THE TOWN GRIER.

Thames Guardian and Mining Record, Volume I, Issue 13, 21 October 1871, Page 3

THE TOWN GRIER.

“ Quiou lacotanni thalca na benaca cuita as rida na satlia onqo .” —Cakabau’s Ad vice to his Son.

This week saw me sitting amongst a host of the upper Ten listening with ears cocked to a discourse on Electro Biology, Gyrative Rhomboids, and Pneumokheplogamid, delivered by Mr Savant, a distinguished Melbourne visitor. An intoxicated, or let us hope only electrified member of the press, rose with a spasm to his legs, and interrupting the speaker, proposed with a friendly shout a vote of thanks. Instantly he was collared by your T.C., and conveyed in a “ Broliam ” to durance vile. The traces of a slight eclipse round my left orbit “will bear me witness if I lie.” N.B.—This is Shakes peare—ask Hoskins if it is’nt. The Highway Board are charged one shilling a tail for the burial of “ Dawgs ”by a canine undertaker. I wonder what he would charge for sepultnrising himself, and whether any of the inurned Tykes “ revisit the glimpses of the moon” and bay hideously under the window of their sexton in token of the disgust they must fGel at the low rate charged for their interment. When I shuffle off this mortal coil I hope I may not go to the dogs at this price. The Married and Single Cricket match, which is to take place to-day, is likely to lead to the establishment of a Cresswell Cresswell Court of Probate and Divorce at the Thames. Fancy the married men having to produce their marriage lines before they can be recognised as eligible for their side. They will be clean bowled-out, or stumped many of them, and have to give a leg-bail before the match begins. Alas! poor William, I have reason to know you well. I cannot let you leave us until immortalizing your name in my Saturday’s effusion. The following lines I have dedicated to you, the music is arranged by Henry Russell, Wilson, and Co., splinters and rubbishers, Auckland, and. the air, I think, most appropriate, would be, “ Meet mo in the lane, love.”

Oh. Willie, we shall miss you From our dark and dreary track ; Oh tell me is it true, love, You haven’t got the sack ?

We know you were not quite 0.1 v., But still we’d let that pass ; And then to burst your boiler And fill the mine with gas.

How could you let us down thus On our scrip to place embargo ? If you seek another billet, Pray don’t try the vile Otago.

We wart a smart detective, Who’s been brought up from a boy, To analyse amalgam, And detect it from alloy.

You should have been retained, sir, In *’ Donovan and Bruce,” To testify ’twixt gold and zinc, You might hare been softie use.

The billet’s just your style, Bill, For the bellows you can blow ; Give another man a turn, Bill; And let him have a show.

I have failed to see the import of “ Tyro’s” letter, or rather quotation in Friday’s Guardian. It does not appear to me to be a reply. I take it that either “ Tyro has been endeavouring to be very facetious in quoting “ Dogberry,” or else Mr Power has most undoubtedly convinced Tyro that “heis an ass.” In my humble opinion it would only be waste of ink and paper to write Tyro down an ass, as any rational man could not fail to give him credit for such a choicely sustained representation.

To those who are about to marry 1 would give a word of advice —not as Punch says, Dont; but merely this. If you are very spooney, your girl extremely sensitive, your head intensely thick, her feelings particularly tender, and you can’t take a joke, then, I say to such, don’t sit in the front seats of a theatre when “ The Heir at Law” is to be performed. Never “ Fos ;s-ick” about behind the scenes for a pubilic apology.