Punch (41.1861)

176

PUNCH OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

[November 2, 1861.

MASTER AND MAN.-A PRETTY STATE OF THINGS!

Master (to Swell Groom). “ Oh, Snaffles, I wish to show the New Horse to this Gentleman—and we shall Ride in the
Afternoon.”

Swell Groom,. “ Very Sorry, Sir, but the Osses are locked up for the present, Sir ! And what Osses was you going to
Ride this Afternoon ? I shouldn’t like to ’ave mine out in the damp ! ”

KING COTTON BOUND ; OR, THE NEW PROMETHEUS.

Par across Atlantic waters
Groans in chains a Giant King;

Like to him, whom Ocean’s daughters
Wail around in mournful ring,

In the grand old Grecian strains
Of Prometheus in his chains!

Needs but Fancy’s pencil pliant
Both to paint till both agree;

Por King Cotton is a giant.

As Prometheus claimed to be.

Each gave blessings unto men,

Each dishonour reaped again.

Prom the gods to sons of clay
If Prometheus brought the flame,
Who King Cotton can gainsay.

Should he equal honour claim P
Pirt and life to millions giving,

That, without him, had no living.

And if they are one in blessing,

So in suffering they are one;

Both, their captive state confessing,
Freeze in frost and scorch in sun:
That, upon his mountain chain,

This, upon his parching plain.

Nor the wild bird’s self is wanting—
Either giant’s torment sore;

If Prometheus writhed, while panting
Heart and lungs the vulture tore,

So Columbia’s eagle fierce.

Doth King Cotton’s vitals pierce.

On those wings so widely sweeping
In its poise the bird to keep,

See, if you can see for weeping,

“North” and “South” are branded deep-
On the beak all reeking red,

On the talons blood-bespread !

But ’tis not so much the anguish
Of the wound that rends his side,

Makes this fettered giant languish,

As the thought how once, in pride,

That great eagle took its stand,

Gently on his giant hand!

How to it the meat he ’d carry
In its mew to feed secure; •

How he’d fling it on the quarry,

How recall it to the lure,

Make it stoop, to his caresses.

Hooded neck and jingling jesses.

And another thought is pressing, ■

Like hot iron on his brain—

Millions that would fain be blessing,

Ban, e’en now, King Cotton’s name.

Oh, that here those hands are bound.
Which should scatter wealth around!

“ Not this Eagle’s screaming smothers
That sad sound across the sea—

Wailing babes and weeping mothers,
Wailing, weeping, wanting me.

Hands that I would fain employ,

Hearts that I would fill with joy !

“ I must writhe—a giant fettered,—
While those millions peak and pine;
By my wealth their lot unbettered,

And their suffering worse than mine.
Por they know that I would fain
Help their need, were’t not my chain !

“ But I know not where to turn me
Por relief from bonds and woe;

Frosts may pinch and suns may burn me.
But for rescue—none I know,

Save the millions I have fed.

Should they rise for lack of bread—

“ Saying, ‘ We will brook no longer,

That King Cotton bound should be:

Be his gaolers strong, we ’re stronger,

In our hunger over sea—

More for want, than love, uprisen,

We are come to break his prison! ’

“ Welcome even such releasing,

Pain my work I’d be about:

Soon would want and wail be ceasing,
Were King Cotton once let out—
Though all torn and faint and bleeding,
Millions still I’ve strength for feeding.