Who are you?  Est-ce que vous aviez Chi e vossignoria?
                         jamais un pere?

All round my hat.  Tout autour mon Tutto all’ interno
                         chapeau. del mio capello!

Go it, ye cripples!  C’est ca!  Battez-vous Bravo! bravo,
                         bien—­boiteux; stroppiati!
                         cr-r-r-r-matin!  Ancora-ancora!

Such a getting           Diantre! comme on       Come si ha salito—­
up-stairs!               monte l’escalier!       e maraviglioso!

Jump, Jim Crow.  Sautez, Monsiuer Salti, pergrazia,
                         Jaques Corbeau!  Signor Giamomo
          
                                       Corvo!

It would not be fair to rob the Signor of any more of his labour.  It will be seen that, on the principle of the Painter and his Cow, we have distinctly written above each sentence the language it belongs to.  It is always better to obviate the possibility of mistakes.

* * * * *

THE OMNIBUS

  The horrors of an omnibus,
    Indeed, I’ve cause to curse;
  And if I ride in one again,
    I hope ’twill be my hearse. 
  If you a journey have to go,
    And they make no delay,
  ’Tis ten to one you’re serv’d like curds,
    They spill you on the WHEY.

  A short time since my wife and I
    A short call had to make,
  And giving me a kiss, she said—­
    “A buss you’d better take!”
  We journey’d on—­two lively cads,
    Were for our custom triers;
  And in a twinkling we were fix’d
    Fast by this pair of pliers!

  My wife’s arm I had lock’d in mine,
    But soon they forced her from it;
  And she was lugg’d into the Sun,
    And I into the Comet! 
  Jamm’d to a jelly, there I sat,
    Each one against me pushing;
  And my poor gouty legs seem’d made
    For each one’s pins—­a cushion!

  My wife some time had gone before: 
    I urged the jarvey’s speed,
  When all at once the bus set off
    At fearful pace, indeed! 
  I ask’d the coachee what caused this? 
    When thus his story ran:—­
  “Vy, a man shied at an oss, and so
    An oss shied at a man!”

  Oh, fearful crash! oh, fearful smash! 
    At such a rate we run,
  That presently the Comet came
    In contact with the Sun. 
  At that sad time each body felt,
    As parting with its soul,
  We were, indeed, a little whirl’d,
    And shook from pole to pole!

* * * * *

Dunn, the miller of Wimbledon, has recently given his infant the Christian name of Cardigan.  If there is truth in the adage of “give a dog a bad name and hang him,” the poor child has little else in perspective than the gallows.