out. No more in it than in this here bladder. But you'll see; the
whole thing's burst, and you'll know it in a minute."

The words were scarcely out of his mouth when a roar of a thousand
angry voices, followed by a sudden rush from the building of a mad
and raging crowd, obliged _Mr. Punch_, for a moment, to pause. When
the uproar had somewhat subsided, he turned to the Policeman, and
pointed feelingly to the unfortunate widow, who had fallen on to an
apple-stall in a fit of hysterics, and, locking his arm in that of his
aged companion, proceeded to cross the square. "Give us a song, old
'un!" shouted a portion of the mob, who had followed them.

"Certainly. Oblige them!" added _Mr. Punch_, taking a banjo from
one of the crowd and placing it in Father TIME's hands. "Give them a
stanza of the Ballad of Truth."

He turned his ring, and his aged companion struck up the following
ditty:--

"Know ye the land where dwells only mock-turtle,
Where wine that should gladden but makes you fell queer.
Where bayonets bend, where guns burst and hurtle
Their breech in the face of their friends at the rear,
Where lamps labelled 'safety' with just terrors fill you,
Where water supplied you for milk is no theft,
Where pills that should cure, if persisted in, kill you
And the 'Hair Resurrector' takes all you've got left!
Where soap, that should soften your skin, only flays you,
Where a horse proves a screw though got through a friend,
Where the loss of your 'cover' confounds and dismays you,