Punch: Punch (89.1885)

PUNCH, OB. THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [December 26, 1885.

Of angry and heady word-warfare. When Christmas has softened their souls,

And sweetened their tempers, who lately went frantic and fierce at the Polls,

Like Manna in Party's bare desert, will light their melodious lilt,

As sweet as the music, Tiresias, to which your loved city was built.

Tiresias. Will they then hear him, the mad multitude,

To whom wise words, if cast against the wind
Of their wild wishes and vain hopes, are vain,

Here, as in Thebes ?

Punch (cheerily). At last they must hear Me !

Tiresias (admiringly). Happy your lot, not blind nor unbelieved !

Tennyson. Thrice happy, to no faction thrall,

With Fairness and gay Fun,

Flouting the tyranny of All,

As well as that of One !

Punch. Why, certainly, my Laureate. And the Nation's Do-well follows

My Think-well, as your Ancient Sage would say. Our new Apollos,

Gods of the Long Bow most of them, lack light as well as lightness ;

But through the medium of Mirth Punch manifests his brightness.

Tennyson. And now your Genial Power

Breaks forth anew,

Thaws Winter's cold, and fills

Eyes with glad dew;

Your Artists have their wills,

Your Poets too.

Punch. Precisely, Sir. Your hour will come, but, after Row confusing,

The world wants something gay and bright and genial and amusing,

To soothe aud smooth and sweeten it. Bring it along, my Toby—

There ! I '11 remove his muzzle ! So,—no fear of hydrophoby !—

There !—that's the Party febrifuge, demulcent, tonic pick-up.

'Twill beat Pasteur for rabies, still the wild spasmodic kick-up
Of Faction's tetanus ! Take it! There is joy in every line.

Take, read to friend Tiresias, my

IMtnte !