DOI issue:
July 21, 1866
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16878#0032
24
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
fjui v 21, i860.
And thou, great Gladstone’s victor (to be sure
The Dunces chose thee) Hardy, take the Poor.
Let pinks nor tulips nor lobelias die;
John Manners, mind the Parks efficiently.
Thou, conqueror on the gay French Derby course,
Beaufort, ride forth, our Master of the Horse.
Our Thunderbolt of Law, flash out, Sir Hugh,
Thy second, Bovill, champion tried and true.
Not Shamrock, but Sham royalty, in scorn
Is held, yet help us, friendly Abercorn.
Go, parody a court—thy pains ’twill pay
To eat the haddock caught in Dublin Bay.
And as light food is good in these hot days,
Let Mayo’s Naas hint at Mayonnaise.
The minor posts by minor men be filled,
Small boots it whether skilful or unskilled,
While o’er you all my watchful eye is thrown,
Hint that each man had better mind his own.
The Future is with Fate. Come Bright, come Jack,
At least we ’ll die with harness on our back !
“SPARE THE ROD,” &c
Governess. “Looking for your Horse, Mr. Muzzle?”
Mr. Wuzzle. “No, Miss; I’m a Lookin’ for that there Boy o’ mine,
Miss ! ! ”
A SCANDAL TO ST. PANCKAS.
There appeared the other day in the Post a paragraph headed “A Workhouse
without a Chapel.” The chapelless workhouse is that of the parish whose patron
Saint is St. Pancras. We wonder what St. Pancras would say to Ms parochial
authorities, if they had ears to hear him, on their neglect to provide a chapel for
their poor—the room used instead of one being a work-room, wMch serves also for
a nursery, a directors’ dining-room, a receiving ward, and various purposes; whilst
the sacrament is administered in the vestry hall. If St. Pancras, however, has not
spoken, somebody else has. According to the Post, on an application respecting a
chapel for the paupers of St. Pancras, made by the Rev. Septimus Buss, their
chaplain, to then Board of Guardians :—
“ Mb. Churchwarden Robson said theirs was the only workhouse in the metropolis without a
chapel, and it was beneath a great parish like theirs to be without one. He moved that the
subject be referred to the select committee, which was agreed to.”
There are doubtless churchwardens who would deem it beneath a great parish
to be without a beadle attired in a sufficiently gorgeous uniform. Such gentlemen
wrould consider that it was likewise beneath their parish to be without a workhouse
chapel, regarding the chapel, equally with the beadle, an appurtenance essential to
parochial consequence. Of course, Mr. Churchwarden Robson meant to say
that it was beneath the spiritual dignity of St. Pancras parish, alone of all the
parishes of London, to have their workhouse unprovided with a chapel. You are
light, Mr. Churchwarden Robson—you are right, Sir.
“ TOO LATE ?”
Cry Havoc and let slip the Dogs of War ! ”
But “ U Empire e’est la pair!” and France is fain
To fold her hands : let the mad nations jar;
It may be in the crash she ’ll find her gain.
“ Your voice could stave off strife ! ” “ My voice P alas,
Has it not still been raised all strife to stay ?
Preacher of peace, betwixt arm’d hosts I pass,
But cannot lift arm’d hands—I can but pray.”
Hark! “ Havoc’s ” cried : the dogs of war are slipped;
Right at each other’s throats, lo ! they have flown !
Three mighty nations, in death-struggle gripped,
Sway, blind and bleeding, round a tott’ring throne.
Europe stands dumb in awe-stricken amaze,
While time and space-annihilating wires
Flash empires’ rise or downfall in a phrase,
Till hours to us are as years to our sires.
The melee slackens, the war-reek blows clear,
And, lo, emerging from the waves of fight,
A mightier Prussia, of prouder cheer,
And statelier stride, and more majestic height.
Blind, battered, blood-drained, beaten to the knee,
Sore-stricken Austria before her reels ;
But e’en in this, her hour of agony,
A PartMan blow at Italy she deals.
After one stroke struck manfully and fair
Between her brows, upon Custozza’s plain,
Calling in show of scorn to mask despair,
She cedes to France what she can not retain.
“ The time is come: the game is at the best.
Is not this war a tournament for me P
And I king of the lists, to speak my hest,
Throw down my warder,
id the knights let be ?1
The word is spoke, the warder is thrown down.
And baffled Austria is content to hear :
But how of Prussia ? Will she vail the crown
She’s won so well—so long has looked to wear ?
And Italy—e’en as she sights the goal
Of a life’s hope, how will she stoop thus low,
To see Yenetia, like a beggar’s dole,
Or Kaiser’s appanage, tossed to and fro ?
That fair Yenetia, for whom her gold.
Her youth, her strength, her blood, were price too
small,
By desperate Austria, to buy safety, sold
To France, as lord of old might sell a thrall!
Will Italy deign thus to round her crown ?
Lower her lance’s point, and rein her steed.
Before the Imperial warder, thus thrown down,
A second time, in Austria’s hour of need ?
Who knows ? ’Tis easier to avert the fight
Than stop it, even for Imperial power :
War is God’s scourge : once raised, it must alight:
Its staying waits Heaven’s, not the Emperor’s hour ’
Much in a Monosyllable.
With respect to European civilisation, there is little to
be said about the Battle of Sadowa. The first syllable oI
its mere name is sufficient. It is “ sad.”
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
fjui v 21, i860.
And thou, great Gladstone’s victor (to be sure
The Dunces chose thee) Hardy, take the Poor.
Let pinks nor tulips nor lobelias die;
John Manners, mind the Parks efficiently.
Thou, conqueror on the gay French Derby course,
Beaufort, ride forth, our Master of the Horse.
Our Thunderbolt of Law, flash out, Sir Hugh,
Thy second, Bovill, champion tried and true.
Not Shamrock, but Sham royalty, in scorn
Is held, yet help us, friendly Abercorn.
Go, parody a court—thy pains ’twill pay
To eat the haddock caught in Dublin Bay.
And as light food is good in these hot days,
Let Mayo’s Naas hint at Mayonnaise.
The minor posts by minor men be filled,
Small boots it whether skilful or unskilled,
While o’er you all my watchful eye is thrown,
Hint that each man had better mind his own.
The Future is with Fate. Come Bright, come Jack,
At least we ’ll die with harness on our back !
“SPARE THE ROD,” &c
Governess. “Looking for your Horse, Mr. Muzzle?”
Mr. Wuzzle. “No, Miss; I’m a Lookin’ for that there Boy o’ mine,
Miss ! ! ”
A SCANDAL TO ST. PANCKAS.
There appeared the other day in the Post a paragraph headed “A Workhouse
without a Chapel.” The chapelless workhouse is that of the parish whose patron
Saint is St. Pancras. We wonder what St. Pancras would say to Ms parochial
authorities, if they had ears to hear him, on their neglect to provide a chapel for
their poor—the room used instead of one being a work-room, wMch serves also for
a nursery, a directors’ dining-room, a receiving ward, and various purposes; whilst
the sacrament is administered in the vestry hall. If St. Pancras, however, has not
spoken, somebody else has. According to the Post, on an application respecting a
chapel for the paupers of St. Pancras, made by the Rev. Septimus Buss, their
chaplain, to then Board of Guardians :—
“ Mb. Churchwarden Robson said theirs was the only workhouse in the metropolis without a
chapel, and it was beneath a great parish like theirs to be without one. He moved that the
subject be referred to the select committee, which was agreed to.”
There are doubtless churchwardens who would deem it beneath a great parish
to be without a beadle attired in a sufficiently gorgeous uniform. Such gentlemen
wrould consider that it was likewise beneath their parish to be without a workhouse
chapel, regarding the chapel, equally with the beadle, an appurtenance essential to
parochial consequence. Of course, Mr. Churchwarden Robson meant to say
that it was beneath the spiritual dignity of St. Pancras parish, alone of all the
parishes of London, to have their workhouse unprovided with a chapel. You are
light, Mr. Churchwarden Robson—you are right, Sir.
“ TOO LATE ?”
Cry Havoc and let slip the Dogs of War ! ”
But “ U Empire e’est la pair!” and France is fain
To fold her hands : let the mad nations jar;
It may be in the crash she ’ll find her gain.
“ Your voice could stave off strife ! ” “ My voice P alas,
Has it not still been raised all strife to stay ?
Preacher of peace, betwixt arm’d hosts I pass,
But cannot lift arm’d hands—I can but pray.”
Hark! “ Havoc’s ” cried : the dogs of war are slipped;
Right at each other’s throats, lo ! they have flown !
Three mighty nations, in death-struggle gripped,
Sway, blind and bleeding, round a tott’ring throne.
Europe stands dumb in awe-stricken amaze,
While time and space-annihilating wires
Flash empires’ rise or downfall in a phrase,
Till hours to us are as years to our sires.
The melee slackens, the war-reek blows clear,
And, lo, emerging from the waves of fight,
A mightier Prussia, of prouder cheer,
And statelier stride, and more majestic height.
Blind, battered, blood-drained, beaten to the knee,
Sore-stricken Austria before her reels ;
But e’en in this, her hour of agony,
A PartMan blow at Italy she deals.
After one stroke struck manfully and fair
Between her brows, upon Custozza’s plain,
Calling in show of scorn to mask despair,
She cedes to France what she can not retain.
“ The time is come: the game is at the best.
Is not this war a tournament for me P
And I king of the lists, to speak my hest,
Throw down my warder,
id the knights let be ?1
The word is spoke, the warder is thrown down.
And baffled Austria is content to hear :
But how of Prussia ? Will she vail the crown
She’s won so well—so long has looked to wear ?
And Italy—e’en as she sights the goal
Of a life’s hope, how will she stoop thus low,
To see Yenetia, like a beggar’s dole,
Or Kaiser’s appanage, tossed to and fro ?
That fair Yenetia, for whom her gold.
Her youth, her strength, her blood, were price too
small,
By desperate Austria, to buy safety, sold
To France, as lord of old might sell a thrall!
Will Italy deign thus to round her crown ?
Lower her lance’s point, and rein her steed.
Before the Imperial warder, thus thrown down,
A second time, in Austria’s hour of need ?
Who knows ? ’Tis easier to avert the fight
Than stop it, even for Imperial power :
War is God’s scourge : once raised, it must alight:
Its staying waits Heaven’s, not the Emperor’s hour ’
Much in a Monosyllable.
With respect to European civilisation, there is little to
be said about the Battle of Sadowa. The first syllable oI
its mere name is sufficient. It is “ sad.”