Punch (77.1879)

September 27, 1879.]

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

133

A PIG IN A POKE!

pig in a poke! Oh, how can

you joke,
Dear old Punch, in that

style, on the sweetest of

bonnets ?
Which instead of your lash,

ought „to bring down a

clash

From the bells in your cap,
in the sweetest of son-
nets !

Say " a duck in a poke," or, "a dove in a poke,"
Or " a dear in a poke," or " a pet," or " a poppet."

But " a pig in a poke "—'tis the ugliest joke
On the prettiest fashion—please, Mr. Punch, drop it!

IN RE THE RIGI.

Feom a recent letter in the Times it would seem that tourists visiting the
hotels on the Rigi have to secure entertainment at the point (or rather the
knuckle) of the fist. If the fashion is permitted to become chronic (by the
patient endurance of the British public), the diary kept by the visitor to the
Rigi is likely to appear in the following form :—

Tuesday, 4 a.m.—Just seen the sun rise. Rather cloudy in the valley, but
on the whole magnificent. "Will stay until to-morrow, as I am sure the air is
excellent.

5 a.m.—Going back to the hotel. The night porter is shouting at me.

8 a.m.—Just finished a three hours' fight with the night porter. He scored
" first blood " to my " first knock-down blow. " I was able to polish him off
in forty-seven rounds, and consequently have an excellent appetite for breakfast.

9 a.m.—After some desperate struggling with half-a-dozen waiters, have
secured a cup of coffee and a small plate of cold meat.

12 a.m.—Have been asleep on a bench outside the hotel for the last two hours
and a half, recovering from my recent exertions.

1 p.m.—Have fraternised with five English tourists armed with alpenstocks.
One of our party has opened negotiations with the hotel-keeper as to the
possibility of obtaining some lunch.

2 p.m.—Our ambassador has returned with his coat torn into tatters, and
one of his eyes severely bruised.

3 p.m.—By a coup de main we have seized the salle-d-manger, and now are
feasting merrily on bread and honey.

4 p.m.—Just driven from our vantage-ground by eight boots, ten waiters, the
landlord and auxiliaries from the kitchen.

6 p.m.—Have spent the last two hours in consultation.

7 p.m.—A spy from our party (assuming the character of an English duke) is
just leaving us for the front.

8 p.m.—Our spy has just returned, and reports that when he asked for a room
the enemy attacked him with brooms and candlesticks.

9 p.m.—Have just matured our plan of attack.

10 p.m.—Glorious news! A triumphant victory ! Our party, in single file,

made a descent upon the tahle-d'hote, seized a large num-
ber of hors d'ceuvres, and, after an hour's desperate
fighting, secured a large room on the top floor, where we
are now safely barricaded for the night! Hurrah !

THE SILLY SEASON.

" The silly Season ? " Sure the phrase,

With limitation, sounds ironic,
For in these delirious days

Silliness seems growing chronic.
Ere one bubble vanisheth

Folly hath another blown ;
Silliness, like despot Death,

Claims all Seasons for its own.
Shower of frogs, and toad in granite,

Giant gooseberry, huge sea kraken,
All that on our much plagued planet

Quidnunc nerves hath stirred or shaken,—■
What are ye but passing types

Of a folly that's enduring ?
Wit, with donkeydom at gripes,

Sometimes fears the ill's past curing.
Patriot howl, peacemonger's plaint,

Priestly feud, and party schism,
Fussy fear in wild war-paint,

Brummagem Imperialism,
Legion lunes that haunt the age,_

Point to Mallock's question giving,
When he asks, sardonic Sage,

" Whether life is worth the living."
Hardly, when once-sober Bull

Like a blatant moon-calf bellows,
Boasting his corn-measure full

When with o'erheaped chaff it yellows.
Scarcely, while our glittering Earl

Poses as a pinchbeck Jove,
Storing 'neath his frontal curl

Such finesse as Zanies love.
See he stands, the cunning Cook,

His imperial omelette making,
While but few of those who look

Care to count the eggs he's breaking.
Credit though it cost and peace

And prosperity, what matter ?
Cackle, ye gregarious geese,

Over the expensive batter !
He will give you yolk enough,

Yet you '11 find it, when 'tis tasted,
Poor as stodgiest plum-duff,

And the eggs entirely wasted.
They who change of Chef advise

Are abused and charged with treason.
John, when once you ope your eyes,

You '11 repent your Silly Season !
Blatant over loss called gain,

Pleased with gingerbread called glory,—
When was vanity so vain

As survives the year's sad story ?
Fine to smite a little foe !

Grand to triumph in his thrashing !
Big on dunghills small to crow,

Self-dubbed heroes, dauntless, dashing!
Johst, we know your heart is sound,

But you've sadly lost your head.
Shifting from Bight's solid ground,

Quicksands of Intrigue you tread.
Fool of fears and dupe of dreams,

Phantom-lured and bogey-frighted,
From extremes tost to extremes,

Firework-dazzled, fog-benighted;
Is it you, John ? Oh, take thought!

Heed the voice of Bight and Reason
Dear is the experience bought

In this too-long Silly Season !

A CAGED BLACKIilKD.

The battle of Ulundi, putting Ceteavayo to flight,
is truly said to have driven him into the bush. _ Now
having been caught, he may be regarded as a bird in
the hand worth many more than two birds in the
bush.

vol. Lxxvrr. n