Punch: Punch (57.1869)

40

PUNCH, OB THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

[July 31, 1869.

_ write their songs, give me the composition of their proverbs,"
or words to that effect. Mem. Find out who said this, and when : date, &c.)
Dressed and breakfasted. Now to ttie Academy.

At the Royal Academy. Early. Very early. No one there. Up the steps into
the hall. Not a soul. No one to take the money. Perhaps they've abolished
payments. Good, that. So gloomy, I'm quite depressed. See a policeman. He
reminds me that—of course—how idiotic!—the Royal Academy has gone to
Piccadilly, and here I am in the old Trafalgar Square place.

Happy Thought.—Take a cab to the New Academy.

Ah, nice new place ! Inscription over the entrance all on one side. Leave my
stick, and take a catalogue. Hate a catalogue : why can't they put the names
on the pictures, and charge extra for entrance ? I know that there used to
be a N orth and a South and an East and a West room in the old place.

Happy Thought.—Make a plan for seeing the rooms in order. Go back, and
buy a pencil. I'll begin with the North, then to the East, then to the West,
and so on.

SONGS OF SIXPENCE

BLOW FLY FISHING."

This is how Old Puffins (with the aid of a Blow-Tdbe) gets over the
Exertion of Throwing a Fly.

SPADE AND SAW v. PJFLE AND BAYONET.

The sorely-tried Military Authorities who have to decide on inventions, have
had laid before them a light steel spade, which screws into the butt of the rifle, as
the saw-backed sword-bayonet into its muzzle. When an old-fashioned soldier
used the butt of his piece as a weapon, he used to be said to "club his musket."
Henceforth, it seems, spades will be added to clubs, to help the points of the mili-
tary game. But now that " spade-drills " and " earthworks " are to be among the
chief reliances of the soldier of the future, the art of war seems really to be changing
into husbandry. "Turning rifles into spades, and bayonets into saws," is quite as
apt a symbol of the change, as " beating spears into shares, and swords into
sickles."

Playing at Priests.

Mr. Punch observed a paragraph headed as above, and of course passed it
over, having had enough of Ritualism. But, seeing it again (paragraphs you want
to neglect always crop up, somehow) he found that three small boys got into a
chapel, lit candles, and were enacting priests. Surely Ritualism will feel sym-
pathy enough for fellow offenders to pay their fines.

VI.—LINES BY RAIL.

Off with a friend to Brighton,
1 went in the Express;

My heart was light,

My hat was white,
I wore a summer dress.

I went to meet my fair one

Upon the Brighton Pier.
An, now I do not care one

Dump—but you shall hear.

For mate from mate
To separate

Does seem to me a pity;
Yet I came from Victoria,

My friend came from the City.

And when I say my friend, 1 mean
A friend who was at school with me :

And who since then,

Now we are men,
Has often played the fool with me.

I was alone, and thought of Her,

Who was no flirt or hoyden;
The City train, I '11 here explain,

Joins t'other one at Croydon.

Perhaps I'm wrong in this detail,
I'd had one gin-and-seltzer,

With ice, and so

The change, you know,
Might have been somewhere else, Sir.

At all events my friend and I,

In this fine summer weather,
Were far apart, that is at start,

But somewhere came together.

So came together that we winked,

But couldn't talk, a bother;
We sat in carriages distinct.

And far from one another.

He was so far from me he might
Have been among the Feejees ;
But let that pass,

Necessitas
Non habet any leges.

I thought of her, I dreamt of her,

My own, my darling Laura ;
They woke me from a sleep, so deep,

Because I was a snorer.

I'd slept an hour, I do believe,

The snooze was not a light 'un;
And then we stopped, from what they dropped

I gathered f wasn't Brighton.

I muttered something 'twixt my teeth,

The mat beneath I stamped on.
Oh, rage ! despair ! Where, tell me where

We are ? " Sir, Littlehampton."

My friend went on to Brighton,
He met my darling Laura.

Said he, " Miss L.,

The truth to tell
'Tis 1 am your adorer ! "

" Yes, your pretended lover has
With some one else decamped : on

My word I do,

Declare 'tis true—
He's gone to Littlehampton."

The pair they laughed,

I telegraphed-

But p'raps you've heard before of it 1

If so, tho' true,

This isn't new,
And you shall hear no more of it.

But for this fickle friend of mine,

Who thinks himself a Crichton,
Whom I'll-no, not another line,

About my trip to Brighton.