Punch: Punch (87.1884)

PUNCH, OP THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

fDecember 2L 1884.

Poet Laureate. He ’s no Tenant of the Tub,

No Oynosarges prompt at snap and snarl.

Mr. Punch. But has a bite in him for Humbug’s heels,

Or Folly’s calves. He ’ll not touch jours, my Lord !

Poet Laureate. “ Beggar that I am, I am even poor in thanks.”

Mr. Punch. Talking of Beggars, what would Burns, I wonder,

Have said to yours ?

Poet Laureate. Why, what say you ?

Mr. Punch. Burns painted

With more than Callot power of graphic coarseness
And biting humour ; put his “ Jolly Beggars ”

Beside your Mediaeval Mendicants,

My Poet, and perpend ! Shakspearian grasp
Of many-coloured wide humanity,

With more than lovely faint-limned lyric shadows,
Mellifluous-tongued abstractions, strained conceits,

And gross grotesqueries our Stage would furnish.

Poet Laureate. I fain would serve it.

Mr. Punch. “ All the World’s a Stage,”

And that you’ve served with sweetness many a year,

With pure unpoisoned charm of such Art-honey
As you alone can hive. Your home ’s on Hybla,

But in Thalia’s haunt you need a hand
Of practised guidance. One good turn, my Lord,

Deserves another. Book for Book ! Behold !

“ That is the humour o’t,” as Nym would say.

The humour ! Here you ’ll find what, ’faith, you lack,

The art of midriff-moving,—Walter Map
And Margery miss your “ Northern Farmer’s ” touch
Of true vis comica,—will find much d.se
That Israfel might learn from Yorick. Take
From your friend Punch’s hand Wit’s beacon-light,

True Humour’s fount, Humanity's map and chart,

His Gift of Gifts, his

Dohuue!