and a crinoline, wide a shire, and pattens for her forty years’ walk in Tourlemonde and she roimded her mignons arms like Mrs Comwallis-West and she don’t fear andy mandy. So sing loud, sweet cheeriot, like anegreon in heaven ! O, Mr Prince of Pouringtoher, whatever shall I pppease to do? Why do you do I know? Such my billet. Buy a barrack pass. Ask the horneys. Tell the robbers. — You will soothe the