Punch (89.1885)

December 12, 1885.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

277

TRADE MARKS FOR WELL-KNOWN FIRMS.

Designed by Dumb-Crambo Junior,

Cross and Black-well.

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Swan and 'Ead-gear.

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Fought numb and Mace on. Dey and Martin.

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Pete a-Robbin' son.

Swears and Wells.

A Corker for the Member for Cork.

(By a Sanguine liberal.)

Pabnell says our Party he '11 throttle;
But, when the Poll comes to its " tottle,"
He may possibly fear
It is not quite so clear
That the Cork has the best of the bottle!

" Hi Diggle Diggle!"—On Thursday last, the new
London School Board rejected Mr. E. N. Buxton for
Chairman, and instead, elected the Rev. J. R. Diggle, an
"unattached" Clergyman, with Sir Richabd Temple
for Vice. The " Temple for Vice " does not sound well in
connection with the School Board. But Sir Richabd
will give efficient aid, and as to the Rev. J. R. Diggle
" unattached," he will have every opportunity of proving
whether the Board's choice is, or is not ri-diggle-ous.

'ARRY ON THE ELECTIONS.

Dear Chablie,

'Ow goes it, my Joskin ? Ascuse that remark, dear old bloke,

But the chawbacon life wot you 're leading ain't fit for a 'Amstead 'Eath moke.
Rural parts, mate, are all tommy rot, and it gives me the needle, dear boy,
To see vou still buried down there, where there's nothink to see or enjoy.

We've bin goin' it proper in London. Elections all over the shop,

And them Rads 'aven't 'ad a look in, Sir. We've landed 'em fair on the 'op.
J'ave cheered myself 'orse, I essure yer, bin at it for weeks, day and night,
And when 'Abby is straight on the job, things is bound to come out about right.

I am Tory right down to my bluchers, and straight up my back, as you know,
And I think 1 've give Gladstone his gruel, and bunnieked up Brummagem Joe.
Leastways, if the town was all 'Abbies and Aristos, Rads and their rot
Would be licked to that orful extent they would wish theirselves jolly well
shot.

Tf there's any dashed thing I do hate wus than work and stale swiz, it's a Rad;
He is mostly a white-feathered Muggins, and always a clod or a cad.

So I pal'd on the Tory Committee, stuck red silk rosettes in my coat,

And went canvassing round a rare buster in search of the working man's vote.

Sech larks, my dear Charlie, sech shindies, sech row-de-dow meetings all
round!

Sech turns at the ehucker-out bizness, wich Buits me right down to the
ground!

'Most as funny as 'unting a Welsher. Chap 'isses, that puts up yer blood,
So you go for him, six on yer, thump him, and leave him to cool in the mud.

'Fen brickbats, though, Chablie, old bloater! we 'ad 'em 'one night, and no
kid!

Stopped one with my Sunday best 'at—a bran' new un as cost arf a quid;
So I drew the line sharp, and skedaddled. Won't run to it, Chablie, dear boy!
And that dashed Corrup Practices Hact leaves us jolly few perks to enjoy.

Blarmed nonsense all that! I've been working six weeks for our man, Mabk
McCrump,

And there's jest nothink hangs to it, Chablie ! It gives one the fair blooming
'ump.

There's some chat about blankets and soup-tickets, most on it kiboBh, of course;
But bedclothes and skilly won't pay me for 'owling until I git 'orse 1

It's the cumpany does it, old hoyster, the cumpany ! Lor it's A.l
To be took in a Long Acre Lando to poll. Then the girls are good fun.
Wy a Primrose League Dame—a fair scorcher—as pinned a rosette on my collar,
Sez, " Do your best, dear Mister 'Abet ! "—I did, too, you bet your last dollar!

I pelted the Radical posters, I guyed all the Radical spouts;

I cockcrow'd their Candidate crazy, in spite of their wild " Turn-im-houts,"
They talk of a Citizen's dooty; I think, dear old pal, you '11 admit
That wot with his vote, voice, and mud-shying, 'Abet done his little bit.

We returned him, McCbtjmp, by three .figgers. Great Scott! When the poll
was declared

I thought we'd 'ooray'd all the roofs off. The Rads all looked sulky or scared ;
And as for the pets of the Primrose, one snappy young beauty in pink-
Well, I thought she'd 'a wept on my shirt-front! Yum-yum, Chablie ; wot do
you think ?

That's Tory Rehaction, my pippin! It warms up a Patriot's 'art.

Wot we want in Old England's Protection, and Pluck for to take our Own Part.

To give them dashed furriners toko with tarriffs tremenjously hot

And if they rough up and cut didos, to jolly well lick the whole lot!

Them's my politics, Chablie, packed 'andy; and that's wy I'm Tory right
through.

Lord Randolph's my mark; there's a Statesman I As 'ot as they 're made, and
True Blue.

He's worth ten Old Midlothian Muddlers, and twenty Brum Joes packed in one.
Make him boss of the Show, and by Jingo he '11 show the old Jokers some fun ;

And now I've jest heard, my dear Chablie, that down in your chawbacon part,
You have chucked out the Tories. Oh scissors! it cuts a cove slap to the 'art!
Wot's the good of hus starting the game hup in Town in so proper a way,
If them turnip-fed jolterheads muck in, and give Joe the best of the play ?

If that Cow and Three Acres does [fetch him, Hodge must 'ave a puddeny

chump. . .

Wy, I thought we wos winning ands down, mate. Are me and sech swells as
McCbttmp

To be sold by a Juggins like Giles ? Are our Dames to shed tears and go sad ?
Must the Primrose be licked by the Buttercup ? Chablie, old chap, it's too bad!

Can't believe it, dear boy, canH believe it. You give 'em the straight tip from
Town.

If you think my snide patter will help you, wire up, and I '11 jest toddle down.

This Election, old pal, is a Crisis, and one as we Toppers must carry.

The Pink Primrose girl told me that—it's the gospel accordin' to 'Abby.

VOL. lxxxix.