DOI issue:
January 1, 1859
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16623#0015
Jawoary 1, 1859.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
ODE ON A PORK PIE.
bt a crusty old christmas-keeper.
Oh, that Pork Pie!
What had I done, hard-hearted friend,
That np from Yorkshire thou should'st send—
Freighted with Indigestion dire,
And Heart-burn's acrid ire,—
In fortress-crust of golden dye,
Tempting to nose, and gladsome to the eye,
Engrailed with scallop, and set round with spire
Of heaviest paste, made heavier yet with fire—
That Christmas .mockery ?
So came within the walls of Troy,
Greeted with blind acclaim of joy,
The Grecian horse that held
Within its womb concealed,
The warrior band whose hostile ire,
Did with Minerva's hate conspire
Proud Lion to destroy !
But no Laocoon raised a warning voice,
Shrieking " Lament!" when others bade " Rejoice!"
Over this porky snare,
Within whose trait'rous lair—
Bedded in golden yokes, and forcemeat choice—
Stood stalled the ghastly Mare
Of Night, that lifts the hair,
When, by the hag Dyspepsia bestrode.
Across the sleeper's breast she draws her crushing load,
Or drags him at her tail
Through park and over pale,
Or, down the precipice's awful steep
Or, in the briny bosom of the deep,
Till Terror doth o'er sleep prevail,
And starting up we quail,
The seasoning how sage, the force-meat how amene !
At breakfast, with what grace,
* It showed its golden face;
Nor yet at luncheon was superfluous deemed;
Nor even at dinner was it out of place,
We seemed our friend still in his gift to trace.
As if out of the crust his kindly features beamed!
We all ate of the Pie,
But none so much as I,
Ah, little of the consequence I dreamed!
Though of the Pope that holds St. Peter's chair,
Little I know, and less than little care,
Still, "Pie ? oh! no—no ! " since last night has been my cry,
And "Pie ? oh! no—no ! " still—while life shall last—say I!
A CASE OF EEAL DISTRESS.
For a reason we shall mention, we think the same young gentlemaa
is interested in each of the two following advertisements, which wa
find next to one another in the Times of the 18th:—
"C1 XCHANGE OF INVERNESS CAPES.—London Dining Rooms,
J-J Dec. 15.—The GENTLEMAN, who lost a short clay pipe and piece of toffee, ma .7
receive them, with his CAPE, by sending the one TAKEN by MISTAKE, to Messrs.
8— and r--, &c. &c.
DOG.—LOST, a full-grown IRON-GRAY SCOTCH TERRIER, lon-
hair, short legs, a white patch on his breast, and a capital beggar. Any person
who will bring the same to the Hermitage, B-, or to 23,-■--, shall receiva
a REWARD of TWO POUNDS.
Of course we may be wrong; but we really can't help fancying that
a gentleman who wears, or, as he would rather phrase it, " sports " an
Inverness Cape, and carries a short pipe and bit of toffee in his pocket,
would be just the boy to keep an ugly " beggar" of a dog; with long
hair and short legs and a white patch on his breast, and having lost his
precious pet, would be green enough to advertise it.
And goose-skin rigors rise, and o'er our members creep! After all, however, we must not be too hard on him_. Down in the
„ , , . , , . mouth as he now must be, we should refrain from making hits at him.
bucn dreams to-mgnt were mine: Let us pity his small weaknesses, and grieve for his great sorrows.
Their source, oh friend ' too surely I divine: PoQr f ', Qnl think ^ ^at a ^ he hag gustained, Cape
It was this flaky death, this^Christmas gift of thine! and cuttyj ^ ^ aU >are ^ nQW , Like Macduf> he is
K Detore iioswortn s ngnt, _ bereaved of all his pretty ones at one fell swoop. Alas, misfortunes
The crook-back Richard passed a night ne,er cQme singly ^ ' g trugt tm b Mg Cap£ there ig Good Hope
As bad as mine, or worse, of recovery, not only of those valuables, the pipe and piece of toffee,
Twos that the haunting curse _ but of ^ white be-patched Scotch pet, whose preciousness is
moderately valued by his master at a price which is equivalent to the
purchase-money of one hundred and sixty of our Almanacks.
Of murdered victims poisoned sleep's sweet source
But I—what had I done,
To porcine sire or son.
Whose greasy limbs within that crust repose.
That ghostly pettitoes
Should trot my duodenum o'er,
Like the familiar floor
Of the low stye which, when in life, they trod ?
That phantom snouts shoidd root, and tusks should prod
My stomach's inmost hold?
That gristly tails should fold,
And mottled sausages entwine,
In stHl-beginning, never-ending line,
This scorched oesophagus of mine ?
Wherefore meseemed the bed whereon I lay,
Was with polonies stuft and saveloys ?
Why that continual noise,
Of swinish grunts, that vexed the slow sad night away ?
Priend of the fatal gift,
'Twas thou the hand didst lift
Against the porkers of that pie accurst;
And thine the penance should have been
The Indigestion keen,
Heart-burn and Flatulence, and—worst—
The dead dull weight, that all night long has been
Burd'ning my midriff, bred of fat and lean,
And still like lead doth hang—
The fevered pulses that like hammers clang—
The Night-mare's gallop, urged by dire Dyspepsia's gang—
Not mine, not mine the Pie—Oh, wherefore mine the Pang!
And yet I needs must own,
Out of my groan,
How cunning'y 'twas spiced; combined how well,
Of luscious fat and firm grey lean;
How from each jellied dell,
White-globed, and gold-yoked pullet-eggs did swell,
Lightening what else too heavy would have been;
How rich, how flaky, yet how firm the crust;
Sprinkled how tenderly the peppers dust;
Striking and Kicking.
In the Halifax Conner we are sorry to see the following announce-
ment :—
" Strike near Todmorden.—The mule spinners employed at Messrs. Ormerod's
new factory, Walsden, turned out on strike on Thursday morning."
We trust that the mule spinners will not discover that in turning
out on strike they have rejected the better part of their nature, ana
made asses of themselves.
PETTICOATS v. PYROTECHNICS.
(a remonstrance.)
" Dearest Mr. Punch,
" You are really too hard on us poor weak wearers of Crinoline.
Positively, to read what you write, one would never imagine you had
taught us to shudder at the Miss Wiazles, in their odious limp petti-
coats, without the least soupcon of a line of beauty about their figures,
either natural or artificial.
" I am sure, from your drawings,—you horrid sly old roguey-pogney
—that you admire the new fashion, and that you would no more like
us to throw off our steel tubes, than you would wish us to give up our
darling round hats with the pheasant-breast plumes,_and our smart little
military-heeled boots, and ail the other attifes which you give every
week.
" I am bound to say, though, you do us justice, as far as good looks
go; and we are all very much obliged to you.
" But I am so sorry you give way to all the ridiculous exaggeration
of the day on the subject of Crinoline. About its liability to catch
fire, now. Depend upon it, we know perfectly well how to guard against
sparks, and are not half so liable to play with matches as you Lords of
the Creation,—I really didn't mean those for puns—and that you men,
in your absurd peg-tops—as you call them—are far more likely to catch
ODE ON A PORK PIE.
bt a crusty old christmas-keeper.
Oh, that Pork Pie!
What had I done, hard-hearted friend,
That np from Yorkshire thou should'st send—
Freighted with Indigestion dire,
And Heart-burn's acrid ire,—
In fortress-crust of golden dye,
Tempting to nose, and gladsome to the eye,
Engrailed with scallop, and set round with spire
Of heaviest paste, made heavier yet with fire—
That Christmas .mockery ?
So came within the walls of Troy,
Greeted with blind acclaim of joy,
The Grecian horse that held
Within its womb concealed,
The warrior band whose hostile ire,
Did with Minerva's hate conspire
Proud Lion to destroy !
But no Laocoon raised a warning voice,
Shrieking " Lament!" when others bade " Rejoice!"
Over this porky snare,
Within whose trait'rous lair—
Bedded in golden yokes, and forcemeat choice—
Stood stalled the ghastly Mare
Of Night, that lifts the hair,
When, by the hag Dyspepsia bestrode.
Across the sleeper's breast she draws her crushing load,
Or drags him at her tail
Through park and over pale,
Or, down the precipice's awful steep
Or, in the briny bosom of the deep,
Till Terror doth o'er sleep prevail,
And starting up we quail,
The seasoning how sage, the force-meat how amene !
At breakfast, with what grace,
* It showed its golden face;
Nor yet at luncheon was superfluous deemed;
Nor even at dinner was it out of place,
We seemed our friend still in his gift to trace.
As if out of the crust his kindly features beamed!
We all ate of the Pie,
But none so much as I,
Ah, little of the consequence I dreamed!
Though of the Pope that holds St. Peter's chair,
Little I know, and less than little care,
Still, "Pie ? oh! no—no ! " since last night has been my cry,
And "Pie ? oh! no—no ! " still—while life shall last—say I!
A CASE OF EEAL DISTRESS.
For a reason we shall mention, we think the same young gentlemaa
is interested in each of the two following advertisements, which wa
find next to one another in the Times of the 18th:—
"C1 XCHANGE OF INVERNESS CAPES.—London Dining Rooms,
J-J Dec. 15.—The GENTLEMAN, who lost a short clay pipe and piece of toffee, ma .7
receive them, with his CAPE, by sending the one TAKEN by MISTAKE, to Messrs.
8— and r--, &c. &c.
DOG.—LOST, a full-grown IRON-GRAY SCOTCH TERRIER, lon-
hair, short legs, a white patch on his breast, and a capital beggar. Any person
who will bring the same to the Hermitage, B-, or to 23,-■--, shall receiva
a REWARD of TWO POUNDS.
Of course we may be wrong; but we really can't help fancying that
a gentleman who wears, or, as he would rather phrase it, " sports " an
Inverness Cape, and carries a short pipe and bit of toffee in his pocket,
would be just the boy to keep an ugly " beggar" of a dog; with long
hair and short legs and a white patch on his breast, and having lost his
precious pet, would be green enough to advertise it.
And goose-skin rigors rise, and o'er our members creep! After all, however, we must not be too hard on him_. Down in the
„ , , . , , . mouth as he now must be, we should refrain from making hits at him.
bucn dreams to-mgnt were mine: Let us pity his small weaknesses, and grieve for his great sorrows.
Their source, oh friend ' too surely I divine: PoQr f ', Qnl think ^ ^at a ^ he hag gustained, Cape
It was this flaky death, this^Christmas gift of thine! and cuttyj ^ ^ aU >are ^ nQW , Like Macduf> he is
K Detore iioswortn s ngnt, _ bereaved of all his pretty ones at one fell swoop. Alas, misfortunes
The crook-back Richard passed a night ne,er cQme singly ^ ' g trugt tm b Mg Cap£ there ig Good Hope
As bad as mine, or worse, of recovery, not only of those valuables, the pipe and piece of toffee,
Twos that the haunting curse _ but of ^ white be-patched Scotch pet, whose preciousness is
moderately valued by his master at a price which is equivalent to the
purchase-money of one hundred and sixty of our Almanacks.
Of murdered victims poisoned sleep's sweet source
But I—what had I done,
To porcine sire or son.
Whose greasy limbs within that crust repose.
That ghostly pettitoes
Should trot my duodenum o'er,
Like the familiar floor
Of the low stye which, when in life, they trod ?
That phantom snouts shoidd root, and tusks should prod
My stomach's inmost hold?
That gristly tails should fold,
And mottled sausages entwine,
In stHl-beginning, never-ending line,
This scorched oesophagus of mine ?
Wherefore meseemed the bed whereon I lay,
Was with polonies stuft and saveloys ?
Why that continual noise,
Of swinish grunts, that vexed the slow sad night away ?
Priend of the fatal gift,
'Twas thou the hand didst lift
Against the porkers of that pie accurst;
And thine the penance should have been
The Indigestion keen,
Heart-burn and Flatulence, and—worst—
The dead dull weight, that all night long has been
Burd'ning my midriff, bred of fat and lean,
And still like lead doth hang—
The fevered pulses that like hammers clang—
The Night-mare's gallop, urged by dire Dyspepsia's gang—
Not mine, not mine the Pie—Oh, wherefore mine the Pang!
And yet I needs must own,
Out of my groan,
How cunning'y 'twas spiced; combined how well,
Of luscious fat and firm grey lean;
How from each jellied dell,
White-globed, and gold-yoked pullet-eggs did swell,
Lightening what else too heavy would have been;
How rich, how flaky, yet how firm the crust;
Sprinkled how tenderly the peppers dust;
Striking and Kicking.
In the Halifax Conner we are sorry to see the following announce-
ment :—
" Strike near Todmorden.—The mule spinners employed at Messrs. Ormerod's
new factory, Walsden, turned out on strike on Thursday morning."
We trust that the mule spinners will not discover that in turning
out on strike they have rejected the better part of their nature, ana
made asses of themselves.
PETTICOATS v. PYROTECHNICS.
(a remonstrance.)
" Dearest Mr. Punch,
" You are really too hard on us poor weak wearers of Crinoline.
Positively, to read what you write, one would never imagine you had
taught us to shudder at the Miss Wiazles, in their odious limp petti-
coats, without the least soupcon of a line of beauty about their figures,
either natural or artificial.
" I am sure, from your drawings,—you horrid sly old roguey-pogney
—that you admire the new fashion, and that you would no more like
us to throw off our steel tubes, than you would wish us to give up our
darling round hats with the pheasant-breast plumes,_and our smart little
military-heeled boots, and ail the other attifes which you give every
week.
" I am bound to say, though, you do us justice, as far as good looks
go; and we are all very much obliged to you.
" But I am so sorry you give way to all the ridiculous exaggeration
of the day on the subject of Crinoline. About its liability to catch
fire, now. Depend upon it, we know perfectly well how to guard against
sparks, and are not half so liable to play with matches as you Lords of
the Creation,—I really didn't mean those for puns—and that you men,
in your absurd peg-tops—as you call them—are far more likely to catch