Punch: Punch (89.1885)

102

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

[August 29, 1885.

WHO WOULDN'T BE A DRAWING-MASTER!

THE IRREPBESSIBLE TOURIST.

'' Oh, where shall we go ? " That's the annual cry
Of your regular commonplace Tourist. Then why

Should, this Tourist of Tourists not raise it ?

A right thorough-going, untiring globe-trotter,

No poor Paterfamilias he just to potter,

No 'Abby whose verdict is " Margit's my motter I
No Matron long balanced 'twixt colder and hotter.

The world is his home. He surveys it,

Like Pistol of old, as his oyster, a thing
To be opened up, prior to gulping. His fling

He must have, our unlimited Tourist.

Attired, like a gentleman taking the air,

In a suit of check dittos, the usual pair
Of long-sighted lorgnons, perusing with care
His guide-books and maps, take a look at him there
As Autolycus sharp though—to doubt it who '11 dare ?—

With motives the highest and purest.

Still, if any small " unconsidered trifles "

Of land lie about, which one's rum and one's rifles
May help to " snap up," why, one's scruples one stifles,

Or how would the world, get along ?

In the race of land-grabbing 'tis fatal to lag,

The last in the field get the least of the swag.

No prior possessor who lets his tongue wag,

No •' harmless hidalgo " uplifting a flag,

No friend of humanity—wanting a gag—

Who prattles of right and of wrong,

May stop that grave goddess called " National Progress,"
Whom prudes and precisians regard as an ogress,

Bat whose most majestical stride,

In spite of all humanitarian rumpusses,

Is steady and sweeping as Habeiak's " compasses."

Oar Tourist looks forth far and wide,

Like Little Billee from the main-top, and " spots "

Most " commanding" sites, most "desirable" lots,
Charming "sea-side resorts," many snug "building-plots,"
And he says, with a confident smile, and

A wink of the eye, " I'm prospecting! I see
There's still many a place will do nicely for me,

Full many a land-nook as snug as can be,

And many a tight little island.

Where shall I go next ? Well my exoellent friends
My reply to your query must be ' That depends I'

I.have catholic tastes, and to further my ends

I may have to be rather ubiquitous.

I'm not at all greedy, you 've all had your share.
I come in for the scraps, what my neighbours can spare,
Just a little bit here and a little bit there,

Can anything be less iniquitous ? "

Why no, to be sure, there is room for us all,

To check the stout Teuton John Bull has no call,
But—those who are blindest are nearest a fall,

And those who see sharpest securest.

Trespass P A game he, of course, will not try on,
And therefore won't mind if the old British Lion
Should keep a quite friendly but vigilant eye on
This most Irrepressible Tourist!

OUT OF THE WEY!

Thai pretty little stream, the Wey, is, it appears, earning the
name of " the Styx of Surrey." That is a pity. Many a disciple of
old Izaak has passed many a happy hour watching the "bobbing of
the float" in the bright river that meanders through the green Surrey
meadows—though sometimes that delightful bob " is somewhat
spoilt by the neighbouring " tanner," with his ancient but not fish-
like (or fish-liked) savour.

" There were three jolly Anglers, they
"Went fishing for the roach on the banks of the Wey.

And they went down to supper at the sign of the ' Parrot,'

And they had boiled beef without any carrot,"

as we once heard a trio of warbling Waltonians piping pleasantly as
they plodded towards Guildford. Where there's a will there's a
way, and the will of the genial Guildfordites ought to be to make
their Wey clean and clear—though straight it can never be, thanks
to sweet Nature's happy love of the serpentine.