We hope there
is no Cursing Club in England. There existed, once upon a time, in
London, a Club with an awful Tartarian name, which might have been a
parent society to a Cursing Club. Let us trust--
[*** The Editor puts short the article at this point, being
of opinion that "Cursing" is only a misprint for "Coursing;"
or, if not, he certainly gives _Le Figaro_ the benefit of the
doubt. Note, also, that the match was to be played on "Cursing
Club Ground," lent for the occasion, and was not to be played
by Members of the "C.C."]
* * * * *
THE LAY OF THE LITERARY AUTOLYCUS.
(_SEE CORRESPONDENCE IN THE TIMES ON "LITERARY THEFTS."_)
_Enter AUTOLYCUS, singing._
When books and magazines appear,
With heigh! the hopes of a big sale!--
Why, then comes in the cheat o' the year,
And picks their plums, talk, song, or tale.
The white sheets come, each page my "perk,"
With heigh! sweet bards, O how they sing!--
With paste and scissors I set to work;
Shall a stolen song cost anything?
The Poet tirra-lirra chants,
With heigh! with heigh! he _must_ be a J.--
His Summer songs supply my wants;
They cost me nought--but, ah! they _pay_.
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