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      The following example, although it gives a not wholly inadequate expression to what are understood to be the loftier aspirations of the most advanced and earnest section of the New Democracy, should not be attempted, as yet, before a West-End audience. In South or East London, the sentiment and philosophy of the song may possibly excite rapturous enthusiasm; in the West-End, though the tone is daily improving, they are not educated quite up to so exalted a level at present. Still, as an experiment in proselytism, it might be worth risking, even there. The title it bears is:—

      GIVEN AWAY—WITH A POUND OF TEA!

      Verse I.—(Introductory.)

      Some Grocers have taken to keeping a stock

       Of ornaments—such as a vase, or a clock—

       With a ticket on each where the words you may see:

       "To be given away—with a Pound of Tea!"

      Chorus (in waltz time).

      "Given away!"

       That's what they say.

       Gratis—a present it's offered you free.

       Given away.

       With nothing to pay,

       "Given away—[tenderly]—with a Pound of Tea!"

      Verse II.—(Containing the moral reflection.)

      Now, the sight of those tickets gave me an idear.

       What it set me a-thinking you're going to 'ear:

       I thought there were things that would possibly be

       Better given away—with a Pound of Tea!

      Chorus—"Given away." So much as to say, &c.

      Verse III.—(This, as being rather personal than general in its application, may need some apology. It is really put in as a graceful concession to the taste of an average Music-hall audience, who like to be assured that the Artists who amuse them are as unfortunate as they are erratic in their domestic relations.)

      Now, there's my old Missus who sits up at 'ome—

       And when I sneak up-stairs my 'air she will comb— I don't think I'd call it bad business if she Could be given away—with a Pound of Tea!

      Chorus—"Given away!" That's what they say, &c. [Mutatis mutandis.

      Verse IV.—(Flying at higher game. The social satire here is perhaps almost too good-natured, seeing what intolerable pests all Peers are to the truly Democratic mind. But we must walk before we can run. Good-humoured contempt will do very well, for the present.)

      Fair Americans snap up the pick of our Lords.

       It's a practice a sensible Briton applords.

       [This will check any groaning at the mention of Aristocrats. Far from grudging our Dooks to the pretty Yan-kee— (Magnanimously) Why, we'd give 'em away—with a Pound of Tea!

      Chorus—Give 'em away! So we all say, &c.

      Verse V.—(More frankly Democratic still.)

      To-wards a Republic we're getting on fast;

       Many old Institootions are things of the past.

       (Philosophically) Soon the Crown 'll go, too, as an a-noma-lee, And be given away—with a Pound of Tea!

      Chorus—"Given away!" Some future day, &c.

      Verse VI.—(Which expresses the peaceful proclivities of the populace with equal eloquence and wisdom. A welcome contrast to the era when Britons had a bellicose and immoral belief in the possibility of being called upon to defend themselves at some time!)

      We've made up our minds—though the Jingoes may jor—

       Under no provocation to drift into war!

       So the best thing to do with our costly Na-vee

       Is—Give each ship away, with a Pound of Tea!

      Chorus—Give 'em away, &c.

      Verse VII.—(We cannot well avoid some reference to the Irish Question in a Music-hall ditty, but observe the logical and statesmanlike method of treating it here. The argument—if crudely stated—is borrowed from some advanced by our foremost politicians.)

      We've also discovered at last that it's crule

       To deny the poor Irish their right to 'Ome Rule!

       So to give 'em a Parlyment let us agree—

       (Rationally) Or they may blow us up with a Pound of their "Tea"!

      [A euphemism which may possibly be remembered and understood.

      Chorus—Give it away, &c.

      Verse VIII. (culminating in a glorious prophetic burst of the Coming Dawn).

      Iniquitous burdens and rates we'll relax:

       For each "h" that's pronounced we will clap on a tax!

       [A very popular measure. And a house in Belgraveyer, with furniture free, Shall each Soshalist sit in, a taking his tea!

      Chorus, and dance off.—Given away! Ippipooray! Gratis we'll get it for nothing and free! Given away! Not a penny to pay! Given away!—with a Pound of Tea!

      If this Democratic Dream does not appeal favourably to the imagination of the humblest citizen, the popular tone must have been misrepresented by many who claim to act as its chosen interpreters—a supposition Mr. Punch must decline to entertain for a single moment.

iv.—THE IDYLLIC.

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      The following ballad will not be found above the heads of an average audience, while it is constructed to suit the capacities of almost any lady artiste.

      SO SHY!

      The singer should, if possible, be of mature age, and incline to a comfortable embonpoint. As soon as the bell has given the signal for the orchestra to attack the prelude, she will step upon the stage with that air of being hung on wires, which seems to come from a consciousness of being a favourite of the public.

      I'm a dynety little dysy of the dingle,

       [Self-praise is a great recommendation—in Music-hall songs. So retiring and so timid and so coy. If you ask me why so long I have lived single, I will tell you—'tis because I am so shoy.

      [Note the manner in which the rhyme is adapted to meet Arcadian peculiarities of pronunciation.

      Spoken—Yes, I am—really, though you wouldn't think it to look at me, would you? But, for all that—

      Chorus—When I'm spoken to, I wriggle, Going off into a giggle, And as red as any peony I blush; Then turn paler than a lily, For I'm such a little silly, That I'm always in a flutter or a flush!

      [After each chorus an elaborate step-dance, expressive of shrinking maidenly modesty.

      I've a cottage far away from other houses,

       Which the nybours hardly ever come anoigh;

       When they do, I run and hoide among the rouses,

       For I cannot cure myself of being shoy.

      Spoken—A great girl like me, too! But there, it's no use trying, for—

      Chorus—When

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