Punch (71.1876)

October 21, 1876.1 PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. 175

A LIVELY LOOK-OUT FOR JONES.

" Off, Mamma, that's Captain Jones's Knock! I know he has come to ask me to
be his Wife ! "

""Well, my Deak, you must accept him."
"But I thought you Hated him so ! "

" Hate him ? I do—so much, that I mean to be his MOTHER-IN-LAW ! "

[Revenge is sweet, especially to Women.

HYMN TO A HEATHFN DEITY.

Jupiter Pluyius,

Pourer of Power
Blazing Vesuvius'

To drown in an hour ;
Jove, cloud-compelling,

Drencher of meads,
Turnip crops swelling-,

Mangolds and Swedes.

In thy dominion

Are Mushroom, and ring
Set with champignon;

Hail, Toadstool-King !
Thine the boletus,

Thine the puff-ball,
Crying, " Come eat us! "—

Truffles and all.

Men with galoches

Caoutchouc are shod ;
In Macintoshes

Clad at thy nod.
Thou too, as well as

Dry land and main,
Holdest umbrellas

Under thy reign.

Oh, may'st thou never

Spoil festive scene!
Spare us, as ever

Thou sparest the Queen !
Ne'er in bright faces

Drizzle or pour ;
Pic-nics and races

Spare evermore.

But when the Rabble,

Blatant and blind,
Throng to hear gabble

After their kind,
Set thy hose playing ;

Water their fire :
"With douches allaying

Temper their ire.

Mob demonstration

Quenched may it be ;
Fools' fermentation

Damped down by thee :
That none may the Masses

The Great Unwashed call,
Pump on those Asses,

Cleansing them all!

' An Unhappy Medium."—Dr. Slade.

except that I saw one of the majestic red-deer, and he saw me.
He wouldn't move until he felt quite sure of our being out of
sight. Then he rose grandly, flourished his trumpets—I mean his
antlers—and disappeared, head first, down some perilous declivity.

"When I saw that Irish stag, I exclaimed—■

Happy Thought.—Mr. Butt !

Of these Home-Rulers of the forest not many are left; and as for
the others, the political Home-Rulers, they are "out" just now,
they are " not-at-home "-rulers ; and the best and the wisest of
them mean nothing more than Local Government. As for these
being anti-English, except in that honest sense in which every
nationality should be anti-every-other-encroaching-nationality, why
I say, with the guileless Tommy Moore—

" Contempt on the minion who calls them disloyal."

( Off with his head! So much for Buckingham—so much for the
Stag on the shore of Killarney.

To-morrow for Muckross. Then to Glengariff. Then farewell
Ould Ireland for awhile !

conundrum for the silly season.

What is most like the Imaginary Gooseberry ?
A Currant of Air.

Supported by "Voluntary Contributions. — Our Waste-Paper
Basket.

NEW MUSIC.

" Love Winked his Wicked Eye." These exquisite words have
been allied to the most witching melody yet conceived by our
popular composer, Bruxelles Sprouts. After such a union, the
Poet and Musician must be dearer than ever to each other, and the
Public.

" Tired Out." By Cearlnda Ithuriel. Never has this gifted
muse known so well now to touch the vibrate chords of our sympa-
thetic hearts, that listen while the big tears course down their manly
cheeks as they sing. Eifth Thousand.

"Angels Flutter round the Fender." By the Author of " Spirits
Bless the Furtive Mourner." Truly beautiful are the solemn verses
which accompany the thrilling harmonies of this delicious composi-
tion. Every home should seek the benignant influence of such
publications shed over a family.

" Golden are my Loved One's Freckles." A perfect gem. Taste,
culture, and harmony combined. By the Composer of " Nobody's
Nose is like My Nose."—" Singularly happy."—Vide Press.

" Wilhelmina's Whelks." Albert Bumpsher's_ latest hit! A
continued roar! ! Adapted to the aristocratic drawing-room or the
plebeian Eree and Easy.

Chorus—" For I can freely back her
To prefer a plain alpaca
To all the best of satins or of silks;
And you'd love my Wilhblmina
If you had only seen her
Eat a saucerful of pickled whelks."

Music and words undeniable, and totally free from offence.