DOI Heft:
April 3, 1875
DOI Seite / Zitierlink: https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16940#0149
141
April 3, 1875.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
“ Fair for the Horse, fair for the Man."
Sweet little device to keep Coachman straight on the Box.
TO E. F. FLOWER.
{On his excellent Pamphlet, entitled “ Bits and Bearing-Reins.")
BZ AN OLD HOSS.
Thanks, kindly Flower, for sharing,
By sympathy, out pain:
You show why there’s no bearing
Our plague, the bearing-rein.
May he who first invented,
Or who still uses “ gags ”
(In your pamphlet as presented),
Know a torture like his nags’,
When gag-bit chafes and saws in
Fools’ hands, to drive unfit,—
May they ne’er have, their jaws in,
A comfortable bit!
Would It Were !
Dear Mr. Punch, March 2‘drd, 1875.
My admirer, young Thinskin (who has been in such a bad
temper ever since the East wind set in), says that he “ hopes nothing
will stand in the way of the Yolunteer Review on Easter Monday,
as it will afford the greatest satisfaction to everybody to see the
usual March past ! ”
Do you consider this a word in season ? Yours ever,
Snowdrop.
An Apt Anniversary.
A discussion respecting the proposed Hospital for Small-pox and
other contagious fevers at Hampstead, at the last meeting of the
Asylums Board, terminated in a resolution “that the Board should
visit the site on the 1st of April next.” If they go to inspect that
spot with a view to build a pesthouse on it, could they possibly take
that step on a day more appropriate than the Feast of All Fools ?
8tte eor a Ragged School.—Tattersall’s.
GIN!
(A Ballad for British Workmen.)
’Twas a British Working-man of the sort
That demagogues flatter and publicans court.
His nose was red, eyes watery and dull,
TiR his pocket was empty his glass was full;
As with husky throat, through the tap-room’s din,
He thus sung the praises of British Grin.
“ As Briton and Working-man, my boast
Is to come of the race that should rule the roast;
And the seal of a Briton’s rights and kin,
Is the sign of the tap where he takes his gin.
Hang the rot-gut tipple of German and French,
That won’t make a man drunk though his skin he drench!
But give me my gin, and I ’ll soak my brain
While a brown I have left to pay for a drain,
Gin! Gin!
Fill up my skin,
With the liquor of liquors, Blue-ruinous Gin!
“ They may call me a sot, but I care not a jot,
While happiness out of the quartern is got;
They may prate of the pleasures and honours of work !
’Tis a slavery every good fellow should shirk.
Or if one must drudge for some twelve hours a day,—
Since e’en good brother Bung will not ‘ part ’ without pay—
Let us haste to end labour, and pleasure begin,
In the warming embrace of toil’s antidote—Gin!
Gin! Gin!
Work is wages of sin,
And its only sure solace is strong British Gin !
“ Sobriety F Fudge ! he’s a white-livered fellow,
Who hasn’t the pluck to get muzzy or mellow.
A cove go home drainless to kids and their cries,
Or spare his old woman a brace of black eyes ?
Sheer slavery ! Lose all the sweetness of life,
For a Sunday-best coat or a treat with one’s wife ?
Not for Joe ! Him as makes should, by rights, spend the tin,
Let home go to blazes so I gets my gin !
Gin! Gin!
Where ’s the home worth a pin
To a jolly warm bar and a skinful of gin !
“ Dignity ? Stuff ! ’tis the bugbear of fools ;
Your right British Working-man scoffs at its rules.
Hand to cap for a drink, a cove’s day’s work to shorten,
What’s the pride of a man to the price of a quarte'n ?
If your breeches are thin, and your coat show the rub,
There ’s revivers for both at the very next pub’.
Let the foreigner flout, and aristocrat grin,
You may laugh them to scorn o’er a noggin of gin.
Gin! Gin!
For a hide that’s too thin
There’s no hard’ning mixture like strong British Gin !
“ Try to cut off a free Briton’s lush! That’s all bosh :
As well bid a hog say good-bye to its wash.
’Tis the be-all of bliss, and the end-all of life.
And better than dignity, health, home, and wife.
Our Paradise here is the Publican’s bar ;
The broad doors of that heaven stand always ajar :
So let 's soak, till our souls are well steep’d in the draught,
’Tis the badge of our creed, and the sign of our craft.
Gin ! Gin!
What are rights yet to win,
To the right to get mad-drunk on strong British Gin.”
The clock struck Bruce and Cross as the chorus died—
The last quartern was drained, the bar-door was flung wide;
With fumbling fingers, that vainly searched
In a penniless pocket, the drunkard lurched
From the toper’s Eden, turned neck and crop out,
And the British Working-man, free and stout,
Reeled to his home—home /—grimmest of quips
That ever passed the foul fiend’s lips—
A pale woman shrinks to the drunkard’s side,
Bruised—blackened—that British Working-man’s bride!
That’s Home incarnate ! She ’R scarce begin,
An Io-Paian to British Gin.
What’s the husband’s greeting ? Kick, curse, and blow !
TiR, bruiser and bruised, down, a-heap, they go!
Now British Working-man, one more flagon
To Moloch the mighty, not Bel, but the Dragon—■
And drink round his shrine, and roar your chorus,
In Blue-Ruin’s praise, with its work before us !
April 3, 1875.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
“ Fair for the Horse, fair for the Man."
Sweet little device to keep Coachman straight on the Box.
TO E. F. FLOWER.
{On his excellent Pamphlet, entitled “ Bits and Bearing-Reins.")
BZ AN OLD HOSS.
Thanks, kindly Flower, for sharing,
By sympathy, out pain:
You show why there’s no bearing
Our plague, the bearing-rein.
May he who first invented,
Or who still uses “ gags ”
(In your pamphlet as presented),
Know a torture like his nags’,
When gag-bit chafes and saws in
Fools’ hands, to drive unfit,—
May they ne’er have, their jaws in,
A comfortable bit!
Would It Were !
Dear Mr. Punch, March 2‘drd, 1875.
My admirer, young Thinskin (who has been in such a bad
temper ever since the East wind set in), says that he “ hopes nothing
will stand in the way of the Yolunteer Review on Easter Monday,
as it will afford the greatest satisfaction to everybody to see the
usual March past ! ”
Do you consider this a word in season ? Yours ever,
Snowdrop.
An Apt Anniversary.
A discussion respecting the proposed Hospital for Small-pox and
other contagious fevers at Hampstead, at the last meeting of the
Asylums Board, terminated in a resolution “that the Board should
visit the site on the 1st of April next.” If they go to inspect that
spot with a view to build a pesthouse on it, could they possibly take
that step on a day more appropriate than the Feast of All Fools ?
8tte eor a Ragged School.—Tattersall’s.
GIN!
(A Ballad for British Workmen.)
’Twas a British Working-man of the sort
That demagogues flatter and publicans court.
His nose was red, eyes watery and dull,
TiR his pocket was empty his glass was full;
As with husky throat, through the tap-room’s din,
He thus sung the praises of British Grin.
“ As Briton and Working-man, my boast
Is to come of the race that should rule the roast;
And the seal of a Briton’s rights and kin,
Is the sign of the tap where he takes his gin.
Hang the rot-gut tipple of German and French,
That won’t make a man drunk though his skin he drench!
But give me my gin, and I ’ll soak my brain
While a brown I have left to pay for a drain,
Gin! Gin!
Fill up my skin,
With the liquor of liquors, Blue-ruinous Gin!
“ They may call me a sot, but I care not a jot,
While happiness out of the quartern is got;
They may prate of the pleasures and honours of work !
’Tis a slavery every good fellow should shirk.
Or if one must drudge for some twelve hours a day,—
Since e’en good brother Bung will not ‘ part ’ without pay—
Let us haste to end labour, and pleasure begin,
In the warming embrace of toil’s antidote—Gin!
Gin! Gin!
Work is wages of sin,
And its only sure solace is strong British Gin !
“ Sobriety F Fudge ! he’s a white-livered fellow,
Who hasn’t the pluck to get muzzy or mellow.
A cove go home drainless to kids and their cries,
Or spare his old woman a brace of black eyes ?
Sheer slavery ! Lose all the sweetness of life,
For a Sunday-best coat or a treat with one’s wife ?
Not for Joe ! Him as makes should, by rights, spend the tin,
Let home go to blazes so I gets my gin !
Gin! Gin!
Where ’s the home worth a pin
To a jolly warm bar and a skinful of gin !
“ Dignity ? Stuff ! ’tis the bugbear of fools ;
Your right British Working-man scoffs at its rules.
Hand to cap for a drink, a cove’s day’s work to shorten,
What’s the pride of a man to the price of a quarte'n ?
If your breeches are thin, and your coat show the rub,
There ’s revivers for both at the very next pub’.
Let the foreigner flout, and aristocrat grin,
You may laugh them to scorn o’er a noggin of gin.
Gin! Gin!
For a hide that’s too thin
There’s no hard’ning mixture like strong British Gin !
“ Try to cut off a free Briton’s lush! That’s all bosh :
As well bid a hog say good-bye to its wash.
’Tis the be-all of bliss, and the end-all of life.
And better than dignity, health, home, and wife.
Our Paradise here is the Publican’s bar ;
The broad doors of that heaven stand always ajar :
So let 's soak, till our souls are well steep’d in the draught,
’Tis the badge of our creed, and the sign of our craft.
Gin ! Gin!
What are rights yet to win,
To the right to get mad-drunk on strong British Gin.”
The clock struck Bruce and Cross as the chorus died—
The last quartern was drained, the bar-door was flung wide;
With fumbling fingers, that vainly searched
In a penniless pocket, the drunkard lurched
From the toper’s Eden, turned neck and crop out,
And the British Working-man, free and stout,
Reeled to his home—home /—grimmest of quips
That ever passed the foul fiend’s lips—
A pale woman shrinks to the drunkard’s side,
Bruised—blackened—that British Working-man’s bride!
That’s Home incarnate ! She ’R scarce begin,
An Io-Paian to British Gin.
What’s the husband’s greeting ? Kick, curse, and blow !
TiR, bruiser and bruised, down, a-heap, they go!
Now British Working-man, one more flagon
To Moloch the mighty, not Bel, but the Dragon—■
And drink round his shrine, and roar your chorus,
In Blue-Ruin’s praise, with its work before us !