talk ofZadkiel's Halmanack, CHARLIE, JOHN KEATS, or theMan in the Moon—

Yah! I've cut alltheirrecords as clean as a comet would lick a balloon.

'ARRY ain't no Astronomer, leastways I ain't never made it my markTo go nap on star-gazing; I've mostly got other good biz arter dark.But whenMister Punchgive me the tip 'ow he'd take poor old TIME on the fly,Wy I tumbled to it like a shot; 'ARRY's bound to be in it, sez I.

'ARRY ain't no Astronomer, leastways I ain't never made it my mark

To go nap on star-gazing; I've mostly got other good biz arter dark.

But whenMister Punchgive me the tip 'ow he'd take poor old TIME on the fly,

Wy I tumbled to it like a shot; 'ARRY's bound to be in it, sez I.

So I took on the Lockyers and Procters, and mugged up the planets and stars.With their gods and their goddesses, likeways their thunderbolts, tridents and cars.I jogged on with old Jupiter, CHARLIE, and gave young Apoller a turn,While as to DIANNER!—but there, that is jest wot you're going to learn.

So I took on the Lockyers and Procters, and mugged up the planets and stars.

With their gods and their goddesses, likeways their thunderbolts, tridents and cars.

I jogged on with old Jupiter, CHARLIE, and gave young Apoller a turn,

While as to DIANNER!—but there, that is jest wot you're going to learn.

It wos dry and a little bit dazing, this cram, and you won't think it's oddIf yours truly got doosedly drowsy. In fact I wos napped on the nod,But the way I got woke wos a wunner. Oh! CHARLIE, my precious old pal,If you'd know wot's fair yum-yum, 'ook on to a genuine celestial gal.

It wos dry and a little bit dazing, this cram, and you won't think it's odd

If yours truly got doosedly drowsy. In fact I wos napped on the nod,

But the way I got woke wos a wunner. Oh! CHARLIE, my precious old pal,

If you'd know wot's fair yum-yum, 'ook on to a genuine celestial gal.

"Smack!" "Hillo!" sez I, starting sudden, "where ham I, and wot's this 'ere game?"Then a pair o' blue eyes looked in mine with a lime-lighty sort of a flame,As made me feel moony immediate. "Great Pompey," thinks I, "here's a spree!It's DIANNER by all that is proper, and as for Enjimmyun—that'sMe!"

"Smack!" "Hillo!" sez I, starting sudden, "where ham I, and wot's this 'ere game?"

Then a pair o' blue eyes looked in mine with a lime-lighty sort of a flame,

As made me feel moony immediate. "Great Pompey," thinks I, "here's a spree!

It's DIANNER by all that is proper, and as for Enjimmyun—that'sMe!"

For I see a young person in—well, I ain't much up in classical togs,But she called it a "chlamys," I think. She'd a bow, and a couple of dogs,"Rayther forward and sportive young party," thinks I, Sandown-Parky in style;But pooty, and larky no doubt, so I tips her a wink and a smile."All right, Miss DIANNER," sez I. "You 'ave won 'em—the gloves—and no kid.Wot size, Miss, and 'ow many buttons?" But she never lowered a lid,And the red on her cheeks warn't no blush but a reglar indignant flare-up,Whilst the look from her proud pair of lamps 'it as 'ard and as straight as a Krupp.Brought me sharp to my bearings, I tell yer. "Young mortal," she sez, "it is plainAn Enjimmyun is not to be found in the purlieus of Chancery Lane.And that Primrose 'Ill isn't a Latmos. The things you call gloves I don't wear,Only buskins. But don't you be rude, or the fate of Actæon you'll share."I wosn't quite fly to her patter, but "mortal" might jest 'ave bin "cub,"From the high-perlite way she pernounced it, and plainly DIANNER meant "snub."Struck me moony, her manner, did CHARLIE, she hypnertised me with her looks,And the next thing I knowed I was padding the 'oof in a region of spooks.Spooks, is bogies and ghostesses, CHARLIE, according to latter-day chat,—And the place where DIANNER conveyed, mewasspooky, and spectral at that."Wherearewe, Miss, if Imayarsk?" I sez, orfully 'umbl for me.Then she turns 'er two lamps on me sparkling. "Of course we're in Limbo," sez she.Didn't quite like the lay on it, CHARLIE, for Limbo sounds precious like quod:Butshemeant Lunar Limbo, dear boy, sort o' store-room, where everythink odd,Out of date, foolish, faddy, and sech like, is kept like old curio stock.(Ef yer want to know more about Limbo, read Mr. POPE'sRape of the Lock.)"So this 'ere is the Moon, Miss!" sez I. "Where's the Man there's sech talk on downstairs?"She looked at me 'orty. Thinks I, "You're a 'ot 'un to give yourself hairs.I may level you down a bit later: The Man in the Moon, Miss," I adds.Sez she, "We don't 'ave Men up here; they are most of them tyrants or cads!""Oh," sez I, "on the MONA CAIRD lay, eh, my lady?" Jest then, mate, I looksAnd sees male-looking things by the dozen: but then they turned out to be spooks.There was TOLSTOI the Rooshian romancer, a grim-looking son of a gun,Welting into young Cupid like scissors, and wallopping Hymen like fun.

For I see a young person in—well, I ain't much up in classical togs,

But she called it a "chlamys," I think. She'd a bow, and a couple of dogs,

"Rayther forward and sportive young party," thinks I, Sandown-Parky in style;

But pooty, and larky no doubt, so I tips her a wink and a smile.

"All right, Miss DIANNER," sez I. "You 'ave won 'em—the gloves—and no kid.Wot size, Miss, and 'ow many buttons?" But she never lowered a lid,And the red on her cheeks warn't no blush but a reglar indignant flare-up,Whilst the look from her proud pair of lamps 'it as 'ard and as straight as a Krupp.

"All right, Miss DIANNER," sez I. "You 'ave won 'em—the gloves—and no kid.

Wot size, Miss, and 'ow many buttons?" But she never lowered a lid,

And the red on her cheeks warn't no blush but a reglar indignant flare-up,

Whilst the look from her proud pair of lamps 'it as 'ard and as straight as a Krupp.

Brought me sharp to my bearings, I tell yer. "Young mortal," she sez, "it is plainAn Enjimmyun is not to be found in the purlieus of Chancery Lane.And that Primrose 'Ill isn't a Latmos. The things you call gloves I don't wear,Only buskins. But don't you be rude, or the fate of Actæon you'll share."

Brought me sharp to my bearings, I tell yer. "Young mortal," she sez, "it is plain

An Enjimmyun is not to be found in the purlieus of Chancery Lane.

And that Primrose 'Ill isn't a Latmos. The things you call gloves I don't wear,

Only buskins. But don't you be rude, or the fate of Actæon you'll share."

I wosn't quite fly to her patter, but "mortal" might jest 'ave bin "cub,"From the high-perlite way she pernounced it, and plainly DIANNER meant "snub."Struck me moony, her manner, did CHARLIE, she hypnertised me with her looks,And the next thing I knowed I was padding the 'oof in a region of spooks.

I wosn't quite fly to her patter, but "mortal" might jest 'ave bin "cub,"

From the high-perlite way she pernounced it, and plainly DIANNER meant "snub."

Struck me moony, her manner, did CHARLIE, she hypnertised me with her looks,

And the next thing I knowed I was padding the 'oof in a region of spooks.

Spooks, is bogies and ghostesses, CHARLIE, according to latter-day chat,—And the place where DIANNER conveyed, mewasspooky, and spectral at that."Wherearewe, Miss, if Imayarsk?" I sez, orfully 'umbl for me.Then she turns 'er two lamps on me sparkling. "Of course we're in Limbo," sez she.

Spooks, is bogies and ghostesses, CHARLIE, according to latter-day chat,—

And the place where DIANNER conveyed, mewasspooky, and spectral at that.

"Wherearewe, Miss, if Imayarsk?" I sez, orfully 'umbl for me.

Then she turns 'er two lamps on me sparkling. "Of course we're in Limbo," sez she.

Didn't quite like the lay on it, CHARLIE, for Limbo sounds precious like quod:Butshemeant Lunar Limbo, dear boy, sort o' store-room, where everythink odd,Out of date, foolish, faddy, and sech like, is kept like old curio stock.(Ef yer want to know more about Limbo, read Mr. POPE'sRape of the Lock.)

Didn't quite like the lay on it, CHARLIE, for Limbo sounds precious like quod:

Butshemeant Lunar Limbo, dear boy, sort o' store-room, where everythink odd,

Out of date, foolish, faddy, and sech like, is kept like old curio stock.

(Ef yer want to know more about Limbo, read Mr. POPE'sRape of the Lock.)

"So this 'ere is the Moon, Miss!" sez I. "Where's the Man there's sech talk on downstairs?"She looked at me 'orty. Thinks I, "You're a 'ot 'un to give yourself hairs.I may level you down a bit later: The Man in the Moon, Miss," I adds.Sez she, "We don't 'ave Men up here; they are most of them tyrants or cads!"

"So this 'ere is the Moon, Miss!" sez I. "Where's the Man there's sech talk on downstairs?"

She looked at me 'orty. Thinks I, "You're a 'ot 'un to give yourself hairs.

I may level you down a bit later: The Man in the Moon, Miss," I adds.

Sez she, "We don't 'ave Men up here; they are most of them tyrants or cads!"

"Oh," sez I, "on the MONA CAIRD lay, eh, my lady?" Jest then, mate, I looksAnd sees male-looking things by the dozen: but then they turned out to be spooks.There was TOLSTOI the Rooshian romancer, a grim-looking son of a gun,Welting into young Cupid like scissors, and wallopping Hymen like fun.

"Oh," sez I, "on the MONA CAIRD lay, eh, my lady?" Jest then, mate, I looks

And sees male-looking things by the dozen: but then they turned out to be spooks.

There was TOLSTOI the Rooshian romancer, a grim-looking son of a gun,

Welting into young Cupid like scissors, and wallopping Hymen like fun.

Old Hymen looked 'orrified rayther; but as for young Arrers-and-'Arts,Heturned up his nose at the old 'un, whilst all the gay donas and tarts,Not to mention the matronly mivvies, were arter the boy with the bow,Plainly looking on TOLSTOI and IBSEN as crackpots, and not in the know."Queer paper, my dear Miss DIANNER," sez I, "wot doyouthink?" Sez she,"A mere Vision of Vanities, mortal, of no speshal interest to me.Iam not the keeper of Limbo, although it is found in my sphere.Everything that's absurd and unnatural claims a clear right to comehere."See, the latest Art-Hobbies are ambling about with their 'eads in the air,And their riders are tilting like true toothpick paladins. SMUDGE over thereMakes a bee-line for SCRATCH in this corner, whilst MUCK and the Mawkish at odds,Clash wildly, and Naturalism pink Sentiment painfully prods."Then I twigged Penny WHISTLER's white plume, and the haddypose HOSCAR upreared,His big hairy horryflame, CHARLIE, whilst Phillistines looked on and jeered.I see Nature, as Narstiness, ramping at wot Nambypamby dubbed Nice,And Twoddle parading as Virtue, and Silliness playing at Vice.Here was pooty girls Primrosing madly, and spiling their tempers a lump,By telling absurd taradiddles for some big political pump;

Old Hymen looked 'orrified rayther; but as for young Arrers-and-'Arts,

Heturned up his nose at the old 'un, whilst all the gay donas and tarts,

Not to mention the matronly mivvies, were arter the boy with the bow,

Plainly looking on TOLSTOI and IBSEN as crackpots, and not in the know.

"Queer paper, my dear Miss DIANNER," sez I, "wot doyouthink?" Sez she,"A mere Vision of Vanities, mortal, of no speshal interest to me.Iam not the keeper of Limbo, although it is found in my sphere.Everything that's absurd and unnatural claims a clear right to comehere.

"Queer paper, my dear Miss DIANNER," sez I, "wot doyouthink?" Sez she,

"A mere Vision of Vanities, mortal, of no speshal interest to me.

Iam not the keeper of Limbo, although it is found in my sphere.

Everything that's absurd and unnatural claims a clear right to comehere.

"See, the latest Art-Hobbies are ambling about with their 'eads in the air,And their riders are tilting like true toothpick paladins. SMUDGE over thereMakes a bee-line for SCRATCH in this corner, whilst MUCK and the Mawkish at odds,Clash wildly, and Naturalism pink Sentiment painfully prods."

"See, the latest Art-Hobbies are ambling about with their 'eads in the air,

And their riders are tilting like true toothpick paladins. SMUDGE over there

Makes a bee-line for SCRATCH in this corner, whilst MUCK and the Mawkish at odds,

Clash wildly, and Naturalism pink Sentiment painfully prods."

Then I twigged Penny WHISTLER's white plume, and the haddypose HOSCAR upreared,His big hairy horryflame, CHARLIE, whilst Phillistines looked on and jeered.I see Nature, as Narstiness, ramping at wot Nambypamby dubbed Nice,And Twoddle parading as Virtue, and Silliness playing at Vice.

Then I twigged Penny WHISTLER's white plume, and the haddypose HOSCAR upreared,

His big hairy horryflame, CHARLIE, whilst Phillistines looked on and jeered.

I see Nature, as Narstiness, ramping at wot Nambypamby dubbed Nice,

And Twoddle parading as Virtue, and Silliness playing at Vice.

Here was pooty girls Primrosing madly, and spiling their tempers a lump,By telling absurd taradiddles for some big political pump;

Here was pooty girls Primrosing madly, and spiling their tempers a lump,

By telling absurd taradiddles for some big political pump;

And there wos 'ard-mouthed middle-aged 'uns a shaking the Socherlist flag,And a ramping like tiger-cats tipsy around a rediklus red rag.

And there wos 'ard-mouthed middle-aged 'uns a shaking the Socherlist flag,

And a ramping like tiger-cats tipsy around a rediklus red rag.

There wos patriots playing the clown, there was magistrates playing the fool;There wos jugginses teaching the trombone to kids at a bloomin' Board School."This is Free Hedgercation in Shindy," sez I. "They're as mad as March hares,All these Limboites, dear Miss DIANNER. We do itmuchbetter downstairs!"She smiled kinder scoffish, I fancied, and give 'er white shoulders a hunch.Says she; "I've no comments to make. It's along of my friendMr. PunchWhom the whole Solar System obeys, and the Court of Olympus respects,That I wait on you 'ere, Mister ARRY. Pray what would you like to see next?""Well," sez I, with a glance at her gaiters, "I've heard you're a whale, Miss, at Sport.Do you 'know anythink' wuth my notice?" She gave me a look of a sort,As I can't put in words, not exactly, a sort o' coldscorch, dontcherknow.That's a bit of a parrydocks p'raps; anyhow, it hurt wus than a blow.But we went on the fly once agen—can't say 'ow it wos managed, but soonWe 'ad passed to a rum-looking region—the opposite side of the Moon,Where no mortal afore had set foot, nor yet eyes, Miss DIANNER declared."Here's a Region of Sport!" sez the lady. Good Gracechurch Street, mate, 'ow I stared!Seemed a sort of a blend-like of Hepsom, and Goodwood, and Altcar, mixed upWith the old Epping 'Unt and new Hurlingham, thoughts of the Waterloo Cup,Swell Polo and Pigeon-match tumbled about in my mind, while the dinWas like Putney Reach piled on a Prizefight, with Kennington Oval chucked in.There wos toffs, fair top new 'uns, mixed hup with the welcher, the froth with the scum;There wos duchesses, proud as DIANNER, and she-things as sniffed of the slum;There was "champions" thick as bluebottles, and plungers as plenty as peas,With stoney-brokes, pale as a poultice, and "crocks," orful gone at the knees;I see a whole howling mix-up of "mug" booky, dog-owner and rough,A-watching of snaky-shaped hounds pelting 'ard 'after bits o' brown fluff,I see—and the Sportsman within me began for to bubble and burn,And I yelled, "O my hazure-horbed Mistress, can't you and me 'ave jest a turn?"Wedid, and my "Purdey Extractor" made play, though it ain't me to brag,But somehow her arrers went straighter, and 'ers wos the heaviest bag."Letme'ave a try, Miss," sez I, "with that trifle from Lowther Arcade!"I tried, and hit one of her dogs, as she didn't think sport I'm afraid.The 'ound didn't seem much to mind it; immortal, I spose, like Miss D.;Then we 'ad a slap arter the deer, and she'd very soon nailed two or three.Iwos out of it, couldn't pot one, and it needled me orful, dear boy,To be licked by a gal,thougha goddess, and armed with a archery toy!Her togs wos a little bit quisby—for moors as ain't pitched in the Moon,Andthere wasn't no pic-nic, dear boy!I got peckish and parched pooty soon.Shelapped from a brook, and her hoptics went wide as a cop on the watch,When I hinted around rayther square,Ishould like a small drop of cold Scotch.Well, well; I must cut this yarn short. We'd a turn at Moon Sports like all round,Wish I'd time to describe our Big Boar Hunt—DIANNER's pet pastime I found,Can't say it wasmine; bit too risky. Pigsticking in Ingy may suitWhite Shikkarries or Princes, dear boy, but yer Boar is a nasty big brute.Too much tusk for my taste! 'Owsomever DIANNER she speared him to rights,And I dropped from the tree I'd shinned up when the boar had made tracks for my tights."Bravo, Miss DIANNER!" I sez. "You are smart, for a gal, with that spear.But didn't yer get jest a mossel alarmed—fur yer 'ARRY, my dear?"Put it hamorous like, with a wink, snugging up to the lady, I did;For she'd found a weak spot in my 'art, this cold classical gal, and no kid.I'd been 'aving a pull at my flask, up that tree, and her pluck and blue eyesMade me feel a bit spoony; in fact I was mashed. But, O wot a surprise!"Alarmed? aboutyou, Sir! Andwhy?" sez DIANNER, with eyes all aflash,I sez, "Don't yer remember Adonis, love, Venus's boar-'unting mash?No wonder the lady felt fainty like; fear for a sweetheart, yer see.And—well, if I'm not quite Adonis,you found your EnjimmyuninMe!

There wos patriots playing the clown, there was magistrates playing the fool;

There wos jugginses teaching the trombone to kids at a bloomin' Board School.

"This is Free Hedgercation in Shindy," sez I. "They're as mad as March hares,

All these Limboites, dear Miss DIANNER. We do itmuchbetter downstairs!"

She smiled kinder scoffish, I fancied, and give 'er white shoulders a hunch.Says she; "I've no comments to make. It's along of my friendMr. PunchWhom the whole Solar System obeys, and the Court of Olympus respects,That I wait on you 'ere, Mister ARRY. Pray what would you like to see next?"

She smiled kinder scoffish, I fancied, and give 'er white shoulders a hunch.

Says she; "I've no comments to make. It's along of my friendMr. Punch

Whom the whole Solar System obeys, and the Court of Olympus respects,

That I wait on you 'ere, Mister ARRY. Pray what would you like to see next?"

"Well," sez I, with a glance at her gaiters, "I've heard you're a whale, Miss, at Sport.Do you 'know anythink' wuth my notice?" She gave me a look of a sort,As I can't put in words, not exactly, a sort o' coldscorch, dontcherknow.That's a bit of a parrydocks p'raps; anyhow, it hurt wus than a blow.

"Well," sez I, with a glance at her gaiters, "I've heard you're a whale, Miss, at Sport.

Do you 'know anythink' wuth my notice?" She gave me a look of a sort,

As I can't put in words, not exactly, a sort o' coldscorch, dontcherknow.

That's a bit of a parrydocks p'raps; anyhow, it hurt wus than a blow.

But we went on the fly once agen—can't say 'ow it wos managed, but soonWe 'ad passed to a rum-looking region—the opposite side of the Moon,Where no mortal afore had set foot, nor yet eyes, Miss DIANNER declared."Here's a Region of Sport!" sez the lady. Good Gracechurch Street, mate, 'ow I stared!

But we went on the fly once agen—can't say 'ow it wos managed, but soon

We 'ad passed to a rum-looking region—the opposite side of the Moon,

Where no mortal afore had set foot, nor yet eyes, Miss DIANNER declared.

"Here's a Region of Sport!" sez the lady. Good Gracechurch Street, mate, 'ow I stared!

Seemed a sort of a blend-like of Hepsom, and Goodwood, and Altcar, mixed upWith the old Epping 'Unt and new Hurlingham, thoughts of the Waterloo Cup,Swell Polo and Pigeon-match tumbled about in my mind, while the dinWas like Putney Reach piled on a Prizefight, with Kennington Oval chucked in.

Seemed a sort of a blend-like of Hepsom, and Goodwood, and Altcar, mixed up

With the old Epping 'Unt and new Hurlingham, thoughts of the Waterloo Cup,

Swell Polo and Pigeon-match tumbled about in my mind, while the din

Was like Putney Reach piled on a Prizefight, with Kennington Oval chucked in.

There wos toffs, fair top new 'uns, mixed hup with the welcher, the froth with the scum;There wos duchesses, proud as DIANNER, and she-things as sniffed of the slum;There was "champions" thick as bluebottles, and plungers as plenty as peas,With stoney-brokes, pale as a poultice, and "crocks," orful gone at the knees;

There wos toffs, fair top new 'uns, mixed hup with the welcher, the froth with the scum;

There wos duchesses, proud as DIANNER, and she-things as sniffed of the slum;

There was "champions" thick as bluebottles, and plungers as plenty as peas,

With stoney-brokes, pale as a poultice, and "crocks," orful gone at the knees;

I see a whole howling mix-up of "mug" booky, dog-owner and rough,A-watching of snaky-shaped hounds pelting 'ard 'after bits o' brown fluff,I see—and the Sportsman within me began for to bubble and burn,And I yelled, "O my hazure-horbed Mistress, can't you and me 'ave jest a turn?"

I see a whole howling mix-up of "mug" booky, dog-owner and rough,

A-watching of snaky-shaped hounds pelting 'ard 'after bits o' brown fluff,

I see—and the Sportsman within me began for to bubble and burn,

And I yelled, "O my hazure-horbed Mistress, can't you and me 'ave jest a turn?"

Wedid, and my "Purdey Extractor" made play, though it ain't me to brag,But somehow her arrers went straighter, and 'ers wos the heaviest bag."Letme'ave a try, Miss," sez I, "with that trifle from Lowther Arcade!"I tried, and hit one of her dogs, as she didn't think sport I'm afraid.

Wedid, and my "Purdey Extractor" made play, though it ain't me to brag,

But somehow her arrers went straighter, and 'ers wos the heaviest bag.

"Letme'ave a try, Miss," sez I, "with that trifle from Lowther Arcade!"

I tried, and hit one of her dogs, as she didn't think sport I'm afraid.

The 'ound didn't seem much to mind it; immortal, I spose, like Miss D.;Then we 'ad a slap arter the deer, and she'd very soon nailed two or three.Iwos out of it, couldn't pot one, and it needled me orful, dear boy,To be licked by a gal,thougha goddess, and armed with a archery toy!

The 'ound didn't seem much to mind it; immortal, I spose, like Miss D.;

Then we 'ad a slap arter the deer, and she'd very soon nailed two or three.

Iwos out of it, couldn't pot one, and it needled me orful, dear boy,

To be licked by a gal,thougha goddess, and armed with a archery toy!

Her togs wos a little bit quisby—for moors as ain't pitched in the Moon,Andthere wasn't no pic-nic, dear boy!I got peckish and parched pooty soon.Shelapped from a brook, and her hoptics went wide as a cop on the watch,When I hinted around rayther square,Ishould like a small drop of cold Scotch.

Her togs wos a little bit quisby—for moors as ain't pitched in the Moon,

Andthere wasn't no pic-nic, dear boy!I got peckish and parched pooty soon.

Shelapped from a brook, and her hoptics went wide as a cop on the watch,

When I hinted around rayther square,Ishould like a small drop of cold Scotch.

Well, well; I must cut this yarn short. We'd a turn at Moon Sports like all round,Wish I'd time to describe our Big Boar Hunt—DIANNER's pet pastime I found,Can't say it wasmine; bit too risky. Pigsticking in Ingy may suitWhite Shikkarries or Princes, dear boy, but yer Boar is a nasty big brute.

Well, well; I must cut this yarn short. We'd a turn at Moon Sports like all round,

Wish I'd time to describe our Big Boar Hunt—DIANNER's pet pastime I found,

Can't say it wasmine; bit too risky. Pigsticking in Ingy may suit

White Shikkarries or Princes, dear boy, but yer Boar is a nasty big brute.

Too much tusk for my taste! 'Owsomever DIANNER she speared him to rights,And I dropped from the tree I'd shinned up when the boar had made tracks for my tights."Bravo, Miss DIANNER!" I sez. "You are smart, for a gal, with that spear.But didn't yer get jest a mossel alarmed—fur yer 'ARRY, my dear?"

Too much tusk for my taste! 'Owsomever DIANNER she speared him to rights,

And I dropped from the tree I'd shinned up when the boar had made tracks for my tights.

"Bravo, Miss DIANNER!" I sez. "You are smart, for a gal, with that spear.

But didn't yer get jest a mossel alarmed—fur yer 'ARRY, my dear?"

Put it hamorous like, with a wink, snugging up to the lady, I did;For she'd found a weak spot in my 'art, this cold classical gal, and no kid.I'd been 'aving a pull at my flask, up that tree, and her pluck and blue eyesMade me feel a bit spoony; in fact I was mashed. But, O wot a surprise!

Put it hamorous like, with a wink, snugging up to the lady, I did;

For she'd found a weak spot in my 'art, this cold classical gal, and no kid.

I'd been 'aving a pull at my flask, up that tree, and her pluck and blue eyes

Made me feel a bit spoony; in fact I was mashed. But, O wot a surprise!

"Alarmed? aboutyou, Sir! Andwhy?" sez DIANNER, with eyes all aflash,I sez, "Don't yer remember Adonis, love, Venus's boar-'unting mash?No wonder the lady felt fainty like; fear for a sweetheart, yer see.And—well, if I'm not quite Adonis,you found your EnjimmyuninMe!

"Alarmed? aboutyou, Sir! Andwhy?" sez DIANNER, with eyes all aflash,

I sez, "Don't yer remember Adonis, love, Venus's boar-'unting mash?

No wonder the lady felt fainty like; fear for a sweetheart, yer see.

And—well, if I'm not quite Adonis,you found your EnjimmyuninMe!

"One more, only one, dear DIANNER," I sez. And I aimed for a kiss,I made for her lips, a bee-line. But great snakes, my dear boy, wot a miss!Hit me over the 'ed with her boar-spear, a spanker, she did, like a shot.Don't you never spoon goddesses, CHARLIE; you'll find it a dashed sight too 'ot!"Adonis!" she cried. "Nay, Actæon! And his shall be also thy fate.There isPunchlooking on, he'll approve!" And she jest set 'er dogs on me, straight!"Way-oh! Miss DIANNER!" I yells. "No offence! Don't be 'ard on a bloke!Beg yer pardon, I'm sure!" Here a hound nipped my calf like a vice, and—I woke.Leastways, I persoom itwoswaking, if 'tother was sleep and a dream,But I feel a bit moon-struck, dear boy. Spooks abound, and things ain't what they seem.Mister Punchsez, "it served me quite right." Well, next time correspondence he'd carryWith satterlites, spesh'ly the Moon, he had better not drop upon 'ARRY.

"One more, only one, dear DIANNER," I sez. And I aimed for a kiss,

I made for her lips, a bee-line. But great snakes, my dear boy, wot a miss!

Hit me over the 'ed with her boar-spear, a spanker, she did, like a shot.

Don't you never spoon goddesses, CHARLIE; you'll find it a dashed sight too 'ot!

"Adonis!" she cried. "Nay, Actæon! And his shall be also thy fate.There isPunchlooking on, he'll approve!" And she jest set 'er dogs on me, straight!"Way-oh! Miss DIANNER!" I yells. "No offence! Don't be 'ard on a bloke!Beg yer pardon, I'm sure!" Here a hound nipped my calf like a vice, and—I woke.

"Adonis!" she cried. "Nay, Actæon! And his shall be also thy fate.

There isPunchlooking on, he'll approve!" And she jest set 'er dogs on me, straight!

"Way-oh! Miss DIANNER!" I yells. "No offence! Don't be 'ard on a bloke!

Beg yer pardon, I'm sure!" Here a hound nipped my calf like a vice, and—I woke.

Leastways, I persoom itwoswaking, if 'tother was sleep and a dream,But I feel a bit moon-struck, dear boy. Spooks abound, and things ain't what they seem.Mister Punchsez, "it served me quite right." Well, next time correspondence he'd carryWith satterlites, spesh'ly the Moon, he had better not drop upon 'ARRY.

Leastways, I persoom itwoswaking, if 'tother was sleep and a dream,

But I feel a bit moon-struck, dear boy. Spooks abound, and things ain't what they seem.

Mister Punchsez, "it served me quite right." Well, next time correspondence he'd carry

With satterlites, spesh'ly the Moon, he had better not drop upon 'ARRY.

"Poor fellow, I pity him," saidMr. Punchto Father TIME, as the pair passed away from the Lunar precincts together, bowing courteously, and a little apologetically, to 'ARRY's late hostess, who called off her dogs, and affably responded to their parting salutation. "Fact is," pursued the Sage, "my young friend 'ARRY, though smart andfin de siècle, in his way, is a little of 'the earth, earthy,' and lacks both the adventurousness and the tact of an Ixion."

"I presume," said the Scythe-bearer, "our inter-planetary peregrinations are now pretty nearly at an end—for this time?"

"We have yet one more visit to pay," saidMr. Punch.

At this moment, as the space-pervading trio fleeted forward, a strange unusual effulgence grew to the eastward, and began to bathe them in golden light. Miraculously metamorphic was its action upon the aërial travellers.Mr. Punchflung aside his hat and his "Immensikoff," and appeared as the Apollo-like personage he really is. TOBY's wings expanded, and his pace mended. As for "Old Father TIME" himself, the combined influence of the regenerating philtre inFaust, and the fire-bath inShe, could not more completely have transmogrified him. His face brightened with youthfulness, his solitary forelock bushed out into a wavy and hyacinthine hirsute crop, his ancient and magician-like garments fell from him, his plumes expanded, until he looked more like "the herald Mercury" than old Edax Rerum.

Then they swung, as on airytrapèze, or on wings of the thunder-bird strong,With the sound in their ears of the voice of the starry and sisterly throng.Did the orbs of splendiferous Sol give a wink as they ranged into reach?Was his genial mouth all alight with the flame of the friendliest speech?Hey, Presto! Great Scott! Transformation on DRURIOLANUS's stageWas never so sudden as this! Who rides there as the Sun-God? The Sage!The Great Hypnotiser! Utopia's lord! He Who Must Be Obeyed!He whose Magical Spell is on Princes and Peoples, on Art and on Trade.Houp-là!Transformation tremendous! The round of the Planets we've travelled,Some curious secrets unveiled, and some mysteries mighty unravelled.We manage things better on Earth!That's the formula! Sounds it sardonic?WasPunchjust a morsel sarcastic, his hosts just a trifle ironic?At any rate,Punchhere explains to the World how to manage things better,By purging Humanity's spirit, and snapping Hate's tyrannous fetter.He'd Hypnotise Man into health, both of body and spirit, and out ofThe follies, and vices, and greeds, and conceits. See the whole Comus-rout ofAbsurdities, Appetites, Antics, Antipathies, personal, national,Driven before his bright Sun-Car! The Rule of the Rosily RationalHe would inaugurate, making Earth's atmosphere healthy as Thanet's,ThatFather TIME, is his aim;that'sthe Moral ofPunchand the Planets!

Then they swung, as on airytrapèze, or on wings of the thunder-bird strong,

With the sound in their ears of the voice of the starry and sisterly throng.

Did the orbs of splendiferous Sol give a wink as they ranged into reach?

Was his genial mouth all alight with the flame of the friendliest speech?

Hey, Presto! Great Scott! Transformation on DRURIOLANUS's stage

Was never so sudden as this! Who rides there as the Sun-God? The Sage!

The Great Hypnotiser! Utopia's lord! He Who Must Be Obeyed!

He whose Magical Spell is on Princes and Peoples, on Art and on Trade.

Houp-là!Transformation tremendous! The round of the Planets we've travelled,

Some curious secrets unveiled, and some mysteries mighty unravelled.

We manage things better on Earth!That's the formula! Sounds it sardonic?

WasPunchjust a morsel sarcastic, his hosts just a trifle ironic?

At any rate,Punchhere explains to the World how to manage things better,

By purging Humanity's spirit, and snapping Hate's tyrannous fetter.

He'd Hypnotise Man into health, both of body and spirit, and out of

The follies, and vices, and greeds, and conceits. See the whole Comus-rout of

Absurdities, Appetites, Antics, Antipathies, personal, national,

Driven before his bright Sun-Car! The Rule of the Rosily Rational

He would inaugurate, making Earth's atmosphere healthy as Thanet's,

ThatFather TIME, is his aim;that'sthe Moral ofPunchand the Planets!

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