DOI issue:
July 24, 1880
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17764#0038
SO PUNCH, OK THE LONDON CHAKiVAKJ. [July 24, 1880,
FRENCH FOOD FOR ENGLISH BABES—AND MOTHERS,
Grigsby (during entr'acte). “What ! YOU here, Miss Jones ! ”
Miss Jones. “Yes; I got Mamma to bring me. She doesn’t understand French, you know! Ain’t it tun!”
\_Grigsby flatters himself that lie sees the fan of a Palais Royal play as well as anyone on this side of the Channel, bat he does draw the line
somewhere ; and docs not see thzfun of a respectable Materfamilias being present at such an entertainment,—and with her Daughter, too l
a thing that is not even done in the country of Zola !
PITY A POOR PO(R)STER-MOTHER!
Oh, he always were weak in the knees, I know, and a leetle bit
shaky, but still
A more innercent and well-meaning child there never could be than
my Bill !
Which his birth premature and promiscus-like were a good deal agen
him, poor pet!
But I’ve nussed him keerful, and I’ve fed him reglar, and he is that
lovely, and yet
Them hoys, them rascally rumpageous hoys, they are down upon him
like bricks—
Though that ain’t the word—with their stones and shied taters, not
to mention rotten eggs and thick sticks.
From the very fust they was that unjust that they wouldn’t trust
him a mite,
Now, do it stand to reason as a mossel like him. is likely for to kick
or to bite,
Or to ruin anythink in the varsal world ? See him toddling flippntty
floppntty,
Fust one side, then t’other! It’s rediklus, quite, to fancy him
pitching into “ proputty.”
A innercenter cherub never cut a tooth than him, my poor little
Bill,
Which them wenomons hoys, drat their nasty noise 1 is a-doing their
best for to kill.
Though why they should chivvy him into his coffin is more than a
body can tell;
As the most aggrawacious of the ’ole lot of ’em is that Irish hoy,
Parnell,
A more cantankerous and howdacious young rebel neyer broke a fond
parient’s heart;
Nothink never don’t please him not nohow, confuge him 1 and cer-
t’ny I have done my part.
Sometimes I ’ardly seems to know the poor child myself, he’s that
altered in face and in figger ;
And for all my care and my tender cosetting he never seems to grow
any bigger.
As to better, they ’d “ amend” him off the face of the earth—they ’re
as woid of heart as of manners!—
And o’er his little corpus shout their “Hear, hear, hears!" j’est
like demons a howling hosanners.
I’d like to larrup them all round, the young waggerbones; who dust
say they derserves the birch ill ?
Parnell and Biggar, and the other Paddies, like ways also that
Randolph Churchill,
Wffio’s as had as the worst, and that ojus Gorst, as I’d string him
up in a halter,
With that sarcy Gibson and that spiteful Elcho, and that cold
supercilious Walter.
Oh mussy me! There, they ’re' at him agen, my poor unfortnit Bill !
With his back all askew, and his side kinked in, and his spindle-
shanks wobbling still.
It’s all pelt! pelt! pelt!—have they never felt what a Forster-
dame’s feelinks must be F
Oh ! there’s one in his wind, and a half brick behind, and a rotten
egg squelched on Ms knee !
And what can I do ? What a hullaballoo! He ’ll get reglar riddled,
he will.
They icon't let him pass !!! Oh what will become of my poor little,
dear little Bill ? [Left lamenting.
The Londoner’s Eye to the Main Chance.—Getting oyer it
without being blown up!
Republican Cry eor Henri de Eocheeort.—2. la Lanierne !
FRENCH FOOD FOR ENGLISH BABES—AND MOTHERS,
Grigsby (during entr'acte). “What ! YOU here, Miss Jones ! ”
Miss Jones. “Yes; I got Mamma to bring me. She doesn’t understand French, you know! Ain’t it tun!”
\_Grigsby flatters himself that lie sees the fan of a Palais Royal play as well as anyone on this side of the Channel, bat he does draw the line
somewhere ; and docs not see thzfun of a respectable Materfamilias being present at such an entertainment,—and with her Daughter, too l
a thing that is not even done in the country of Zola !
PITY A POOR PO(R)STER-MOTHER!
Oh, he always were weak in the knees, I know, and a leetle bit
shaky, but still
A more innercent and well-meaning child there never could be than
my Bill !
Which his birth premature and promiscus-like were a good deal agen
him, poor pet!
But I’ve nussed him keerful, and I’ve fed him reglar, and he is that
lovely, and yet
Them hoys, them rascally rumpageous hoys, they are down upon him
like bricks—
Though that ain’t the word—with their stones and shied taters, not
to mention rotten eggs and thick sticks.
From the very fust they was that unjust that they wouldn’t trust
him a mite,
Now, do it stand to reason as a mossel like him. is likely for to kick
or to bite,
Or to ruin anythink in the varsal world ? See him toddling flippntty
floppntty,
Fust one side, then t’other! It’s rediklus, quite, to fancy him
pitching into “ proputty.”
A innercenter cherub never cut a tooth than him, my poor little
Bill,
Which them wenomons hoys, drat their nasty noise 1 is a-doing their
best for to kill.
Though why they should chivvy him into his coffin is more than a
body can tell;
As the most aggrawacious of the ’ole lot of ’em is that Irish hoy,
Parnell,
A more cantankerous and howdacious young rebel neyer broke a fond
parient’s heart;
Nothink never don’t please him not nohow, confuge him 1 and cer-
t’ny I have done my part.
Sometimes I ’ardly seems to know the poor child myself, he’s that
altered in face and in figger ;
And for all my care and my tender cosetting he never seems to grow
any bigger.
As to better, they ’d “ amend” him off the face of the earth—they ’re
as woid of heart as of manners!—
And o’er his little corpus shout their “Hear, hear, hears!" j’est
like demons a howling hosanners.
I’d like to larrup them all round, the young waggerbones; who dust
say they derserves the birch ill ?
Parnell and Biggar, and the other Paddies, like ways also that
Randolph Churchill,
Wffio’s as had as the worst, and that ojus Gorst, as I’d string him
up in a halter,
With that sarcy Gibson and that spiteful Elcho, and that cold
supercilious Walter.
Oh mussy me! There, they ’re' at him agen, my poor unfortnit Bill !
With his back all askew, and his side kinked in, and his spindle-
shanks wobbling still.
It’s all pelt! pelt! pelt!—have they never felt what a Forster-
dame’s feelinks must be F
Oh ! there’s one in his wind, and a half brick behind, and a rotten
egg squelched on Ms knee !
And what can I do ? What a hullaballoo! He ’ll get reglar riddled,
he will.
They icon't let him pass !!! Oh what will become of my poor little,
dear little Bill ? [Left lamenting.
The Londoner’s Eye to the Main Chance.—Getting oyer it
without being blown up!
Republican Cry eor Henri de Eocheeort.—2. la Lanierne !