For several hectic minutes the air was thick with buns,
It was almost as bad, so he told me, as the shelling of the Huns,
But our gallant Tennysonian held on until a clout
In the eye from a metal teapot knocked him ultimately out.

A sympathetic waitress fled off to fetch the police,
Whose opportune arrival caused hostilities to cease,
And they carefully conveyed him to a hospital hard by
Where a skilful surgeon managed to preserve his wounded eye.

It was from the self-same surgeon that I subsequently learned
The first remark of the victim when his consciousness returned:--
"The Georgians may shine at shying the crumpet and the scone,
But as poets they're just No Earthly compared with TENNYSON."

He never got a medal for his exploit, or a star,
And his only decoration was an ugly frontal scar;
But still I hold him highest among heroic men,
This lone Victorian champion in the Georgian lions' den.

* * * * *

[Illustration: "BED, SIR? HERE IS A GENUINE JACOBEAN, FOR WHICH WE ARE
ASKING ONLY TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY GUINEAS."

"WELL, TO TELL YOU THE TRUTH I WASN'T WANTING TO _BUY_ ONE. BUT I CAN'T GET
A BED ANYWHERE IN LONDON, AND I WAS JUST WONDERING IF YOU COULD LET ME
SLEEP IN IT TO-NIGHT."]