Punch (68.1875)

182

THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

[Apbil 24, 1875.

MENS CONSCIA.

Inspector (who notices a backwardness in History). “ Who signed Magna Charta ?” (No Answer.)
Inspector (more urgently). “Who signed Magna Charta?” (No Answer.)

Inspector (angrily). “ Who signed Magna Charta ! ! ?”

Scapegrace (thinking Matters are beginning to look Serious). “ Please, Sir, ’twasn’t me, Sir ! ! ”

ROOKS, PIGEONS, AND HAWKS.

(On the summons to the Bar of the House, for Breach of Privilege,
of the Times and Daily Neivs, on Friday, April 16.)

“ In spite of the lobbying which is going on outside to prevent inquiry
into frauds which are a disgrace to any commercial community * * * the
object of this Committee is to do away with the Rookeries of the commercial
classes.”—Sir William Harcourt, April 13.

With you, Sir William, Mr. Punch agrees,

But rather hopes than sees
A chance from Roguery’s foul breath to clear
The Civic atmosphere.

From gambling sprung, why should the Stock Exchange
Its easy-going ways wish to derange,

And lend its hand to probe of stern inquiry,

With James and Lowe to thrust it, keen and wiry ?

When, but for such too pertinacious prying,

The game’s so gainful, “ easy,” too, “ as lying.”

When, given the cheek, and the Exchange manipulator—
lor his own lion’s share, of course, a stipulator—

A bankrupt state needs but the pluck to borrow
Millions, and sack the swag, and know no sorrow ;

Issue its loans at any price thought proper,

A or pay, with all its brass, a single copper.

The Rook is high-priest of Gold’s great religion,

But let us shield the Pigeon;

Do our poor best to save accounts from cookery,

And flutter each Rogue-Rookery !

That is the thing to do, and we must do it,

Or England, that has rued, yet more will rue it.

Gold breeds no healthy life-blood in the nation,

I hat trusts less to hard work than speculation,

Whose hardest-working swarm’s the one to stock its
Combs from the nectaries of noodles’ pockets.

The House of Commons must its rules defend,
Though handles now and then to fools they lend.

But this a breach of privilege ! Whigs and Tories 1
0 tempora ! O mores !

Praise Times and Daily News for their protervance
More honoured in such breach than nice observance
And bid them, not as penitents, to your bar,

In white broad-sheets to stand,

But as recipients of more thanks, by far,

Than Dizzy’s arts command.

True: Money’s money : wide as Members range,
They shrink before the bubble-growths of Change,
And treat with awe (poor Pigeons though they pity)
Rooks better known than trusted in the City.

But in the Lobby when those Rooks come cawing,
Weaker M.P.’s in hopes of overawing,

“ Up, Hawks, and at them ! ” and no mercy show,
Ely high, my James, and you, my Bob, fly low !

A Synonym.

(Dedicated to the Rev. H. P. Wright, Senior Army Chaplain.)

Bishop Peers Claughton, the new Chaplain-General—The wrong
man in the (W)right place.

THE WAY THE WIND BLOWS.

It might be supposed that even Nature had become a confirmed
Ritualist, judging from the persistency with which the wind main-
tains the Eastward position.