Punch (68.1875)

50

PUNCH, OP THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

[January 30, 1875.

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VAULTING AMBITION.

Mr. Muff’s Make rushes at her Fences, and stops—Muff goes on.

THE BRITISH BOOT.

A NEW NATIONAL SONG.

Air—“ The True British Brute."

0 the proud British Dame ’tis a glory to bear,

So suggestive of all that is manly and fair 1
The brave British Flag we have flaunted unfurled,

Till that bright bit of bunting’s the “ bore ” of the world !

And who has been ever yet found to resist

That modern Thor’s hammer, the true British fist ?

But now we must sing
Quite a different thing.

Long the lord of the seas and the pride of the Ring,

Let John Bull, with the world and his wife at his foot,
Lift a paean iu praise of the stout British Boot!

“ There’s nothing like leather ! ” We used to proclaim
That the knife was a sin—the savate was a shame.

Our foes to chastise, or to chasten our wives,

What so manly and frank as a right “ hunch of fives,”
Shot straight from the shoulder ? We ’ve altered all that,
We stick, and we kick—in despite of the Cat!

No horn’d epidermis
So bard and so firm is,

For “ nobbling ” our wives,—such the delicate term is,—
As the thick leather sole, with stiff “ uppers ” to suit,

Of that sweetest of weapons, the stout British Boot!

Are our spouses remiss ? We ’ll their memory jog
With a brisk application of Lancashire clog ;

That is better than manual punches or “ fibs ”

To smash in and settle importunate “ribs ” !

Effective enforcer of marital rights,

Companion and backer in “five to one” fights !

Our old British pluck
Has decidedly struck,

In enlisting your service, a new vein of luck,

Pint-pot, knuckle-duster, and Pat’s oaken “shoot,”

All pale m thy glory, thou stout British Boot ’

British pluck! Why, of course we ’re the bravest of men,
We bulldoggy Britons ! With tongue and with pen
We’ve been telling the universe that, for so long !

In each patriot speech, and each national song,

What a theme it has been for self-soaping and bounce!

Yes, we know our unique fighting-weight to an ounce !

’Tis a militant land,

And we keep in our hand

By thumping our women and weaklings. That’s grand.
And not only our hand we ’ll keep in, but our foot,

By a liberal use of the stout British Boot!

Unmanly ? Pah ! Out on such sugary stuff !

John Bull is no “ molly ” ; he’s best in the rough.

Your “ chivalry ” means, as a matter of course,

Just depriving a chap of the use of his force.

Nature favours a fellow with vigorous muscles,

To give him the pull of the women in tussles.

Legs sturdy and thick
Were intended to kick,

(We are learning that lesson in time double quick,)

And, as toes may be tender, we ’ll furnish each foot
With the rough’s vade mecum, the stout British Boot!

There are fools who aver that the chap is a cur
Who’d admonish his wife with a kick or a “ purr ” ;

That the Cat is a creature too good for the dog
Who would smash his wife’s ribs in with Krazen-bound clog.
Most absurd, for all Britons are brave, ana the kick
Is becoming their favourite militant trick.

We must alter our song,

“ Hearts of Oak,” true as strong,

Have monopolised chorus and cheer far too long.

Let us sing, let us shout for the leather-shod foot,

And inscribe on our Banners “ The Stout British Boot! '

Something Like a Move (in the Spanish game).—King to his
i own square : Cheque—to everybody !