The Black Man!  Ah, that’s wuss, JOHN. 
    The chaps wuz right, ay joost,
  Who said the Slavery cuss, JOHN,
    Wud yet come home to roost. 
  Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess
    The problem set,” sez he,
    “By that derned Nig. is black and big,
    And fairly puzzles me,
    Ez it wud do J.B.”

  Your Times would right our wrongs, JOHN,
    —­Always wuz sweet on us!—­
  But on dilemma’s prongs, JOHN,
    To fix me don’t you fuss. 
  Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess,
    Though physic’s good,” sez he,
    “It doesn’t foller that he can swaller
    Prescriptions signed J.B. 
    Put up by you for me!”

  Thet swaggerin’ black buck Nig., JOHN,
    Is jest a grown-up kid;
  Ez happy as a ——­ pig, JOHN,
    When doin’ wut he’s bid. 
  Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess
    He’s hateful when he’s free. 
  Equal with him, that dark-skinn’d limb? 
    No; that will not suit me,
    More than it wud J.B.!”

  Emigrate the whole lot, JOHN? 
    Well, that’s a tallish task! 
  In Afric’s centre hot, JOHN,
    Send ’em to breed and bask? 
  Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess
    I’d be right glad,” sez he,
    “But—­will they go? ’Tain’t done, you know,
    As easy as J.B. 
    Wud settle it—­for me!”

  Rouge—­there I see my way, JOHN. 
    But Noir—­thet’s hard to front! 
  It wun’t be no child’s play, JOHN,
    Seven million Nigs to shunt. 
  Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess
    We’ve a hard row,” sez he,
    “To hoe just now, but thet, somehow,
    I fancy, friend J.B.,
    Your Times may leave to me!”

    [Left considering it.

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WELCOME BACK!

    [Mr. SANTLEY, who has been long absent in Australia,
    reappeared at St. James’s Hall on Jan. 19, and was received
    with great enthusiasm.]

Back from your Australian trip! Punch, my CHARLES, your fist must grip.  You have lighted on a time When we’re all chill, choke, and grime.  ’Twere no marvel, O great baritone, Did you find your voice had nary tone.  But there’s none like you can sing “To Anthea,” “The Erl-King.”  SCHUBERT, GOUNOD, English HATTON, Equally your Fine Art’s pat on. Punch can never praise you scantly. A votre sante, good CHARLES SANTLEY!

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[Illustration:  “ROUGE ET NOIR!”]

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[Illustration:  OUR SPORT AND ART EXHIBITION.

“ON THE SCENT.”]

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FOR BETTER—­OR WORSE.