Republick_, maybe you'll be sorry, you and your bullyin' jondarms,
for chucking o' me afore you're through. As MAT MOPUS put it:--

It was all werry well to dissemble yer love,
But wy did yer kick me down-stairs?

Chucked it is, though, and I shall probably see yer next week, BOB.
Thanks be, the Flat Season's at 'and! Arter all, there's no place
like 'ome! No!--

'Mid _Boises_ and Bullyvards tho' we may roam,
Be it hever so foggy, there's no place _like_ 'ome;
A smile from the Swells seems to 'allow sport there,
Wich, look where you will, isn't met with elsewhere.
'Ome, 'ome, Sweet, sweet 'ome,
Be it hever so fog-bound, there's no place like 'ome!

A hexile from Parry, I'm off o'er the main;
Ah! give me my native Newmarkit again;
The mugs, smiling sweetly, wot come at my bawl,
Give me these, and the "pieces," far dearer than all.
'Ome, 'ome,
Sweet, sweet 'ome,
With RAIKES[1], LOWTHER, CHAPLIN, there's no place like 'ome.

"Mean to sing _that_ at our next 'Smoker,' BOB. But till then,
Ta--ta!!"

[Footnote 1: Which gentleman declined to find out for Mr. SAMUEL
SMITH, "what proportion betting messages bear to the other telegrams