Punch: Punch (83.1882)

18 PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [July 15, 1882.

LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF PORTRAIT PAINTING.-THE FINISHING TOUCH.

Fair Sitter's Mamma. “I’m sure the Nose is not Aquiline enough, Mr. Sopely ! ”

The Artist (with one dexterous sweep of Ms brush). “Is that better ? ”

Fair Sitter's Mamma. “Oh, ever so much ! Now the Likeness is simply perfect!'"

Fair Sitter’s Papa (who is alivays so contradictory). “ Hum ! Now I consider that last Touch has spoilt the Likeness
altogether ! ” [Sopely’s brush was perfectly dry—and so was Ms canvas !

“A LION IN THE PATH!”

Full-fed and drowsy, in his island den
lies Leo, the loud scorn of little men,

Hearing, hut little heeding.

“Poor brute ! ” they chuckle, “ in his time he fought,
But old and idle now he cares for nought
But rest and easy feeding.”

‘ ‘ See how he winks and blinks, and yawns and yaws !
He has no teeth, and you might cut his claws
With a maid’s toilet-scissors.”

And Leo hears their cackle without care,

And lies regarding with untroubled air

Quidnuncs and quibbling quizzers.

Couchant eternally ? Perhaps not quite.

Perchance he has outlived the love of fight
For its own simple sake.

Only should high occasion move his mind,

Dignus vindice nodus, they may find
Leo is wide-awake.

Rampant for ever ? Some would have him thus,

To prove his pluck. He scorns such Partlet-fuss ;
Only when foeman hath

Crossed his own chosen path with trick or threat,

’Tis possible that foe may find there’s yet
A Lion in the path!

Suggestion for a New Country Dance.—The “Calico Ball”
has gone out. Why not try a Ball of Worsted ; and start the first
appropriately in Worstedshire ?

“ROBERT” AT THE HOUSE OE COMMONS.

So we’ve had another all-night setting again, and so I suppose
honourable Gents has atched somethink at last, but that ain’t
nothink to me, all I knows is that it’s pretty sleepy work for all on
us, Prime Ministers, and not werry Prime Ministers, and Door
Keepers and Reporters, and Waiters and Irish Members, all alike
trying their werry best not to look sleepy, and one and all failing
miserably, and feeling miserable.

In course we poor Waiters has the wust of it as usual. The
Ministers has their relays, and the Common M.P.’s has their relays,
and the Reporters has their relays, and even that werry poor lot the
Irish Brigands, has their relays, hut- all the relays as we pore
Waiters has is just a souse in a bason of Water, and a clean white
choker at half-past 3. H.A.M.

These all nite sittins must be jolly fine things for the Shampain
makers. I thort my Brother Liverymen in the Citty was pritty
good hands at Shampain, but, lor bless yer, they ’re out of the
running, or rather praps out of the drinking, compared’to the Irish
Brigands. Dry Hide-and-Seek, or sweet Click-oh !, its all the same
to them, but Pomeroy Green oh ! seems their favorit Brand, (not the
Speaker in course). The only sort they can’t abear is Mum. Brown
says Mum isn’t the word with them. What we Waiters all agrees
is jolly good fun on these ocashuns, is to hear the effeckshunate
terms (terrems the Irishers calls it), in which the English Members
and the Irish Mimbers speaks of one another !

The Scotchmen, like sensibul and egonomikul Gents as they is, all
goes home to bed. Catch them wasting their spare cash, when they
has any, on Shampain! No, no, just a leetle dop of pure Skotch
Whuskey to keep out the nite hair, and away they goes and walks
home.

But the English and the Irish, after just a bottle or 2 has unlockt
their tungs, and made ’em speak what they really thinx wen there