The Lotos blows by many an English creek.
_Punch_ is no "mild-eyed melancholy" coon,
Born, like the Laureate's islanders, to moon
In lands in which 'tis always afternoon.
No, TOBY, no! Yet stretch your tawny muzzle
Upon these tawny sands! We will not puzzle,
For a few happy hours, our weary pates
With Burning Questions or with Dull Debates.
We have had enough of Measures, and of Motions, we,
"Ayes" to starboard, "Noes" to larboard (in the language of the sea),
Where the wallowing SEYMORE spouted like a whale, and COBB made free.
Let us take our solemn davy, TOBY, for a space
(_Punch_ perceives complete approval in that doggish face)--
Let us take our davy, TOBY--_for a time_, now mind!--
In this briny Lotos Land to live and lie reclined,
On the sands like chums together, careless of mankind!

[_Sleeps._

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[Illustration: MR. PUNCH'S ANTI-LABOUR CONGRESS.]

* * * * *

SOME CIRCULAR NOTES.

CHAPTER II.

_ON TOUR--RESTAURATION--METHOD--RAPID