DOI Heft:
August 28, 1880
DOI Seite / Zitierlink:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17764#0104
96
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [August 28, 1880.
A FRENCH CIRCE.
Landlady {to Jones, who is bargaining for apartment). “ Non, Monsieur !
C’est Mon dernier Prix, 1 prendre ou a laisser—et encore si je vous le
eilDE 1 CE PRIX-LA, O’EST PARCEQUE LA PHYSIONOMIE OUVERTE DE MONSIEUR
M’EST SI SYMPATH1QUE QUE JE YOUDRAIS AVOIR MONSIEUR TOUR LOCATAIRE ! ”
[ Wte will not insult our readers by translating. |
AGGRAVATING.
To be cheerily accosted three times in the same weary,
sultry day, by jubilant friends, who are just off to Scot-
land, Norway, and Switzerland, and to be asked by each
of them when you are leaving Town, and where you are
going this year—your “goings” being likely to be
bounded by the Charing Cross radius.
To receive letters full of tantalising accounts of lovely
weather, beautiful scenery, delightful party, and the
finest possible shooting, at your old friend Debdale’s
place in the North, to which you have a pressing in-
vitation, but are prevented from accepting it by busi-
ness connected with the slow progress through Parliament
of the Parochial Beadles’ Compensation Bill.
As you are returning from a visit to your doctor, by
whom you have been cautioned to take the greatest
possible care of yourself, to go to bed early, and to be
particularly abstemious in what you eat and drink, to
be met by Frank Jollond, who never had a day’s
illness in his life, and to be told by him how well you
are looking, and that you are the very man he was on
his way to ask to join a lively party at dinner, that
evening, at the Star and Garter.
To be kept waiting three days in rainy weather, at
Lowater, for the third volume of Breakers Ahead, by
the Authoress of Clouds in the Horizon, Mutterings of
the Storm, &c.
To receive a telegram from your old College chum,
Lawrence Ensleigh, begging you to join him in a
cruise to the Hebrides, in his new screw yacht Denti-
frice, and to be obliged to answer that you cannot ^et off
an engagement to accompany your Aunt Justina in her
annual visit to that quiet little hydropathic establish-
ment, Lambley Nook.
To be told in confidence by one of the executors, the
day before you are leaving Town for your holidays,
that if you had shown a little more attention to your
maiden cousin, Everilda Mayfield, you would most
probably have been her residuary legatee, instead of the
recipient of nineteen guineas. The will was proved
under sixty thousand pounds, and the whole of the pro-
perty, with the exception of your own and one or two
other similar legacies, was distributed between the Hos-
pital for Diseases of the Imagination and Fancy, the
Pedestrians’ Shelter Society, and the Home for Lost
Canaries.
A BOW STREET YAUGHAN-ING TO MANAGERS.
What they mustn’t object to in their Theatres—a
Jii'ss-trionic performance.
LAYS OF A LAZY MINSTREL.
I.—The Luckless M.P.’s.
I love to be lazy and
lounge ’neath the
limes,
And glance at orations one
reads in the Times !
It makes me quite hot read-
ing speech after speech—
I cool my parched throat
with a ripe ruddy
peach—
The Twelfth’s gone and
past and they’re still in
the House!
The Twelfth gone and past,
not a bang at the grouse!
I read and I marvel, ’neath wide-spreading trees,
And pity the sorrows of grouseless M.P.’s.
I swing in a hammock and smoke cigarettes,
And list to the lawn-tennisonian pets ■
Who make themselves hot: they should take my advice,
To sit and sip calmly some something- and-ice.
I swing and I slumber, blow ring after ring,
I dream and I wonder, I ponder and sing:
When lulled off to sleep by the humming of bees,
I dream of the droning of dismal M.P.’s.
I’ve nothing to think about, nothing to do—
I drift down the stream in my nutshell canoe:
With pipe in my mouth, and with paddle in hand,
I would not change places with one in the land !
Who’d broil at St. Stephen’s at this time of year,
Who might be so happy by Hambledon Weir ?
As white sails are filled by the light summer breeze,
Sincerely I pity those luckless M.P.’s.
All day is my own, I can just throw a fly— _
Not dream of the Speaker, nor “ catching his eye”—
Can lounge in a punt, go to bed when I please;
1 ’m heedless of all Parli’ment’ry decrees !
’Tis lucky sometimes, when you can’t reach the goal.
Most fortunate I—at the foot of the poll.
Had I but got in at Saint Shuckleton Lees,
T now should be groaning with Luckless M.P.’s,
Infant Prodigy.
“ On the 17th instant, at 3 and 4, St. Martin’s Court, Ludgate Hill, the
wife of George Gabb, of a ton.”—Times (Birth Column), Aug. 19.
At 3 and 4! This boy will be in two places at once. Here’s a
prodigy son!
NEW NOVEL.
The Athenceum announces St. Martin's Summer, by Shirley
Smith, Author of His Last Stake. With this reputation, the new
work ought to be First Chop.
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [August 28, 1880.
A FRENCH CIRCE.
Landlady {to Jones, who is bargaining for apartment). “ Non, Monsieur !
C’est Mon dernier Prix, 1 prendre ou a laisser—et encore si je vous le
eilDE 1 CE PRIX-LA, O’EST PARCEQUE LA PHYSIONOMIE OUVERTE DE MONSIEUR
M’EST SI SYMPATH1QUE QUE JE YOUDRAIS AVOIR MONSIEUR TOUR LOCATAIRE ! ”
[ Wte will not insult our readers by translating. |
AGGRAVATING.
To be cheerily accosted three times in the same weary,
sultry day, by jubilant friends, who are just off to Scot-
land, Norway, and Switzerland, and to be asked by each
of them when you are leaving Town, and where you are
going this year—your “goings” being likely to be
bounded by the Charing Cross radius.
To receive letters full of tantalising accounts of lovely
weather, beautiful scenery, delightful party, and the
finest possible shooting, at your old friend Debdale’s
place in the North, to which you have a pressing in-
vitation, but are prevented from accepting it by busi-
ness connected with the slow progress through Parliament
of the Parochial Beadles’ Compensation Bill.
As you are returning from a visit to your doctor, by
whom you have been cautioned to take the greatest
possible care of yourself, to go to bed early, and to be
particularly abstemious in what you eat and drink, to
be met by Frank Jollond, who never had a day’s
illness in his life, and to be told by him how well you
are looking, and that you are the very man he was on
his way to ask to join a lively party at dinner, that
evening, at the Star and Garter.
To be kept waiting three days in rainy weather, at
Lowater, for the third volume of Breakers Ahead, by
the Authoress of Clouds in the Horizon, Mutterings of
the Storm, &c.
To receive a telegram from your old College chum,
Lawrence Ensleigh, begging you to join him in a
cruise to the Hebrides, in his new screw yacht Denti-
frice, and to be obliged to answer that you cannot ^et off
an engagement to accompany your Aunt Justina in her
annual visit to that quiet little hydropathic establish-
ment, Lambley Nook.
To be told in confidence by one of the executors, the
day before you are leaving Town for your holidays,
that if you had shown a little more attention to your
maiden cousin, Everilda Mayfield, you would most
probably have been her residuary legatee, instead of the
recipient of nineteen guineas. The will was proved
under sixty thousand pounds, and the whole of the pro-
perty, with the exception of your own and one or two
other similar legacies, was distributed between the Hos-
pital for Diseases of the Imagination and Fancy, the
Pedestrians’ Shelter Society, and the Home for Lost
Canaries.
A BOW STREET YAUGHAN-ING TO MANAGERS.
What they mustn’t object to in their Theatres—a
Jii'ss-trionic performance.
LAYS OF A LAZY MINSTREL.
I.—The Luckless M.P.’s.
I love to be lazy and
lounge ’neath the
limes,
And glance at orations one
reads in the Times !
It makes me quite hot read-
ing speech after speech—
I cool my parched throat
with a ripe ruddy
peach—
The Twelfth’s gone and
past and they’re still in
the House!
The Twelfth gone and past,
not a bang at the grouse!
I read and I marvel, ’neath wide-spreading trees,
And pity the sorrows of grouseless M.P.’s.
I swing in a hammock and smoke cigarettes,
And list to the lawn-tennisonian pets ■
Who make themselves hot: they should take my advice,
To sit and sip calmly some something- and-ice.
I swing and I slumber, blow ring after ring,
I dream and I wonder, I ponder and sing:
When lulled off to sleep by the humming of bees,
I dream of the droning of dismal M.P.’s.
I’ve nothing to think about, nothing to do—
I drift down the stream in my nutshell canoe:
With pipe in my mouth, and with paddle in hand,
I would not change places with one in the land !
Who’d broil at St. Stephen’s at this time of year,
Who might be so happy by Hambledon Weir ?
As white sails are filled by the light summer breeze,
Sincerely I pity those luckless M.P.’s.
All day is my own, I can just throw a fly— _
Not dream of the Speaker, nor “ catching his eye”—
Can lounge in a punt, go to bed when I please;
1 ’m heedless of all Parli’ment’ry decrees !
’Tis lucky sometimes, when you can’t reach the goal.
Most fortunate I—at the foot of the poll.
Had I but got in at Saint Shuckleton Lees,
T now should be groaning with Luckless M.P.’s,
Infant Prodigy.
“ On the 17th instant, at 3 and 4, St. Martin’s Court, Ludgate Hill, the
wife of George Gabb, of a ton.”—Times (Birth Column), Aug. 19.
At 3 and 4! This boy will be in two places at once. Here’s a
prodigy son!
NEW NOVEL.
The Athenceum announces St. Martin's Summer, by Shirley
Smith, Author of His Last Stake. With this reputation, the new
work ought to be First Chop.