DOI Heft:
December 21, 1861
DOI Seite / Zitierlink:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16868#0257
December 21, 1861.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
245
DECEMBER FOURTEENTH, 1861.
How should the Princes die ?
Better and nobler fate
With red spur deep in maddening charger’s flank,
His, whom we claimed but yesterday,
Leading the rush that cleaves the foeman’s rank.
His, ours no more, his, round whose sacred clay,
And shouting some time-famous battle-cry ?
The death-mute pages and the heralds wait.
Ending a pleasure day,
It was too soon to die.
Joy’3 paiuted goblet fully drained, and out,
Yet, might we count his years by triumphs won.
While wearied vassals coldly stand about,
By wise, and bold, and Christian duties done,
And con new homage which they long to pay ?
It were no brief eventless history.
So have the Princes died.
This was his princely thought:
Nobler and happier far the fate that falls
With all his varied wisdom to repay
On Him who ’mid yon aged Castle walls,
Our trust and love, which on that Bridal Day
Hears, as he goes, the plash of Thames’s tide.
The Daughter of the Isles for dowry brought.
Gallant, high-natured, brave.
For that he loved our Queen, !
0, had his lot been cast in warrior days,
And, for her sake, the people of her love,
No nobler knight had won the minstrel’s praise,
Eew and far distant names shall rank above
Than he, for whom the half-reared banners wave.
His own, where England’s cherished names are seen.
Or, graced with gentler powers,
Could there be closer tie
The song, the pencil, and the lyre his own,
Twixt us, who, sorrowing, own a nation’s debt
Deigned he to live fair pleasure’s thrall alone,
And Her, our own dear Lady, who as yet
None had more lightly sped the laughing hours.
Must meet her sudden woe with tearless eye :
When with a kind relief
Those eyes rain tears, 0 might this thought employ !
Him whom she loved
we loved. We shared her joy,
And will not be denied to share her grief.
THE IRISH YAHOOS.
SOMETHING LIKE MANNERS.
A Grand Meeting of Yahoos was held yesterday at the Pope’s Head,
for the purpose of expressing joy and exaltation at the prospect of the
war which England is thought likely to he involved in with America.
The Chair was taken by the O’Donoghyahoo, one of the principal
1 representatives of the Yahoos in Parliament.
The O’Donoghyahoo, on rising, was received with much grinning,
gibbering, chattering, and other demonstrations of applause. When
the noise had subsided, he began raving, and continued for nearly an
hour, pouring forth torrents of foul hut almost inarticulate abuse of
the Saxon, as he wa3 understood, as well as his sputtering and slavering
enabled him to be, to style the object of his malignant invective,
meaning England and the English. His discourse terminated with a
succession of shrieks and yells resembling those of a hyaena impatient
for his carrion, and he sat down foaming at the mouth. The conclusion
of the honourable Yahoo’s address was hailed with frantic howling and
peals of convulsive laughter, like that of a multitude of violent idiots.
Orations in a similar tone and spirit, full of sound and fury, were
delivered by Ms. O’Rangoutang, Mr. G. O’Rxlla, Mb. Eitzcaliban,
and other eminent Yahoos, who gloated on the calamities which they
anticipated for England, and expressed, as far as they were intelligible,
the most truculent animosity to the British Sovereign and people.
Mb. O’Rangoutang created an immense sensation by brandishing a
dagger, to indicate how he would like to serve the alien oppressor,
in which performance he nearly cut his own throat, to the great
diversion of the assembly.
After giving several rounds of hurroos for the Pope and Captain
Wilks, and of shouts and yells for Lobd Palmerston and John
Bull, the concourse of Yahoos separated gnashing their teeth, and
retired to their dens, whooping, shrieking, ana uttering the most blood-
thirsty execrations. Going home, many of them, in the frenzy of their
malice, threw themselves down in the dirt and rolled in it like dogs,
yelping, whining, and howling, after the manner of the lower orders of
the canine species, to which the Yahoo is nearly allied, being a creature
between the mongrel and the baboon.
What the United States particularly want just now.—-A
Short Cut to the Pacffic.
An Irishman, in the old days of Protestant Ascendency, was run
over by a bishop’s carriage, and merely inquired, in a humble manner,
as he sat rubbing himself, “What’s that for.” We feared that his
docile race had become extinct, but the following advertisement,
which Mr. Punch cuts from a provincial newspaper, shows that there
are still persons who know how to behave respectfully under aggra-
vating circumstances:—
GENTLEMAN RUN OYER IN CLAYTON SQUARE. If the i
' Ladies who were in the Carriage when it was driven over an old Gentleman in j
Clayton Square, on Monday last, between the hours of Twelve and One, desire to |
know how he is, they are invited to send to No. 34, Seymour Street.
Nothing can be more polite than this old gentleman, and his delicate
way of informing the ladies of his address savours of the manners of
the old school. We do not—no—we will not do such wrong to human
nature as to suppose that he inserts the advertisement under the
advice of some fiendlike attorney, who has faded to find out the
address of the ladies, and hopes to catch them this way with a view
to legal damages. No, we repudiate the thought. The affair is a
bit of the manners of the high-bred school of other days. There was
to be a splendid masked ball, at the court of the excellent Louis XIV.,
and all the world worth mentioning was wrapped up in the costumes,
and dying for the splendid fete. A young Count, from Provence,
was to be one of the most brilliant of the maskers. Three hours before
the fete, comes to him, dustily, a servant from the provincial chateau,
and informs him that his Lordship’s father is deceased. “ You are a
vulgar fellow, Erancois,” blandly replies the young nobleman, “ and
you judge the nobility by the standard of the canaille. My father ’3
too much of a gentleman to die at such a moment. Gome to me in the
morning.” The old gentleman of Clayton Square must surely be s
descendant of the high-bred young Count. We hope he wasn’t much
hurt.
English and American Bulls.
An English Bull’s run calls aloud to beware
Of his horns, ever prompt to assail.
But a Yankee Bull - Run is another affair:
And creates most alarm by his ' ail.
245
DECEMBER FOURTEENTH, 1861.
How should the Princes die ?
Better and nobler fate
With red spur deep in maddening charger’s flank,
His, whom we claimed but yesterday,
Leading the rush that cleaves the foeman’s rank.
His, ours no more, his, round whose sacred clay,
And shouting some time-famous battle-cry ?
The death-mute pages and the heralds wait.
Ending a pleasure day,
It was too soon to die.
Joy’3 paiuted goblet fully drained, and out,
Yet, might we count his years by triumphs won.
While wearied vassals coldly stand about,
By wise, and bold, and Christian duties done,
And con new homage which they long to pay ?
It were no brief eventless history.
So have the Princes died.
This was his princely thought:
Nobler and happier far the fate that falls
With all his varied wisdom to repay
On Him who ’mid yon aged Castle walls,
Our trust and love, which on that Bridal Day
Hears, as he goes, the plash of Thames’s tide.
The Daughter of the Isles for dowry brought.
Gallant, high-natured, brave.
For that he loved our Queen, !
0, had his lot been cast in warrior days,
And, for her sake, the people of her love,
No nobler knight had won the minstrel’s praise,
Eew and far distant names shall rank above
Than he, for whom the half-reared banners wave.
His own, where England’s cherished names are seen.
Or, graced with gentler powers,
Could there be closer tie
The song, the pencil, and the lyre his own,
Twixt us, who, sorrowing, own a nation’s debt
Deigned he to live fair pleasure’s thrall alone,
And Her, our own dear Lady, who as yet
None had more lightly sped the laughing hours.
Must meet her sudden woe with tearless eye :
When with a kind relief
Those eyes rain tears, 0 might this thought employ !
Him whom she loved
we loved. We shared her joy,
And will not be denied to share her grief.
THE IRISH YAHOOS.
SOMETHING LIKE MANNERS.
A Grand Meeting of Yahoos was held yesterday at the Pope’s Head,
for the purpose of expressing joy and exaltation at the prospect of the
war which England is thought likely to he involved in with America.
The Chair was taken by the O’Donoghyahoo, one of the principal
1 representatives of the Yahoos in Parliament.
The O’Donoghyahoo, on rising, was received with much grinning,
gibbering, chattering, and other demonstrations of applause. When
the noise had subsided, he began raving, and continued for nearly an
hour, pouring forth torrents of foul hut almost inarticulate abuse of
the Saxon, as he wa3 understood, as well as his sputtering and slavering
enabled him to be, to style the object of his malignant invective,
meaning England and the English. His discourse terminated with a
succession of shrieks and yells resembling those of a hyaena impatient
for his carrion, and he sat down foaming at the mouth. The conclusion
of the honourable Yahoo’s address was hailed with frantic howling and
peals of convulsive laughter, like that of a multitude of violent idiots.
Orations in a similar tone and spirit, full of sound and fury, were
delivered by Ms. O’Rangoutang, Mr. G. O’Rxlla, Mb. Eitzcaliban,
and other eminent Yahoos, who gloated on the calamities which they
anticipated for England, and expressed, as far as they were intelligible,
the most truculent animosity to the British Sovereign and people.
Mb. O’Rangoutang created an immense sensation by brandishing a
dagger, to indicate how he would like to serve the alien oppressor,
in which performance he nearly cut his own throat, to the great
diversion of the assembly.
After giving several rounds of hurroos for the Pope and Captain
Wilks, and of shouts and yells for Lobd Palmerston and John
Bull, the concourse of Yahoos separated gnashing their teeth, and
retired to their dens, whooping, shrieking, ana uttering the most blood-
thirsty execrations. Going home, many of them, in the frenzy of their
malice, threw themselves down in the dirt and rolled in it like dogs,
yelping, whining, and howling, after the manner of the lower orders of
the canine species, to which the Yahoo is nearly allied, being a creature
between the mongrel and the baboon.
What the United States particularly want just now.—-A
Short Cut to the Pacffic.
An Irishman, in the old days of Protestant Ascendency, was run
over by a bishop’s carriage, and merely inquired, in a humble manner,
as he sat rubbing himself, “What’s that for.” We feared that his
docile race had become extinct, but the following advertisement,
which Mr. Punch cuts from a provincial newspaper, shows that there
are still persons who know how to behave respectfully under aggra-
vating circumstances:—
GENTLEMAN RUN OYER IN CLAYTON SQUARE. If the i
' Ladies who were in the Carriage when it was driven over an old Gentleman in j
Clayton Square, on Monday last, between the hours of Twelve and One, desire to |
know how he is, they are invited to send to No. 34, Seymour Street.
Nothing can be more polite than this old gentleman, and his delicate
way of informing the ladies of his address savours of the manners of
the old school. We do not—no—we will not do such wrong to human
nature as to suppose that he inserts the advertisement under the
advice of some fiendlike attorney, who has faded to find out the
address of the ladies, and hopes to catch them this way with a view
to legal damages. No, we repudiate the thought. The affair is a
bit of the manners of the high-bred school of other days. There was
to be a splendid masked ball, at the court of the excellent Louis XIV.,
and all the world worth mentioning was wrapped up in the costumes,
and dying for the splendid fete. A young Count, from Provence,
was to be one of the most brilliant of the maskers. Three hours before
the fete, comes to him, dustily, a servant from the provincial chateau,
and informs him that his Lordship’s father is deceased. “ You are a
vulgar fellow, Erancois,” blandly replies the young nobleman, “ and
you judge the nobility by the standard of the canaille. My father ’3
too much of a gentleman to die at such a moment. Gome to me in the
morning.” The old gentleman of Clayton Square must surely be s
descendant of the high-bred young Count. We hope he wasn’t much
hurt.
English and American Bulls.
An English Bull’s run calls aloud to beware
Of his horns, ever prompt to assail.
But a Yankee Bull - Run is another affair:
And creates most alarm by his ' ail.