DOI issue:
January 4, 1868
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16881#0012
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
[January 4, 1868.
HAIR-BRUSHING BY MACHINERY.
Please, Sir, I Think the Machine wants
Oiling.”
Mr. Brush going to Oil the
Machine.
The Machine.
A CHRISTMAS CAROL.
The year is dying in darkness and damps,
That shroud and chill the face of day.
The clinging fog-wreaths muffle the lamps.
Till you scarce can see them over the way.
Darkness—as if hope’s light in doubt
And fear was dying far and wide :
Damps—as if Nature was weeping out
The sorrow that loads this Christmas-tide.
“ Peace on Earth, and goodwill to men,”
So still ring out the Christmas chimes :
“ Warfare on Earth, man’s hate of men,”
So clangeth the tocsin of evil times.
At home or abroad, when the world we scan,
Or north, or south, by land or sea,
’Tis every man’s hand against every man,
The Cyclone let loose and the Earthquake free.
Not for worship, but watch and ward.
In “merry ” England we muster and meet,
Erom terror of fire our homes to guard,
Lest the mine be sprung at our children’s feet:
The Nemesis of ill-deeds of old.
The curse that ever survives the wrong,
Are gathering round us, fold on fold,
With a sob and a shriek for their Christmas song.
Scared Authority stands aghast,
At sight of Anarchy’s hideous face,
And sound of her shattering trumpet-blast,—
“ Class against class, and race against race ! ”
Even our Gold and Labour fail,
In thousands on thousands of pauper-homes,
And fetid lazar-house. crowded gaol,
Throw a gloom on Capital’s palace-domes.
Never was sorrier Christmas time,
Since Christ lay a babe in the oxen’s pen;
Ne’er was worse discord of Christmas chime.
And the doings of Christian men.
Ne’er was it harder to feel the life
Christ lived on earth a living thing,
Peace more than war and love than strife,
And present Winter the nurse of Spring.
Is there a blessing in this bale
That deepens round the dying year ?
Shall Christ o’er Mammon yet prevail,
And love o’er hate, and joy o’er fear ?
Shall eyes be cleared God’s ways to trace,
Love in his chastening own confest ?
His lessons to read, his laws to heed,
So rarely learnt, until transgrest.
If strength in Christ’s word still may be,
As we believe such strength abides.
The sin and sorrow that we see
Are seed of brighter Christmas-tides.
False trusts so sorely shaken now
Stronger foundations shall replace ;
Anarchy, Eraud and Force shall bow,
Law, Love and Truth reign in their place.
“Obstinati Mulati.”
It is seldom worth while to correct an error of the Press, and we
cannot think that it was at all worth the while of Mrs. Nate he
Stanton, an American lady, to complain that in a recent anti-nigger
speech of hers, in which she meant to call her countrymen white
males, she was made to say white mules.
HIS BROTHER—YOU STUPED.
New name for the Member for Birmingham.—Jacob’s Ladder.
[January 4, 1868.
HAIR-BRUSHING BY MACHINERY.
Please, Sir, I Think the Machine wants
Oiling.”
Mr. Brush going to Oil the
Machine.
The Machine.
A CHRISTMAS CAROL.
The year is dying in darkness and damps,
That shroud and chill the face of day.
The clinging fog-wreaths muffle the lamps.
Till you scarce can see them over the way.
Darkness—as if hope’s light in doubt
And fear was dying far and wide :
Damps—as if Nature was weeping out
The sorrow that loads this Christmas-tide.
“ Peace on Earth, and goodwill to men,”
So still ring out the Christmas chimes :
“ Warfare on Earth, man’s hate of men,”
So clangeth the tocsin of evil times.
At home or abroad, when the world we scan,
Or north, or south, by land or sea,
’Tis every man’s hand against every man,
The Cyclone let loose and the Earthquake free.
Not for worship, but watch and ward.
In “merry ” England we muster and meet,
Erom terror of fire our homes to guard,
Lest the mine be sprung at our children’s feet:
The Nemesis of ill-deeds of old.
The curse that ever survives the wrong,
Are gathering round us, fold on fold,
With a sob and a shriek for their Christmas song.
Scared Authority stands aghast,
At sight of Anarchy’s hideous face,
And sound of her shattering trumpet-blast,—
“ Class against class, and race against race ! ”
Even our Gold and Labour fail,
In thousands on thousands of pauper-homes,
And fetid lazar-house. crowded gaol,
Throw a gloom on Capital’s palace-domes.
Never was sorrier Christmas time,
Since Christ lay a babe in the oxen’s pen;
Ne’er was worse discord of Christmas chime.
And the doings of Christian men.
Ne’er was it harder to feel the life
Christ lived on earth a living thing,
Peace more than war and love than strife,
And present Winter the nurse of Spring.
Is there a blessing in this bale
That deepens round the dying year ?
Shall Christ o’er Mammon yet prevail,
And love o’er hate, and joy o’er fear ?
Shall eyes be cleared God’s ways to trace,
Love in his chastening own confest ?
His lessons to read, his laws to heed,
So rarely learnt, until transgrest.
If strength in Christ’s word still may be,
As we believe such strength abides.
The sin and sorrow that we see
Are seed of brighter Christmas-tides.
False trusts so sorely shaken now
Stronger foundations shall replace ;
Anarchy, Eraud and Force shall bow,
Law, Love and Truth reign in their place.
“Obstinati Mulati.”
It is seldom worth while to correct an error of the Press, and we
cannot think that it was at all worth the while of Mrs. Nate he
Stanton, an American lady, to complain that in a recent anti-nigger
speech of hers, in which she meant to call her countrymen white
males, she was made to say white mules.
HIS BROTHER—YOU STUPED.
New name for the Member for Birmingham.—Jacob’s Ladder.