DOI Heft:
April 19, 1884
DOI Seite / Zitierlink:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17756#0192
las PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [April 19 1884.
DON’T!”
ADVICE TO PEOPLE WHO WISH TO GET ON.
Don’t, when Brown is telling you that capital Story of j And then, the very next time you happen to meet him,
HIS ADVENTURE WITH HIS WASHERWOMAN, STARE AT HIM IN A TELL THE VERY STORY TO HIM AS IF IT HAD HAPPENED TO YOUR-
BLANK AND VACANT MANNER, AS IF YOU DIDN’T SEE THE POINT, SELF, WITH ROARS OF LAUGHTER YT YOUR OWrN WlT AND IN1MI-
OR WERE NOT LISTENING- TABLE POWERS OF NARRATION !
ANOTHER “BITTER CRY."
Bumble, to his friend and fellow-martyr, Mr. Alderman Dubbings,
loquitur—
At last! The blow’s fell after all,—as I ’oped agin ’ope it might
not,—
And, by Jove, it’s a regular stunner ! It simply means Going to Pot!
No use Mister Alderman Gubbings in try in’ to wrop it up nice,
It’s just Ikybod, that’s wot it is, as must cert’ny be plain to blind
mice.
Blind mice ! They ’re blind rats them there Rads, jest as dirty,
destructive, and fierce ;
If they’d got any buzzums, our fate, Mister Gubbings, them buzzums
’ud pierce-
But they ain’t no more ’eart than a lettuce plarnt, no, not among the
’ole pack,
And a tenpenny-nail stuck point uppards ’as just as much feel in’
and tack.
Abolish the Westries! Blue Moses ! It makes a chap’s wiskers
untwist
To think of sich hoffle hopression, with never no pow’r to resist.
The ’ole ’warsal world goes a-wobbling, earth’s solid foundations
seems shook
Wen Aldermen ain’t no more wanted, and Bumble may jest sling
his ’ook.
Districk Councils ? That’s all Tommy Rot, Sir! Wot powers,
I arsk, will they ’ave P
No ! a Alderman’s somethink himposing, a Westryman’s not a mere
slave.
Lor! the weskit.s and wiskers I’ve gazed on, the speeches I’ve
follered with hor !
And to think them white weskits will glitter, them rosy gills gobble
no more !
It’s ’art-breaking, that's wot it is! Wich a Beadle ain’t easy
unmanned;
But that ’Arcourf, yes, him and no other, this ’orrible plot should
’ave planned,
Is ’arrowing ! Him with that waistband, that chin like a tripple-
rowed shelf,
Who with jest a cocked ’at and red breeches would make sech a
Beadle hisself !!!
He might ’ave ’ad more feller-feelink! From smug cock-nosed
Firth, blustrous Beal,
Who would bolt Westried Interests like bulls’ eyes, and gulp the
Lord Mare at a meal,
We didn’t o’ course expect nothink; but ’Arcourt—well, there, it’s,
a blow!
But siuee You and Me, Sir, is chucked, wy the ’ole blessed biling
may go.
Nevermore shall the Westrv ’All ekker with regular good give-and-
take,
Never more shall fat fore-finger wag, or big bunches o’ fives thump
and shake!
Never more shall the nice little feeds crown the finish of nice little
jobs,
Never more shall elections be pleasures, perductive of tanners and bobs!
“ I shall not attack Westries,” says ’Arcourt. He might ’a left that
to false Firth.
Ain’t we squelched, Mr. Alderman Gubbings, himproved hoff the
face of the hearth P
Absorbed? Yah! That’s all ’Arcourt’s gammon designed for
bamboozle and fog;
He won’t diddle bus in that way, though he may poor Sir
Mackarel ’Ogg !
Howsomever he ain’t done us yet. He ’as brought in his Bill,
yes, wus luck!
And things do look ominious, very. But, bless yer, we’ve plenty of
pl ue‘-'.
DON’T!”
ADVICE TO PEOPLE WHO WISH TO GET ON.
Don’t, when Brown is telling you that capital Story of j And then, the very next time you happen to meet him,
HIS ADVENTURE WITH HIS WASHERWOMAN, STARE AT HIM IN A TELL THE VERY STORY TO HIM AS IF IT HAD HAPPENED TO YOUR-
BLANK AND VACANT MANNER, AS IF YOU DIDN’T SEE THE POINT, SELF, WITH ROARS OF LAUGHTER YT YOUR OWrN WlT AND IN1MI-
OR WERE NOT LISTENING- TABLE POWERS OF NARRATION !
ANOTHER “BITTER CRY."
Bumble, to his friend and fellow-martyr, Mr. Alderman Dubbings,
loquitur—
At last! The blow’s fell after all,—as I ’oped agin ’ope it might
not,—
And, by Jove, it’s a regular stunner ! It simply means Going to Pot!
No use Mister Alderman Gubbings in try in’ to wrop it up nice,
It’s just Ikybod, that’s wot it is, as must cert’ny be plain to blind
mice.
Blind mice ! They ’re blind rats them there Rads, jest as dirty,
destructive, and fierce ;
If they’d got any buzzums, our fate, Mister Gubbings, them buzzums
’ud pierce-
But they ain’t no more ’eart than a lettuce plarnt, no, not among the
’ole pack,
And a tenpenny-nail stuck point uppards ’as just as much feel in’
and tack.
Abolish the Westries! Blue Moses ! It makes a chap’s wiskers
untwist
To think of sich hoffle hopression, with never no pow’r to resist.
The ’ole ’warsal world goes a-wobbling, earth’s solid foundations
seems shook
Wen Aldermen ain’t no more wanted, and Bumble may jest sling
his ’ook.
Districk Councils ? That’s all Tommy Rot, Sir! Wot powers,
I arsk, will they ’ave P
No ! a Alderman’s somethink himposing, a Westryman’s not a mere
slave.
Lor! the weskit.s and wiskers I’ve gazed on, the speeches I’ve
follered with hor !
And to think them white weskits will glitter, them rosy gills gobble
no more !
It’s ’art-breaking, that's wot it is! Wich a Beadle ain’t easy
unmanned;
But that ’Arcourf, yes, him and no other, this ’orrible plot should
’ave planned,
Is ’arrowing ! Him with that waistband, that chin like a tripple-
rowed shelf,
Who with jest a cocked ’at and red breeches would make sech a
Beadle hisself !!!
He might ’ave ’ad more feller-feelink! From smug cock-nosed
Firth, blustrous Beal,
Who would bolt Westried Interests like bulls’ eyes, and gulp the
Lord Mare at a meal,
We didn’t o’ course expect nothink; but ’Arcourt—well, there, it’s,
a blow!
But siuee You and Me, Sir, is chucked, wy the ’ole blessed biling
may go.
Nevermore shall the Westrv ’All ekker with regular good give-and-
take,
Never more shall fat fore-finger wag, or big bunches o’ fives thump
and shake!
Never more shall the nice little feeds crown the finish of nice little
jobs,
Never more shall elections be pleasures, perductive of tanners and bobs!
“ I shall not attack Westries,” says ’Arcourt. He might ’a left that
to false Firth.
Ain’t we squelched, Mr. Alderman Gubbings, himproved hoff the
face of the hearth P
Absorbed? Yah! That’s all ’Arcourt’s gammon designed for
bamboozle and fog;
He won’t diddle bus in that way, though he may poor Sir
Mackarel ’Ogg !
Howsomever he ain’t done us yet. He ’as brought in his Bill,
yes, wus luck!
And things do look ominious, very. But, bless yer, we’ve plenty of
pl ue‘-'.