DOI Heft:
May 19, 1883
DOI Seite / Zitierlink: https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17754#0236
May 19, 1883.]
PUNCH. OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
229
AN IMPRESSIONIST.
Btnks always wears Black Gloves for the sake of Economy.
There can’t be no cumfort in missing ; sech ways I could
never abear,
So it’s well we are out of it, Betsy ; it’s well we ’re
clean out of it, dear.
Nussing Sisters, forsooth ! Nussing fiddlesticks! Stuek-
uppy, slim-waisted gals,
As a cutting umbrella would shock, with their natty
print gownds and fal-lals.
No snuff, and. no snacks, and no snugness ! Jest fancy,
my dear, me or you
With a chit o’ that sort for a pardner ! My sweet
creetur, wot should we do ?
And they ’re to ’ave crosses, and ribbings, and bows, and
good gragious knows wot,
Wich we never get none of no sich, my Betsy, oh,
suttingly not.
The profegion seems turned topsyturvey, and every-
think’s going contrairey,
As may be called “ projiss,” my dear, but seems all stuff
and rubbidge to S a trey.
NOCTES AMBROSIANiE.
MRS. GAMP ON THE “ ROYAL RED CROSS/’
Deary me, Betsy Prig, times is altered ; as alter times will, in a wale,
Which sich “ projiss ” is too much for me, as am old though still ’arty and ’ale,
As I says to my friend Mrs. Harris, we used, you and me, dear, to nuss
Long afore that Miss Nightingale’s days, but no Queens didn’t decorage us.
The Royal Red Cross! Goodnidge gragious! it took all my breath away, slap.
As is all very well for a sojer or ’igh milingtarial chap.
But Nusses ! Lor’ bless us and save us, our buzzums I’m sure should expand
To see our profegion so honoured along o’ the fust in the land.
Wich I read it last night in the Standard, a paper to wich I am partial,
A Cross, my dear soul, and a ribbing, as grand as some dook or field-marshal,
Enamelled in gold and in crimsing, Her Majesty’s portrick, you know,
With cipher and crown all permiskus, and tied on the breast with a bow.
Ah, Betsy, it’s plain we was born, you and me, arf a centry too soon ;
If we two ’ad bin nussing to-day we’d ’a piped to a different toon.
Wich the worrits of monthlying, Betsy, was wus than the wust that’s beknown
To the ’orty young orspittle chits as ’ll claim this ’ere cross as their own.
Wich “ Faith, Hope, and Charity” ’s writ on the arms, so they say. Ah, my
dear,
We needed the three on ’em constant, and suthing chucked in, in our speer.
Wot with wile aggerawacious pashents and mississes given to scold,
We two ’ad our crosses, ah, yes ! though they wasn’t in crimsing and gold.
Then Nusses was Nusses ; not bragian, trim, tidied-up young bits o’ things.
We took to it nateral-like, as the young sparrers takes to their wings ;
We ’adn’t no “training” nor “ stifficates,” Betsy; we knowed what we
knowed,
And the rest wasn’t nothink to nobody. “ Projiss.,” my dear ? that be blowed !
It’s drattedness, that’s wot it is. Wot with skience and sanitry stuff,
Their soaps, Condy’s fluiges, Cloryform, ’orror of darknige and fluff,
Following the example set by some of our contem-
poraries last week, we hasten in their own style to give
the interesting historical particulars of the latest Knights
Or record:—
Mr, George Grove, D.C.L . was born at a place com-
monly known ■as Clapham. He constructed the Chester
and Jlolyhead Railway with the assistance of Mr.
Stephenson, directed the entertainments at the Crystal
Palace, hence his degree of D.C.L.—“L. ” standing
for Palace,—wrote a dictionary of Musicians from
A to Z, and while exploring Palestine and inventing
the soup which still bears that name, he occupied his
leisure in editing Macmillan's Magazine and revising
the Old'Testament. He sings three songs in excellent
style, and, in order to encourage him to add to their
number, he has been made President of the Royal College
of Music, where his various crotchets will come in usefully,
and he is now Sir George Grove the Good Knight.
Mr. George Alexander Macparren, chosen for the
honour of Knighthood, selected London for the place of
his birth, and was reared on Macfarrenacious food. He
was educated at the Royal Academy of Music, has com-
T>osed much excellent work. He may prefer to be a
Knight Out.
Dr. Arthur Sullivan (according to the D. T.) was
not born at all to begin with, but returned to England
about nineteen years after. He has written the oratorios
of Box and Cox, Trial by Jury, Patience, Pinafore, &c.,
but it is with compositions of a loftier character that
his name will be linked. He played Poker with the Vice-
Chancellor of Cambridge, and composed The Silver
Trumpington Street March, for which he was made D.C.L.
and M.D. His hymn to the Trustees of the Doughtj
Estates, commencing “ If Doughty Deeds," was highly
popular with the “Gentlemen of the long robe,” who
used to sing it as a catch, three in a (Chancery) Bar. He
is still a Bachelor of Music, though wedded to his Art.
Rise, Sir Arthur !
MAY-DAY.
{A Dirge for any Number of Voices.)
Spring’s delights are now reviving,
Hoar-frost hangs on each green spray;
Horrid fogs are late arriving,
Welcome fires, ’tis nip-nose May!
Out-door pastimes need opposing,
Hail is falling chill and drear,
Cricketers their woes disclosing,
“ Maiden overs ” view with fear.
Chorus—Cricketers, &c.
These delights that mark the season
Make a man of poets tire ;
These chill hours, if spent with reason,
Should be spent beside the fire.
Come, then, watery “ creases” leaving,
From the damp grass turn away ;
For East winds our hopes deceiving,
Make us curse this beastly May I
Chorus—Come, then, &c.
Vol. 81.
8
PUNCH. OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
229
AN IMPRESSIONIST.
Btnks always wears Black Gloves for the sake of Economy.
There can’t be no cumfort in missing ; sech ways I could
never abear,
So it’s well we are out of it, Betsy ; it’s well we ’re
clean out of it, dear.
Nussing Sisters, forsooth ! Nussing fiddlesticks! Stuek-
uppy, slim-waisted gals,
As a cutting umbrella would shock, with their natty
print gownds and fal-lals.
No snuff, and. no snacks, and no snugness ! Jest fancy,
my dear, me or you
With a chit o’ that sort for a pardner ! My sweet
creetur, wot should we do ?
And they ’re to ’ave crosses, and ribbings, and bows, and
good gragious knows wot,
Wich we never get none of no sich, my Betsy, oh,
suttingly not.
The profegion seems turned topsyturvey, and every-
think’s going contrairey,
As may be called “ projiss,” my dear, but seems all stuff
and rubbidge to S a trey.
NOCTES AMBROSIANiE.
MRS. GAMP ON THE “ ROYAL RED CROSS/’
Deary me, Betsy Prig, times is altered ; as alter times will, in a wale,
Which sich “ projiss ” is too much for me, as am old though still ’arty and ’ale,
As I says to my friend Mrs. Harris, we used, you and me, dear, to nuss
Long afore that Miss Nightingale’s days, but no Queens didn’t decorage us.
The Royal Red Cross! Goodnidge gragious! it took all my breath away, slap.
As is all very well for a sojer or ’igh milingtarial chap.
But Nusses ! Lor’ bless us and save us, our buzzums I’m sure should expand
To see our profegion so honoured along o’ the fust in the land.
Wich I read it last night in the Standard, a paper to wich I am partial,
A Cross, my dear soul, and a ribbing, as grand as some dook or field-marshal,
Enamelled in gold and in crimsing, Her Majesty’s portrick, you know,
With cipher and crown all permiskus, and tied on the breast with a bow.
Ah, Betsy, it’s plain we was born, you and me, arf a centry too soon ;
If we two ’ad bin nussing to-day we’d ’a piped to a different toon.
Wich the worrits of monthlying, Betsy, was wus than the wust that’s beknown
To the ’orty young orspittle chits as ’ll claim this ’ere cross as their own.
Wich “ Faith, Hope, and Charity” ’s writ on the arms, so they say. Ah, my
dear,
We needed the three on ’em constant, and suthing chucked in, in our speer.
Wot with wile aggerawacious pashents and mississes given to scold,
We two ’ad our crosses, ah, yes ! though they wasn’t in crimsing and gold.
Then Nusses was Nusses ; not bragian, trim, tidied-up young bits o’ things.
We took to it nateral-like, as the young sparrers takes to their wings ;
We ’adn’t no “training” nor “ stifficates,” Betsy; we knowed what we
knowed,
And the rest wasn’t nothink to nobody. “ Projiss.,” my dear ? that be blowed !
It’s drattedness, that’s wot it is. Wot with skience and sanitry stuff,
Their soaps, Condy’s fluiges, Cloryform, ’orror of darknige and fluff,
Following the example set by some of our contem-
poraries last week, we hasten in their own style to give
the interesting historical particulars of the latest Knights
Or record:—
Mr, George Grove, D.C.L . was born at a place com-
monly known ■as Clapham. He constructed the Chester
and Jlolyhead Railway with the assistance of Mr.
Stephenson, directed the entertainments at the Crystal
Palace, hence his degree of D.C.L.—“L. ” standing
for Palace,—wrote a dictionary of Musicians from
A to Z, and while exploring Palestine and inventing
the soup which still bears that name, he occupied his
leisure in editing Macmillan's Magazine and revising
the Old'Testament. He sings three songs in excellent
style, and, in order to encourage him to add to their
number, he has been made President of the Royal College
of Music, where his various crotchets will come in usefully,
and he is now Sir George Grove the Good Knight.
Mr. George Alexander Macparren, chosen for the
honour of Knighthood, selected London for the place of
his birth, and was reared on Macfarrenacious food. He
was educated at the Royal Academy of Music, has com-
T>osed much excellent work. He may prefer to be a
Knight Out.
Dr. Arthur Sullivan (according to the D. T.) was
not born at all to begin with, but returned to England
about nineteen years after. He has written the oratorios
of Box and Cox, Trial by Jury, Patience, Pinafore, &c.,
but it is with compositions of a loftier character that
his name will be linked. He played Poker with the Vice-
Chancellor of Cambridge, and composed The Silver
Trumpington Street March, for which he was made D.C.L.
and M.D. His hymn to the Trustees of the Doughtj
Estates, commencing “ If Doughty Deeds," was highly
popular with the “Gentlemen of the long robe,” who
used to sing it as a catch, three in a (Chancery) Bar. He
is still a Bachelor of Music, though wedded to his Art.
Rise, Sir Arthur !
MAY-DAY.
{A Dirge for any Number of Voices.)
Spring’s delights are now reviving,
Hoar-frost hangs on each green spray;
Horrid fogs are late arriving,
Welcome fires, ’tis nip-nose May!
Out-door pastimes need opposing,
Hail is falling chill and drear,
Cricketers their woes disclosing,
“ Maiden overs ” view with fear.
Chorus—Cricketers, &c.
These delights that mark the season
Make a man of poets tire ;
These chill hours, if spent with reason,
Should be spent beside the fire.
Come, then, watery “ creases” leaving,
From the damp grass turn away ;
For East winds our hopes deceiving,
Make us curse this beastly May I
Chorus—Come, then, &c.
Vol. 81.
8