Punch (36.1859)

150

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

[April 9, 1859.

ALARMING PROPOSITION.

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Oyster Man (to Hairy Gents). " Oysters, Sir ! Yes, Sir ! Shall I take yer Beards off

[Gents have an uncomfortable idea theit they ate being " cliaffeel."

THE STREET-BETTING NUISANCE.

We wish that some one would devise a street-sweeping machine, to sweep away the human
rubbish which is daily shot into Bride Lane, and is there becoming such a nuisance to the
neighbourhood. The Lokd Mayor lays down the law that the law can't interfere • but were
some patriotic street-sweepers to take the law into their hands, and to clear away the rubbish
; by fair means or by foul, we feel convinced that a subscription might be raised for their
indemnity, and a monument erected to record their pious act.

In order to preserve the moral health of the neighbourhood, it seems essential that
the rubbish should be cleared; and the only question is, how most effectually to do it?
It has been suggested, as a sanitary measure, that a watercart be kept continually on
service and that the blackguards of Bride Lane should be, in this way, washed clean out
of it. The purifying properties of water are well known, and we doubt not this cold-water
cure would have a good odfect. A more effective plan, however, would be, to hire a band
of organ-grinders to do duty in Bride Lane, and to frighten away the betting-men, just
as boys do crows. Whenever any knot of blacklegs grouped together, their instrumental
scarers should strike up their shrillest tones, and play upon the blackguards their ear-
piercingest of squeaks. These would most effectually distract their calculations, and quite
disable them from any literary effort,—in the way, we mean to say, of making up a book.
When the betters left Bride Lane, and tried some other betting haunt, the organ-grinders
should be bribed to follow and unearth them; so that, like the lady in the infantile lyric,
the blacklegs should " have music wherever they go."

Our neighbours may depend that, if they wish to clear their lane out, a daily dose of organ-
grinding is the best purgative to do it. If we want to make the betting-men make way
for their betters, there is nothing like an organised system of attack; and by having organs
play upon them wherever they may meet, we shall drive them out of their senses, or else out
of the streets. In order to secure having the right tune in the right place, we should recom-
mend that wlnle the "legs" are doing business (and of course, also, doing those with whom
they do it), they should be saluted with the air of Robbing Around ; and that, when they
move to any fresh locality, the melody accompanying them should be that of The Rogues'
March.

FALSITY, ON THE LACE OE ALL OE THEM!

The four dials of the Monster Clock of the House of Commons represent the four parties
in that august assembly who are supposed to guide the movements of the country. On the
four different faces you can almost read, " Whig, Tory, Peelite, Badical." They are all on
different sides,—they all tell a different story,—they all point different ways,—they are each
of them a smooth-faced mockery in the eyes of those who are led by their simple faith to
look up at them,—and not one of them is a proper indication of the wants of the passing
hour. Whilst the rest of the country is advancing, the four sides are standing stdl. In its
doubt, the Million does not know which to believe in, or which side to take as its unerring guide.

And yet, false as they are all to the public, and to each other, it would be as well if each side _
in the House, like each dial of that clock, told us the truth at least once every twelve hours ! I Cries, " Done at last

THE SUBALTERN ON BRIGADE
DUTY.

The morning sun was rising fast,
As o'er the mud and shingle past
A Subaltern, who only said,
"Alas ! they've dragged me out of bea
To see the meat."

His eye was dull, his hair unbrushed,
About the huts he wildly rushed;
He stumbled back amidst the rain,
And said, "At eight I'm off again—
The breakfast's now."

At nine I saw Mm on parade,
Mounted upon a sorry jade;
For two long hours he rode about,
To stables went, and there did shout.

" The hay and oats! "

1 watched him as he wandered home,
Seeking for rest and finding none;
To breakfast he had scarce sat down,
An orderly came with a frown—

"The prisoners wait." '

The stable call rang loud and clear—
He bolted down a glass of beer;
Eor one long hour he saw them groom
The horses ; then, in every room
Saw soldiers paid.

At two he donned his belt and sword—
Away he went to mount the guard;
He'd had no lunch, and he was riled,
" Eours right! " he cried, with accents wild :
"Eours right, quick march ! "

At four, again, his "knife" he took,
He threw away his pipe and book;
The guard to visit he did go,
And said, as they were rather slow,

" Turn out that guard! "

I watched him stalk across the camp —
Alas ! his feet were very damp •
I asked him where he wandered now,
He answered, with a knitted brow,
" The hospital!"

At five he's back among the huts :
'Tis dark,—he stumbles o'er the ruts;
The orderly walks on apace,
He follows, with a sullen face,
To see the teas.

At half-past five, the stable-call
Echoes from every barrack wall:
Behind those vicious horses' heels,
By glimmering light his way he feeis,
Till half-past six.

At seven the bugle sounds for mess :
He wastes no time upon his dress,
Yet, ere he feeds, he has to go,
And visit, 'midst the huts so low,

The Gunner's schop*

He eats his dinner, lays him d&i.^
Upon the sofa, hard and brown;
Gets forty winks, and then, I guess,
Collects, 'in sword and proper dress,
Tattoo reports.

At twelve, although it's raining hard,
In ample cloak he wakes the guard ;
Bound every sentry's post he wends,—
The sentries cry, when he says "Frienda \"
"Advance, all's well!"

No wonder, when his week is o'er,
He gives it up, nor asks for more!
His belts he hangs upon their pegs,
And, as he stretches weary legs,

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