DOI Heft:
August 2, 1884
DOI Seite / Zitierlink:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17757#0058
50
PUNCH, OP THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
[August 2, 1884,
THE DIRTY OLD BOYS,
(Dedicated to Sip. C. Dilke & Co.)
THREE TO ONE !
A BALLAD OF A SUBURBAN BEAT.
Night-Constable Brown, with a brooding' look, is pacing his dreary suburban beat;
His thick-shod footfall crunching slow along mile after mile of the silent street.
A chill wind flutters the linden leaves, deep shadows hover o’er porch and lawn:
’Tis nigh mid-June, but with never a moon, and the far East feels not the finger of dawn.
Darker and duller the long street grows ; the hay-scent, mingled with musk of rose,
Borne on the night-breeze, floats through the dusk with a friendly salute to the Constable’s
nose.
But that stolid tramper regardeth it not as he strides in the lamplight’s flickering gleam,
Erect and steady, yet dreamy of look, for even Night-Constables sometimes dream.
Night-Constable Brown is but twenty-five, and he means being married come next October ;
And Margery Meadows is tender and trim, and her blue-coated lover is stalwart and
sober.
So here is matter for dreaming indeed, on a Midsummer night, to an amorous tune,
Though the scene is not an Athenian wood, but a suburb dull on a night in June.
With Margery true, and promotion near, and that nice little legacy, things look bright,
Quite calculated to make a man proof against even the dulness of Yilladom’s night.
’Tis wondrous quiet, not even the sound of a market-wain or noctivagant cat
To break the hush of the empty streets, or the drowse of the shrubberies,—Ah! what’s that f
Night-Constable Brown is awake, alert. Away with visions and all such stuff!
Loosen the truncheon, round with the bull’s-eye ! Yes, it is burglars, certain enough !
Under the entry, right in his way there ! In for a tussle, then,—no, not fun
Exaotly. R-r-r-r! on the night-air echoes the shriek of the rattle. ’Tis Three to One!
Odds ! But a Constable may not wait, whatever a soldier may do, you see ; _
Night-Constable Brown advances steadily, challenging sharply. One against Three !
Three fierce rats, at bay and desperate ; look at their teeth in the bull’s-eye’s glare !
Look at those knuckles clenched on, what ? No jemmy that! Constable Brown beware!
Bang ! A rush ! A sting like a whip-lash ! Brown has one by the bull-throat fast,
Downs him deftly ; but brute-blows rain on him. Up he staggers, erect at last;
Eace to the foe, with a creeping faintness plucking coldly at chest and knee.
Bang! A miss! These rats are nervous, and Brown still faces them. One against Three !
Distant trampings! Two rats have scuttled!
Constable Brown has the third one, tight.
No ! that faintness his grip enfeebles. Rat
retreats to the porch ; shows fight,
Rodent-like, his jagged teeth gleaming
behind the barrel that covers Brown.
“Stop! or I’ll riddle you!” Brown
advances. Bang ! A tussle, and both are
down!
*■ * * * *
So they find them, the rat well under, Con-
stable’s clutch on his caitiff throat
Tight as a terrier’s. Brown up-staggers,,
but lights and faces and all things float
Dimly, swimmingly, faint, before him.
“ Hold him fast, lads! ” A fall like lead!
His comrades raise him tenderly—vainly I
Brave Night-Constable Brown is dead !
“Dead on the field of honour ” ? Well, Sirs,
that’s what they say of a soldier slain.
May glory be found in a lonely suburb, or
only, forsooth, on a battle-plain ?
Where is the difference ? Yes, there is this,
the soldier’s armed, and the constable’s
not,
He faces enemies, One against Three, and
takes his chance with them, stick against
shot!
No glittering steel and no gaudy coat make
danger seductive to Constable Brown ;
He ’s simply our solid composedly stolid and
dowdy-garbed friend ’midst the perils of
town.
No pretty Princesses pin stars on his breast,
fine postprandial speeches he hears not, nor
makes:
He only fronts death as a matter of business,
for pay and for praise that are “ no great
shakes.”
Poor Margery Meadows has views on the
point; but she’s only a girl, and Brown’s
sweetheart you see,
(Though perhaps there may be just a few,
after all, with the desolate maiden dis-
posed to agree).
She says—but of course she is scarcely
impartial, and speaks under stress of her
staggering loss—
That “her Brown was as brave as Lord
Wolseley himself, and did ought to have
had the Victoria Cross ! ”
Theatrical Mems.
Mr. C. Wyndham has dispensed with his
Mackintosh, and the weather immediately
changed to showery, which is bad for
Show-ers. Mr. Maltby, who played the
Tutor in Betsy, now takes the Mackin-
tosh’s place in Featherbrain.
At Toole’s an American Company, an-
nounced as that of Daly, appears Nightly.
At the Strand James the First is still
the King of Buttermen in Our Boys.
The hundredth night of The Private
Secretary was celebrated at the Globe last
Friday. This piece began as a failure, and
now—but more in our next.
“ Thames Communications.”
Says Father Thames to Father Lea,
“ Oh, what a dirty chap you be ! ”
Says Father Lea to Father Thames,
“ Well, you ’re a nice one to call names! ”
Says Dilke to Labby, nothing loth,
“ 1 hope, in time, to wash ’em both! ”
The Statue of Burns, on the Embank-
ment, ought to have been in Scotland Yard.
“For a’ that, an’ a’ that; For weel he’s
worthy a’ that.”
PUNCH, OP THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
[August 2, 1884,
THE DIRTY OLD BOYS,
(Dedicated to Sip. C. Dilke & Co.)
THREE TO ONE !
A BALLAD OF A SUBURBAN BEAT.
Night-Constable Brown, with a brooding' look, is pacing his dreary suburban beat;
His thick-shod footfall crunching slow along mile after mile of the silent street.
A chill wind flutters the linden leaves, deep shadows hover o’er porch and lawn:
’Tis nigh mid-June, but with never a moon, and the far East feels not the finger of dawn.
Darker and duller the long street grows ; the hay-scent, mingled with musk of rose,
Borne on the night-breeze, floats through the dusk with a friendly salute to the Constable’s
nose.
But that stolid tramper regardeth it not as he strides in the lamplight’s flickering gleam,
Erect and steady, yet dreamy of look, for even Night-Constables sometimes dream.
Night-Constable Brown is but twenty-five, and he means being married come next October ;
And Margery Meadows is tender and trim, and her blue-coated lover is stalwart and
sober.
So here is matter for dreaming indeed, on a Midsummer night, to an amorous tune,
Though the scene is not an Athenian wood, but a suburb dull on a night in June.
With Margery true, and promotion near, and that nice little legacy, things look bright,
Quite calculated to make a man proof against even the dulness of Yilladom’s night.
’Tis wondrous quiet, not even the sound of a market-wain or noctivagant cat
To break the hush of the empty streets, or the drowse of the shrubberies,—Ah! what’s that f
Night-Constable Brown is awake, alert. Away with visions and all such stuff!
Loosen the truncheon, round with the bull’s-eye ! Yes, it is burglars, certain enough !
Under the entry, right in his way there ! In for a tussle, then,—no, not fun
Exaotly. R-r-r-r! on the night-air echoes the shriek of the rattle. ’Tis Three to One!
Odds ! But a Constable may not wait, whatever a soldier may do, you see ; _
Night-Constable Brown advances steadily, challenging sharply. One against Three !
Three fierce rats, at bay and desperate ; look at their teeth in the bull’s-eye’s glare !
Look at those knuckles clenched on, what ? No jemmy that! Constable Brown beware!
Bang ! A rush ! A sting like a whip-lash ! Brown has one by the bull-throat fast,
Downs him deftly ; but brute-blows rain on him. Up he staggers, erect at last;
Eace to the foe, with a creeping faintness plucking coldly at chest and knee.
Bang! A miss! These rats are nervous, and Brown still faces them. One against Three !
Distant trampings! Two rats have scuttled!
Constable Brown has the third one, tight.
No ! that faintness his grip enfeebles. Rat
retreats to the porch ; shows fight,
Rodent-like, his jagged teeth gleaming
behind the barrel that covers Brown.
“Stop! or I’ll riddle you!” Brown
advances. Bang ! A tussle, and both are
down!
*■ * * * *
So they find them, the rat well under, Con-
stable’s clutch on his caitiff throat
Tight as a terrier’s. Brown up-staggers,,
but lights and faces and all things float
Dimly, swimmingly, faint, before him.
“ Hold him fast, lads! ” A fall like lead!
His comrades raise him tenderly—vainly I
Brave Night-Constable Brown is dead !
“Dead on the field of honour ” ? Well, Sirs,
that’s what they say of a soldier slain.
May glory be found in a lonely suburb, or
only, forsooth, on a battle-plain ?
Where is the difference ? Yes, there is this,
the soldier’s armed, and the constable’s
not,
He faces enemies, One against Three, and
takes his chance with them, stick against
shot!
No glittering steel and no gaudy coat make
danger seductive to Constable Brown ;
He ’s simply our solid composedly stolid and
dowdy-garbed friend ’midst the perils of
town.
No pretty Princesses pin stars on his breast,
fine postprandial speeches he hears not, nor
makes:
He only fronts death as a matter of business,
for pay and for praise that are “ no great
shakes.”
Poor Margery Meadows has views on the
point; but she’s only a girl, and Brown’s
sweetheart you see,
(Though perhaps there may be just a few,
after all, with the desolate maiden dis-
posed to agree).
She says—but of course she is scarcely
impartial, and speaks under stress of her
staggering loss—
That “her Brown was as brave as Lord
Wolseley himself, and did ought to have
had the Victoria Cross ! ”
Theatrical Mems.
Mr. C. Wyndham has dispensed with his
Mackintosh, and the weather immediately
changed to showery, which is bad for
Show-ers. Mr. Maltby, who played the
Tutor in Betsy, now takes the Mackin-
tosh’s place in Featherbrain.
At Toole’s an American Company, an-
nounced as that of Daly, appears Nightly.
At the Strand James the First is still
the King of Buttermen in Our Boys.
The hundredth night of The Private
Secretary was celebrated at the Globe last
Friday. This piece began as a failure, and
now—but more in our next.
“ Thames Communications.”
Says Father Thames to Father Lea,
“ Oh, what a dirty chap you be ! ”
Says Father Lea to Father Thames,
“ Well, you ’re a nice one to call names! ”
Says Dilke to Labby, nothing loth,
“ 1 hope, in time, to wash ’em both! ”
The Statue of Burns, on the Embank-
ment, ought to have been in Scotland Yard.
“For a’ that, an’ a’ that; For weel he’s
worthy a’ that.”