Punch (76.1879)

Makch 8, 1879.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. 97

"THE CLEW."

The Child was evidently lost!—cried bitterly—could not tell us where its Parents
lived, or ivhether she was an Orphan, or what her Father was—or xohere she
went to School.-Enter Intelligent Policeman.

Policeman {in a friendly whisper). " Where does your Mother get her
Gin, my dear ?" \_And the mystery was solved!

THE PBINCE'S TIP.

"We Englishmen may be justly proud of the character for mental and physical strength
and capacity which our artisans bear all over the world ; but our pride is sadly dashed
by accompanying criticisms on the ignorance and the indifference to anything which needs
thought, which too often render that native vigour of intelligence a comparatively useless
thing."—Prince Leopold at the Birkbeck Literary Institution.

Interlocutors—Mr. Punch and a British Workman.

Punch. Wise words, my friend, which, 'neath their pleasant flow,

Hide plain and pregnant truths.
British Workman. Ugh ! Wot'she know

Of Work and Workmen ? Never did a stroke

In his whole hloomin' life. A kid-glove bloke

Preachin' to 'orny-'anded-

Punch. Come, now. Stow it!

That's threadbare cant, class clap-trap, and you know it.

Truth 's truth, my man, though dropped from Royal lip,

And this young Prince has a true thinker's grip

Upon a truth you yet will have to face,

If you would hold your vantage in the race.
British Workman. Why, ain't we fust ?

Punch. _ Perhaps; but you must feel

_ Competitors are hard upon your heel,
British Workman. Oh yes! the forren lot begin to crow.

The sneakin' prigs! We taught 'em all they know.
Punch. Query! At least, they 're bettering the lesson.

Are you ?

British Workman. Oh, argyment I makes a mess on.

Go, and not gab % my line; but we are fust,

And, if they challenge us, we'll win, or bust.
Punch. Rightly, if roughly, put. But one thing know,

He is a fool who underrates his foe.
British Workman. Nasty, connivering, kickshaw-munchers, rot 'em!

They're full o' dodges, but ain't got no bottom.

They '11 fake things smart, all filagree and shine,
And don't care arf a button how they dine,
But work a square stiff job straight through? No fear!
That only comes o' British beef and beer.
Punch. Tour beef and beer, my friend, to put it plain,
Have built your brawn up, but befogged your brain;
And brain now takes the lead,—ay, more than ever :
Tou nurse conceit, conceive you 're far too clever
To learn. Now listen! Times are changed, my lad,
And you must meet them. Prejudice and fad,
Conceit, and churlish scorn are a fool's game,
Which played right out will bring you nought but
shame.

British Workman {sullenly). What should I do?

Punch. Why, take the Prince's tip.

Tou are a man, have lots of force and grip,
Which, well directed, have no cause to fear
The test of competition far or near.
But a blind Titan simply wastes his force;
And you are blind, though strong. Tou huff, of course,
But your first lesson, which you 're apt to spurn,
Is just to learn that you have much to learn.
Ay ! much that even foreigners may teach.
There, no bad language, spare your parts of speech!
Uncock that nose contemptuously up-curled.
Conceit means ignorance. D 'ye thiuk the world
Spins on a British axis ? Many a gift,—■
Intelligence, taste; temperance, and thrift,
Deftness, adaptability,—is found
Riper on foreign than on English ground.
Just have the sense and pluck that fact to face,
And well digest it. It is no disgrace
To learn, e'en from a rival.

British Workman. Or a foe ?

Punch. Pooh! Fools detest the thing they do not know,
And knowledge kills such hate, as it would kill
'Twixt you and " foreigners" that blind ill-will,
Which stamps you " duffer."

British Workman. Cheese it! That's too bad,

Tou hit so hard.

Punch. To work you up, my lad.

i" am no foe, and if you '11 learn from me,
And learn in time, you may escape, d 'ye see,
Much harsher lessons from a harder master,
Armed with the whip of shame, defeat, disaster.
Such sharp home-truths perhaps may make you wince,
But Punch says ditto to our sage young Prince,
In words more sharply ground to pierce a hide,
Made callous by stupidity and pride.

British Workman. What, mine d 'yer mean ?

Punch. I do. A sillier goose

Was never manufactured, by misuse,
Out of such splendid stuff, as you. There, there,
Few dare to tell you the plain truth. _ I dare.
Stint bounce and beer; face the new time's new ends,
And look abroad for lessons and for friends,
Not foes, your foolish scorn and hate to move,—■
Just love to learn and you '11 soon learn to love.
Eyes and heart open, you '11 yet hold your own,
Before a hundred rivals late upgrown;
Shut both, and nurse mere dogged pride of race,
Strike, swill, pooh-pooh, and you must lose your place.
And now your hand !—it has a sturdy grip,—■
Lay it on truth, and take the Prince's tip.

Dubbing a Duke.

In the Globe of February 18th there appeared an ac-
count of a fire at Badminton—where, by the way, there
must be some valuable china which is genuinely good
Minton —when His Grace the Duke of Beaufort was
conspicuous as a Distinguished Extinguisher. It havin j
been reported in the neighbourhood that the Ducal pluck
was to be suitably—or sootably—rewarded, a local poet
has sent us the following inspiration :—

The Duke is to be—so it seems they propose—

Of a new Class of Order the starter :
Tl^y 're going to make him a Knight of the Hose,

As well as a Knight of the Garter.

parliamentary physic.

Why is Parliament at Lent like Paterfamilias at
Christmas ? Because it has a Doctor's Bill to settle.