Punch: Punch (56.1869)

58

[February 13, 1869.

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

“Are you aware, Madam, that this is a Smoking Compartment?’’

“Yes, yes, I know! Pray go on ! We always Travel in Smoking Compartments—to avoid Contagion.”

THE NEW CHIEF POLICEMAN.

We know not which, feeling should dominate, in regard to the
appointment of Colonel Henderson, C.B., as the new Chief of the
Police. Suppose we mix our sensations, and on the one hand con-
gratulate that gentleman on having a name out of which no joke can
be made, while on the other we condole with the smart writers who
have been so unconstitutionally done out of their legitimate perquisites,
Mayne was a rich harvest for the wits. Had Hughes been the_ new
name, the police would have got hughesd to him. Had it been Knox,
police-knocks would have been suggested to the dullest. Shaw, too,
would have been—pshaw, you see. But Henderson is hopeless.
Khymes, of course, can be done, e. g. on the Sabbath closing question—

“ For beer she wished to send her son :

The inn was shut by Henderson

and so forth; but a complex rhyme demands a cleverness not usually
accorded to the smart. We do not think, on the whole, that Govern-
ment has used the wits well; but if Colonel Henderson makes a
good Chief, bags thieves and bangs ruffians, we must try to look over
the short-coming.

Antique Epigram.

He lied, which sd, the other day,

Ye Eddystone was swept away.

He lies, however sad hs tone,

Who says he’ll sweep yK Gladdystone.
Both beacons, wh y* billows mock,
Because both founded on ye rock.

REVOLTING FEROCITY.

“ You ought always to take me out with you, my dear,” said a wife.

“ You know they say that Happiness was born a Twin.” “ Yes, love ; I
but not a Siamese twin,” said the Brute.

Bound Numbers.—The “Globe” Audiences.

SAU R1 N v. STAR.

Air—“ I won't be a Nun."

Though a soarin’ ambition it mayn’t appear to be
To sweep floors and empty dust-bins for a lady born like me ;

Yet, it such work must be done,

I ’ll do’t, to be a nun.

Yes—though kicked, cuffed, trod, and spit upon—I will be a nun.

I’m sure I cannot tell what’s the mischief I have done.

That dear reverend mother says I’m not fit to be a nun—

But I will be a nun,

Yes, I will be a nun,

Though she whip me, starve and strip me, yet I will be a nun.

Though I’m kept for hours en deshabille at reverend mot hers door.
Made to sleep on the bare boards, and to sit on the bare floor,

Yet I will be a nun !

Yes, I will be a nun !

Though ’rnong sisters of no mercy, I will be a nun !

I ’ll stand until I drop, I ’ll eat mutton ’gainst the grain,

Wear a duster on my head, scrub my hands to chap and blain.

But I will be a nun.

Yes, I will be a nun,

And the more that they don’t want me, the more I ’ll be a nun.

So take care, dear reverend mother, and let your daughter be.

For I mean to bring my action for assault and batterie ;

Though I want to be a nun.

Yes, and mean to be a nun.

If they give me swingeing damages, my Star, won’t you be done !

Nautical Note.—A muddled mariner writes to ask Punch, if the
introduction of the French Pitch will in any way damage the British
Tar.