As “row” me forcibly out of my money. 
  The Teuton tootler, being tipped, is “sloping,”
    Patting his pocket with a smile complacent. 
  The Gallic blower, for like treatment hoping,
    Grins at the Portuguese who grinds adjacent. 
  What a charivari!  Oh, I must stop it! 
    I say, you rascal with the hurdy-gurdy,
  More than enough of that vile shindy; drop it! 
    And you, my brazen, blatant, would-be VERDI,
  Hush that confounded horn, or go and blow it
    At—­Jericho. My walls you will not tumble
  By windy shindy, and you ought to know it.

  Horn-Player.  Bah! ze old hombogs!  He sall growl and grumble
  But he vill pay ven it come to ze pinches;
    I know him, ze cantankerous vieux chappie. 
  Ze German yonder, vy he take ze inches,
    And get ze Hel-igoland!  Now he quite happy. 
  I do ze same. Pom!  Pom! Zat blast vos thunder! 
    How he do tear his hair and tvist his features. 
  He svear, but he vill vat you call “knock under.”

  Mr. Bull.  I say, you Portugee, smallest of creatures,
  And noisiest for your size, shut up, and hook it!

  Hurdy-gurdy. Gr-r-r-r!  Gr-r-r-r! Zey say zat ze old fool is
      skveezable,
  Melting in his own heat.  Py gar, he look it. 
    Ze Teuton yonder find zat he vas teaseable
  Out of ze “tip,” ze big pour-boire.  He got him,
    He go, he grin!  Sall I not take ze hint too? 
  I get him too—­I go.  But I no let him
    Drive me away, as he did SERPA PINTO.
  Gr-r-r-r!  Gr-r-r-r! I see zat he no like ze grinding. 
    Soo mooch ze bettare!  He sall give mooch money;
  Ze pour-boire, someveres, he sall soon be finding,
    If I keep on.  Zeese Eenglish are so funny.

  Tutto.  Ze money for ze Minstrels!  Kvick!  So sall you
    Get rid of us.  Like to ze artful gloser
  In Mistare SEYMOUR’S sketch, ve “know ze value
    Of peace and kvie’ness.”  Pay us, ve go, Sir! [Left tootling.

* * * * *

IN THE KNOW.

(BY MR. PUNCH’S OWN PROPHET.)

Am I going to Goodwood?  I answer that question by another.  Is it likely that a race-meeting of any pretensions can possibly do without one whom even his enemies acknowledge to be the only accurate and high-minded sporting writer in the world?  Those who care (and I devoutly hope that Mr. J., whose brains equal those of a newly-born tadpole, will not be amongst the number) can see me at any moment on pronouncing the password, “mealy-mouth,” in my old place, close to the space devoted to Royalty. Yes, I shall be there.  In the meantime, I propose to treat of the horses as only I can treat of them.  I have nothing to say against Pioneer, except that the name promises very well for one who