Punch (77.1879)

193 PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [November 1, 1879.

THE HEIGHT OF /ESTHETIC EXCLUSIVENESS.

Mamma. "Who are those extraordinary-looking Children?"

Effie. "The Cimabue Browns, Mamma. They're ^esthetic, you know!"

Mamma. "So I should imagine. Do you know them to speak to?"

Effie. "On dear no, Mamma—they're most exclusive. Why, they tut out their Tongues at us if we only look at them!"

« COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO ! " SONGS BEFOLE SUNEISE.

It is yet gloom around us,

The day-spring seems slow ;
The clouds that Have bound us

Lie still dark and low;
But we hear the cocks crowing,

And know 'tis a sign
That the night-time is going,

The sun will soon shine.

Could the cocks' shrill view-holloa

The sun rouse from bed,
Long ere this had Apollo

Un-night-capped his head;
But if day through night's curtain

Be struggling to get,
'Tis only too certain

It's not daylight yet.

Yet the verge shows a glimmer

To weatherwise sight,
Though the dark may seem dimmer

By contrast with light.
East and West, from day's borders,

And night's, far and nigh,
The cocks, their pens' warders,

Lift challenging cry.

There's Hatfield's black rooster—

The bird for a show!—
Might his foe's feathered crew stir,

Were combat all crow !
His spurs bravely shown are,

And big is his bruit—
In thy Garden, Pomona,—

With more flowers than muiT!

But fruit can't be looked for

This year of offence ;
And what this cock is booked for,

Is sound and not sense.
Brag and blooms in high-flung hill

So Manchester showers,
We scarce see or smell dunghill

For fragrance and flowers !

There's the Stanley cock—famous

His breed round Chat Moss ;
And the Eccles Cross—game as

He'd ne'er fought a Cross.
There's the Northcote red-hack!e,

Who shows sparring sleight,
But lacks " devil" to tackle

A foe in hard light.

Still, whate 'er they 're at fighting,

They're all game to crow-
To that now they 're inviting,

All round, friend and foe.
Plucky cocks, and cocks cheeky,

And cock'rels more fit
To make cocky-leeky

Than peg in a pit.

With bodies a-tiptoe,

And throats on the strain,
All for fight spurred and clipt, oh

They look fighting fain.
As, from Bantam to Cochin,

From Dunghill to Game,
They herald approaching

Election-day's flame.

But 'tis not one side only

Breeds birds for the pit;
WThat were crowing, if lonely

The challengers sit ?
Cock-a-doodles breed echoes,

And strut prompts to strut,
And each pecker finds peckers,

Each comb combs to cut.

There's the Bright burly game-cock,

Of tough Rochdale strain,
Prompt to prove he's the same cock

That won many a main.
He's old, you may tell us,

But his heart is as good
As when, big of bellows,

His crow bespoke blood.

And there in the distance,

Preparing to crow—
The soul of resistance

To Beaky & Co.—
The old cock of Ha'rden,

The Cock of the Walk,
Midlothian's yard in

Will soon " toe the chalk " !

There's the Devonshire Ginger,

Of challenge less loud,
But his spur is a swinger

By judges allowed.
Oxford's cock well I ween has

No foe he deigns fear,
And his steel is as keen as

His clarion is clear.