DOI issue:
April 9, 1859
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16623#0152
144 PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [April 9, 1859.
A DAY VERY LATE IN THE SEASON-SAY. THE FIRST OF APRILS
Tee O.P.q. Hounds have a rattling hour and ten minutes after a good stout Butterfly, over a splendid Primrose
and Violet Country.-Huntsman, (log.) "Shall I give the Wings to the Lady, Sir?"
THE LADIES' LAST HUNT.
The wind is a Zephyr; bright azure the sky,
The birds are in iull song, the lambs in full cry.
The violet its casket of perfume unlocks,
Instead of the scent of a nasty old fox.
The lark that drops, singing, among the green corn,
Proclaims what to me is a nice hunting morn.
There's my pony, side-saddled, woho, boy, woho!
We are up, we are off, oh, how nicely we go!
O'er the daisies we dash, through the buttercups fly,
Leap that streamlet, my chesnnt—you can if you try!
'Tis as wide as my work-box—and cleared at a jump,
Up we go! Down we come ! And, oh my, what a bump!
The little dogs follow, they frisk and they bark,
Now Trim, Sir, hark forward! Dash, Sappho, Di, hark !
How delightful to ride on this velvet green ground,
Bitter-cress and marsh-marigold shining all round!
Now we 've started a butterfly—symptom of Spring,
It is up on the air—it is off on the wmg!
As much as to say, Catch me now if you can !
Hie after it Tiny, and Bijou, my man.
Run Mumba, my poodle; haste Pido, good dog,
Ah! What is the matter ? Oh, such a great frog!
There it goes, there it hops! Ugh! 'Tis passed—never mind.
See, my pony and I leave the monster behmd!
Pursued with view hollow, the game flies away,
Heigho! Chevy! Tantivy ! trot after him, Tray !
Yoicks ! the insect alights-—run to earth—out of breath,
So am I, but thank goodness, I'm in at the death !
See Flora has seized it, and bitten its wing!
It shakes it, it tears it, it kills it, poor thing!
Down I pop, with my scissors between them I rush,
And I snip off the tail—but we call it the brush.
That prize for a trophy I pin in my hat,
Of course, for Charles says sportsmen always do that.
Then homeward we toddle, along with our pack,
Our gallants all beside us : our grooms at our back.
And oh, such a dinner our coming awaits !
And la, such a clearance we make of our plates !
After tea, with a dance we conclude the day's fun,
And in polkas and waltzes talk over the run.
An April Tool.
The Reform Speeches terminated at a quarter to"one o'clock in the
morning of the first of April. An appropriate ending to so foohsh a
beginning ! But the real April Pool in this protracted practical joke is
the reader, who, having waded on seven different occasions through
this foaming sea of raging words, rubs his eyes, and clears his mouth
of the weedy verbiage, and asks himself where he is, and what it has
been all about ? Never was John Bull made such an April Pool of in
all his life before !— and the poor old gentleman has known a few fools
in his time too.
malingering majesty.
The spider, when it feels itself in danger, pretends to be dead.
Bomba's death was announced the other day—and has since been
reported to be hourly expected. Has the Neapolitan tyrant resorted
to the trick of the spider ? After all, has Bomra only been shamming ?
Kinder is the looking-glass than the wine-glass, for the former
reveals our defects to ourselves only, the latter to our friends.
A DAY VERY LATE IN THE SEASON-SAY. THE FIRST OF APRILS
Tee O.P.q. Hounds have a rattling hour and ten minutes after a good stout Butterfly, over a splendid Primrose
and Violet Country.-Huntsman, (log.) "Shall I give the Wings to the Lady, Sir?"
THE LADIES' LAST HUNT.
The wind is a Zephyr; bright azure the sky,
The birds are in iull song, the lambs in full cry.
The violet its casket of perfume unlocks,
Instead of the scent of a nasty old fox.
The lark that drops, singing, among the green corn,
Proclaims what to me is a nice hunting morn.
There's my pony, side-saddled, woho, boy, woho!
We are up, we are off, oh, how nicely we go!
O'er the daisies we dash, through the buttercups fly,
Leap that streamlet, my chesnnt—you can if you try!
'Tis as wide as my work-box—and cleared at a jump,
Up we go! Down we come ! And, oh my, what a bump!
The little dogs follow, they frisk and they bark,
Now Trim, Sir, hark forward! Dash, Sappho, Di, hark !
How delightful to ride on this velvet green ground,
Bitter-cress and marsh-marigold shining all round!
Now we 've started a butterfly—symptom of Spring,
It is up on the air—it is off on the wmg!
As much as to say, Catch me now if you can !
Hie after it Tiny, and Bijou, my man.
Run Mumba, my poodle; haste Pido, good dog,
Ah! What is the matter ? Oh, such a great frog!
There it goes, there it hops! Ugh! 'Tis passed—never mind.
See, my pony and I leave the monster behmd!
Pursued with view hollow, the game flies away,
Heigho! Chevy! Tantivy ! trot after him, Tray !
Yoicks ! the insect alights-—run to earth—out of breath,
So am I, but thank goodness, I'm in at the death !
See Flora has seized it, and bitten its wing!
It shakes it, it tears it, it kills it, poor thing!
Down I pop, with my scissors between them I rush,
And I snip off the tail—but we call it the brush.
That prize for a trophy I pin in my hat,
Of course, for Charles says sportsmen always do that.
Then homeward we toddle, along with our pack,
Our gallants all beside us : our grooms at our back.
And oh, such a dinner our coming awaits !
And la, such a clearance we make of our plates !
After tea, with a dance we conclude the day's fun,
And in polkas and waltzes talk over the run.
An April Tool.
The Reform Speeches terminated at a quarter to"one o'clock in the
morning of the first of April. An appropriate ending to so foohsh a
beginning ! But the real April Pool in this protracted practical joke is
the reader, who, having waded on seven different occasions through
this foaming sea of raging words, rubs his eyes, and clears his mouth
of the weedy verbiage, and asks himself where he is, and what it has
been all about ? Never was John Bull made such an April Pool of in
all his life before !— and the poor old gentleman has known a few fools
in his time too.
malingering majesty.
The spider, when it feels itself in danger, pretends to be dead.
Bomba's death was announced the other day—and has since been
reported to be hourly expected. Has the Neapolitan tyrant resorted
to the trick of the spider ? After all, has Bomra only been shamming ?
Kinder is the looking-glass than the wine-glass, for the former
reveals our defects to ourselves only, the latter to our friends.