In a word, round the throne we've stuck sisters and wives,
Our brothers and cousins fill bench, church, and steeple;
Assist us to stick in, at least for _our_ lives,
And nicely "we'll sarve out" Queen, Lords, ay, and People.
That's the fun for your Whigs--your bed-chamber old Whigs!
Shout, shout, &c.

What was the reply to this pathetic, this generous appeal? Name it not at
Woburn-abbey--whisper it not at Panshanger--breathe it not in the epicurean
retreat of Brocket-hall! Tears, big tears, roll down our sympathetic checks
as we write it. It was simply--"Cock-a-doodle-do!"

* * * * *


LORD JOHNNY "LICKING THE BIRSE."

Lord John Russell, on his arrival with his bride at Selkirk the other day,
was invested with the burghship of that ancient town. In this ceremony,
"licking the birse," that is, dipping a bunch of shoemaker's bristles in a
glass of wine and drawing them across the mouth, was performed with all due
solemnity by his lordship. The circumstance has given rise to the following
_jeu d'esprit_, which the author, Young Ben D'Israeli, has kindly dropped
into PUNCH'S mouth:--

Lord Johnny, that comical dog,
At trifles in politics whistles;
In London he went _the whole hog_,
At Selkirk he's _going the bristles_.