Greek's corpsed, and them graduate woters will flock to its funeral yet.

"We're going to plant it to-morrer!" That comic song 'its it at once.
"Attic lore" will be blowed attic-high; and the duffers who dub you a
dunce
'Cos yer 'OMER, or haitches, is quisby, in Rome or in London, will know
That ARRIUS--or 'ARRY--romps in while CAT ULLUS is stopping to blow.

As to ARRIUS, I wish I'd 'ave knowed 'im, no doubt we'd 'ave palled up
to-rights,
And 'ave chivied CAT ULLUS together, like one o' them broken-nosed frights
Saps call elassick busts; stone Aunt Sallies fit only for cockshies, dear
boy,
Wich to chip out my name on their cheeks is a barney I always enjoy.

Your Cockney eternal? No doubt! And a jolly good job, _I_ should say;
It's much more than yer conkey old Classicks, for they 'ave about 'ad
_their_ day.
You may stuff college ganders with all the compulsory cram as they'll
carry,
And _then_ it's yer fly bird as scores off 'em, whether that's ARRIUS or

'ARRY.

[Footnote 1: See article, "'Arry in Rome and London," in last Number
of _Punch_.]

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[Illustration: DRAWING THE LINE.