[J. H. TAYLOR, an Englishman born and bred, has for the second
time won the Open Championship (Golf) at the St. Andrews'
Links.]
Oh! young J. H. TAYLOR is a fine young fellow,
At whom the Scotsmen may hardly scoff;
For though he's Saxon by birth and breeding,
He is champion now at the Game of Golf!
On St. Andrews' Links when the rain was pouring,
He smote the ball with a manly blow;
And he distanced St. Andrews' ANDREW--KIRKALDY--
Though TAYLOR was trained in far Westward Ho!
And he went the four rounds fair and featly,
In strokes three hundred, and twenty, and two,
Which SANDY HERD, and ANDY KIRKALDY,
And DAVIE ANDERSON, they _could_ not do.
It may seem sheer cheek for "a gowk of a Saxon"
To take the cake at the Gaelic Game;
But as imitation's the sincerest flattery,
Let 'em take a licking in the light o' the same.
So here's a health to bold J. H. TAYLOR,
Lord of the Links, at the tee a toff;
Who takes first place for the slighted Southron
At the Ancient and Royal Game of Golf!
* * * * *
[Illustration: ANOTHER MISUNDERSTANDING.
_'Arry_ (_on a Northern Tour, with Cockney pronunciation_). "THEN I'LL
'AVE A BOTTLE OF AILE."
_Hostess of the Village Inn._ "_ILE_, SIR? WE'VE NANE IN THE HOOSE,
BUT CASTOR ILE OR PARAFFINE. WAD ONY O' THEM DAE, SIR?"]
* * * * *
"HOUSE OF REST FOR ACTORS."
Beneath the spreading BEERBOHM TREE
The Resting Actor stands,
And grateful takes the _£ s. d._
From Active Actors' hands.
No more he'll strut upon the stage
Where he has done his best,
Nothing he'll need, while active men
Are doing _all the rest_.
* * * * *
Classical and Cockney.
_Hal._ It was a Greek play at Bradford College.
_'Arry_ (_to Tom_). I told you it was a Greek fake.
_Tom_ (_to 'Arry_). How do _you_ know?
_'Arry_ (_giving Hal as his authority_). 'Cos it's' _Al-sez-'tis_.
* * * * *
The New Women.
They dress.... like men.
They talk..... like men.
They live..... like men.
They don't.... like men.
* * * * *
INTELLIGENCE FROM (AND AT) HAMBURG.--"Mr. G." was unable to go to the
Zoo at feeding-time. He was conspicuous by his absence, as all the
other lions were there.
* * * * *
NEW AND APPROPRIATE NAME FOR THE AFTER-DINNER CRUMB-AND-FRAGMENT
BASKET.--"The Morsel-eum."
* * * * *
'ARRY ON THE SEASON.
Dear CHARLIE,--The pypers all tell us the Season is now at its
'ight;
Don't mean one o' THOMSON'S, my pippin. _That_ josser is now out
of dyte.
When I was a bit of a kiddie, dad 'ad a old brown-covered book
Into wich now and then, on a Sunday, 'e thought it the right thing
to look.
_Such_ sloppy saloop, my dear CHARLIE, "embellished" with rummy
old cuts,
Drawn stiff and old-fashioned, by STOTHARD. On one on 'em though,
I was nuts,
Musi---- somethink or other I fancy. But as to the cackle, Great
Scott!--
"The sun rolling bounteous from Aries," and reams o' such molly
slop rot.
Now if JEMMY 'ad sung of _our_ Season, not Nature's old
merry-go-round,
But London's pertikler, for swells, it 'ud suit me right down to
the ground.
But as JEMMY has shirked it for tosh on "ethereal mildness," and
such,
Wy 'ARRY must 'ave a cut in, and all London is fly to _his_ touch.
Wot a Summer we're 'aving this Season! All Nature seems trim and
in tune;
Ripe strorberries picked out o' doors, though we've 'ardly yet
dropped into June;
The parks jest like bloomin' peraries, the water supply going queer,
And a general 'urrying up for stror 'ats, lemon squoshes, and beer.
It seems only yesterday, CHARLIE, the standpipes wos up in our
street,
And "Are _you_ froze off?" wos _the_ question of every poor pal
you might meet.
And now there's a new "water famine" along o' the 'eat, not the
cold,
And ginger-pop's sellin' as fast as it can be unbottled and sold.
Queen's droring-rooms, troopin' the colours, and trotting young
NASRULLA round,
Is sights your true patriot's nuts on, and I've done _my_ bit, you
be bound.
I chi-iked to young Ingy-rubber, and give him the haffable nod;
And if H. R. H. didn't twig me, and drop me a smile, well, it's odd.
Hart's 'aving its innings, as usual, and so is old W. G.,
Only more so. My eye and a band-box, a rare bit o' stuff _he_ must
be!
As nigh forty-seven as don't matter, as big as a barrel, and yet
A-piling 'is centries like pea-shellin'! Sound Double Gloster, you
bet!
I sor him at Lord's, mate, last Thursday, five 'ours and a arf in
the sun,
A smiting and running as if, at 'is age, with 'is weight, it was
fun!
_'Ot_, CHARLIE? My collar flopped limp, and I lapped
lemon-squoshes--a number;
And there wos 'e tottling 'is Thousand, as cool as a bloomin'
cowcumber.
I wouldn't ha' done it for tuppence; no, not with the cheerings
chucked in,
Although the Pervilion fair rose at 'im. 'Ow gents of clarss, and
with tin,
And no _need_ to it, CHARLIE, choose Cricket, at ninety degrees in
the shyde,
When they could lay hidle, fair licks me. But, there, hevery one
to 'is tryde!
A dust-coat, a white 'at, a field-glass, a landau and lashings o'
fizz,
At Hascot would suit _me_ fur better. The old sport o' kings _is_
good biz,
With shekels, and luck, like Lord ROSEBERY! Scissors! I _do_ 'ate
a Rad.
But a sportsman, as pulls off two Derbies, wy 'ang it, 'e _carn't_
be no Cad.
If Primrose would only turn Primroser, wot a fair topper he'd be!
Wot _can_ be 'is little gyme, CHARLIE, to foller old W. G.?
(I don't mean the cricketer this time.) That Liberal lot ain't no
clarss,
With a lot o' tag-rag they carn't hold, and a lot o' bad Bills
they carn't parss.
The blot on this Season is Parlyment. Wy don't they 'urry it up,
And scoot to country, the cripples? St. Paul's to my tarrier pup,
They'd git a 'ot 'iding this journey. Let ROSEBERY cut the thing
short,
Chuck 'ARCOURT and pal on with Gentleman JOE, _like_ a gent, and a
Sport!
Then 'ARRY will talk to 'im, CHARLIE! Ah, well, I ain't got no
more room,
Though I ain't done the Season arf justice. The last pale
laburnum's in bloom,
But it ain't bin washed brimstone with rain-bursts. Our SARAH is
hover from Parry,
Sir ORGUSTUS is fair on the toot, so 'Ooray for the Season!
Yours, 'ARRY.
* * * * *
NEW BOOK AND QUERY.--"_Women's Tragedies._ By H. D. LOWRY." Is the
tragic history of _That Lass of Lowrie's_ included? "But that is
another story."
* * * * *