  Thou comest in familiar guise, When in the morning I awake, You irritate my throat and eyes, I vow that life's a sad mistake. You come to hang about my hair, My much-enduring lungs to clog, I feel you with me everywhere, Our own peculiar London fog. You clothe the City in such gloom, We scarce can see across the street, You seem to penetrate each room, And mix with everything I eat. I hardly dare to stir about, But sit supine as any log; You make it torture to go out, Our own peculiar London fog. The End of Table-turning.—An inmate of a lunatic asylum, driven mad by spiritualism, wishes to try to turn the multiplication table. "The Question of the Hour."—What o'clock is it? Perpetual Motion Discovered.—The winding up of public companies. Flies in Amber.—Yellow cabs. Wot's the matter with 'im 'Bus Driver (to Cabby, who is trying to lash his horse into something like a trot). "Wot's the matter with 'im, Willum? 'E don't seem 'isself this mornin'. I believe you've bin an' changed 'is milk!" A SKETCH FROM LIFE A SKETCH FROM LIFEChorus (slow music). "We're a rare old—fair old—rickety, rackety crew!" During the Hot Spell Scene—In a 'Bus.Time—During the Hot Spell. First City Man. "D——d hot, isn't—— I—I beg your pardon, madam, I—I quite forgot there was a lady pres——" Stout Party. "Don't apologise. It's much worse than that!" |
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