The Wellington Weather.

(Air: "Fuzzy-wuzzy.")

Solo: Crassus.
Ho! a copious sort er climate is this 'ere—
It's a dogfight an' a thunderstorm in one.
Why! a furriner's in paralytic fear
Of ev'ry bloomin' thing excep' the sun.
Such a wind I never felt in Rome,
An' if Cæsar was ter come ter Wellington,
If he'd half the retinue 'e sports at 'ome,
'E'd 'ave twenty boys ter 'old 'is toga on.

Chorus:
So 'ere's to you Wellingtonians an' yer 'ealthy 'efty wind;
You are wictims ter a climate of a most distressin' kind.
An' as I walk up Willis Street an' twig the pebbles dance—
Olympus an' its thunderbolts, well, ain't a circumstance

Regent Cigarettes Have No Equal.

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Air an' water's 'ealthy, so its reckoned;
An' in that respec' you cannot make complaint;
Fer its mostly blowin' 40 miles a second,
An' inwariably rainin' w'en it ain't.
But if a sunny mornin' come along,
The dweller in the City winks 'is eye:
'E bloomin' well suspec's there's somethin' wrong,
An' the deluge of the evenin' leaves 'im dry.

Chorus:
I reckon that the Rev. Bates could run a sort o' tote,
With 'eavy odds agin the man wot goes without a coat.
I tell you, Wellingtonians, that even Bobby Stout
Is gamblin' with the elements w'enever 'e goes hout.

Lars' week-end w'en they let me hout on bail
I went shootin' rabbits roun' behind Karori.
As the Cœlum (1) looked like thunder, rain, an' hail,
I went ter 'ear the augur tell 'is story.
I says, "Wot chance is there of Tempestas Serena"?(2)
'E says, "Tandem tibi erunt res secundæ." (3)
I suppose that this was really meant to mean a
Thunderstorm that got up on the Sunday.

Chorus:
I took the augur at 'is word an' found that I was cheated;
I got snowed up upon the 'ills an' 'ad my bail estreated.
So take my tip, that augur only kids 'e knows the Fates,
An' 'ceptin' w'en 'e's croakin', don't believe in Mr. Bates.

1)	Sky.
2)	Decent weather.
3)	You've got a fine day for it at last.

"It is not poetry, but prose run mad." —Pope.

Terrible Pic.

(Air: "Barcarolle" from "Tales of Hoffman.")

Salamanca Male Quartet.
Once there lived a mathematician,
Terrible Pic they called him;
Fired he was with a heavenly mission—
Nothng on earth appalled him.
A great reforming light was Pic,
A fearless .soul and free;
He was a "Christian heretic"—
Whatever that may be.
He did not care a straw,

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What the populace thought;
Yet their caprice is law
On the Te-en-nis Court.
How was our Pie
Suddenly changed!
Was it a trick?
Was it arranged?
Ah!!!

He we thought so high and proud,
Despising Mrs. Grundy,
Pandered to the vulgar crowd,
And closed the court on Sunday.
He would let us play:
He didn't give a damn^*
On any other day
But Sunday.
A day a damn,
A damn a day (till tired).

"He was a scholar, and a ripe and good one." —King Henry.

The Roman Rag.

Air: "On the Mississippi."

Cæsar is the man I've had my eye upon,
Ever since he went and passed by Rubi Cohn.
It may seem rotten to Rubi,
But whatever her point of view be,
I admire Cæsar and his Latin prose,
I admire Cæsar and his Roman nose,
Superfine! Leonine!
He's what the lassies would call divine.

Chorus.
Give me Julius Cæsar, dear old Julius Cæsar.
Hear those people asking their friends
Who's that handsome gheezer? Why, it's Julius Cæsar.
J-U-L-I, what a pretty name is Julius.
Then come you Mauds and Marys,
Read his commentaries;
Sing like blithe canaries,
Praise that never varies,
For my Julius Cæsar, dear old Julius Cæsar;
He's the bird for me.

Cæsar in his childhood was a clever brat,
Conjugate could he "amo, amas, amat."

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An Old Song.

(By One Outside the Combine.)

Do you ever Smoke Tobacco?
Honey-do.
I like it Honey do,
Its fragrance is divine "Honeydew."
In my presence with your pipe
The scent is a delight,
Honey-do.

Your Tobacco is Tobacco,
Honey-do.
Don't waste time on others
but Honeydew.
When you Write or ring me up,
Honey-do,
Waft yourself into my presence,
Honeydew.

"Always in Full-Weight Tins."

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If his Pa, while they were dining,
Asked his son to do some declining,
Caesar didn't cry and didn't give a damn,
Rattled off with ease "mensa, mensæ, mensam";
Not like us, "mensibus,"
He was a very smart little cuss.

Chorus.
Give me Julius Cæsar, etc.
Cæsar had some troubles with the tribes of Gaul,
But they didn't worry him, no, not at all.
He would gain their meek submissions
By the use of his prepositions.
Strongest men would falter and their hearts would throb
At the sight of "apud," "ante," "pro" and "ob,"
"Cum" and "cis": things like this,
They were the weapons that would not miss.

Chorus.

Give me Julius Caesar, etc.

Finale Act II.

(Air written specially by Mr. H. E. Gunter).

Britons:—The sword of the Briton is rusting,
His bow unstrung and at rest,
His heart in its innocence trusting,
The Roman who came as a guest.
The anvils of Rome are a-forging
The fetters that fester and gall,
The Eagles of Rome are a-gorging,
On carrion under the pall.

Romans:—Now Britain by Rome is protected,
Which means that we govern the land,
An item it's hardly expected,
The Britons can quite understand.
The blessings of civilisation,
Are vents for Druidical spleen;
For in stirring him out of stagnation,
They settled for ever his queen.

Britons:—We pray to our gods that they rend him,
'Tis just that this Caesar should die
In the height of his power may they send him
A sign that their vengeance is nigh—
A night-sky, portentous and ruddy,
—A presage of violent end—
And Cæsar, the ruthless, the bloody,
Shall die by the hand of a friend.

Romans:—We've given him every assistance,
We've helped him to conquer his foes,
And the thanks that we get is resistance
To laws that we choose to impose.
Taken all round he's a rotter,
By rights we should leave him him to rot,
For he'd get it a thousand times hotter
As soon as we quitted the spot.

All:—So here's to the broadsword and Roman;
Abide we the test of the fight:
Alike of the Briton and Roman,
The law of the might that is right.
For men are born fighters by nature,
And the history of Britain and Rome
Is a chapter of her legislature
From her great international tome.

"And damned be he that first cries, 'Hold, enough!'" —"Macbeth."

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