Punch: Punch (91.1886)

62

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

[August 7, 1886.

HYMN TO THE MODERN MERCURY.

Fragment more or less Homeric.

Sing, Muse, the Tory Hermes, loved of Jove,
The Herald-boy, king of Boeotia,

And its tracolic hosts ; who doth not love
Him, adolescent, artful, modest, gay ?

Frolic as Faunus in some antique grove,
Cavorting to Pan's rustic roundelay,

But deep as Joey Bagstock, or the well

Where Truth in undisturbed repose doth
dwell.

Now, when this Rising Hope hath its ful-
filling,

And to the world stands forth in high
relief,

Behold, men say, a Leader all excelling,
A schemer subtle beyond all belief ;

Fulfiller of our dreams, a smart, eat-belling
Glad stonian - watchin g, Rad- disniayin g
Chief, [eye

Who, mongst the Treasury gods from eve to

A splendid reputation will achieve'.

He, born to office at the peep of day,
Began to play Old Gooseberry ere noon ;

And quickly he contrived to steal away
Apollo's Bulls, so that, with him in tune,

They bellowed as he willed, with him did
stray,

In fact esteemed his leadership a boon.

He had the wit their bovine hearts to keep,
These Johnny Bulls, for he, though young,
was deep.

He wrought himself a party instrument,
He tried the chords and made division
meet,

Prjhiding with the plectrum, and there went
Up from beneath his hand a tumult sweet

Of mighty sounds, and from his lips he sent
A strain of well-premeditated wit,

Reckless, and wild, and wanton—such you
may

Hear among 'Arries on a holiday.

Therewith he drove the Bulls his wandering

way,

But, being ever mindful of his craft,
Backward and forward drove he them astray,
So that the tracks, which seemed before
were aft.

Some said, "He'11 beat great Benjamin one
day!"

Soma thought the daring lad was simply
daft.

But he proceeded playing up his rigs,
The Tories scared and dashed or dished the
Whigs.

His mother marvelled at her new-horn child :
She was a trifle dullish—for a god,

Or rather goddess. When the lad reviled,
nis elders, she inquired, shaking the rod,

A TEILL FOR THE TOURIST.

Stiix the city thou endurost,

August follows on July ;
Say, 0 gallant British tourist,'

Whitherward you wish to fly.

Tou perchance consider rightly,
Lakes and mountains all a sham;

Where the Switzer most politely,
Shears the Transatlantic lamb.

You may voyage to the Norland,
Where the Romsdal torrents run ;

And o'er magic fiord and foreland,
See the wondrous midnight sun.

Tou can linger by the castles,
Of the legend-haunted Rhine ;

Where the Baron whacked his vassals,
In the " Abend-sonnenschein."

Or where olives round Albano,
Shade the azure-tinted pool;

Where the rose-hues on Lugano,
Come when twilight hours are cool.

You may tempt the wide Atlantic,
Speeding o'er its Titan's breast,

To where trees the most gigantic,
Rise in valleys of the West.

You may try'your luck at euchre,

In the streets of far Pekin,
Parting with your " filthy lucre,"

To descendants of Ah Sin.

You can watch the fearsome combat,

If Australian tales be true,
That goes on between the wombat,

And the wily kangaroo.

These things done, with calm 'enjoyment,

Once again on London look:
And resume your old employment,

But, by Jove, don't write a book !

The Phiiosophee at the Popi>ing-
Crease.—Cricket, from the Umpire's point
of view, is the most paradoxical of games,
for it is all "Over" so many times before
it comes to an end.

'' Whence come you, and from what adven-
ture wild,

You cunning rogue ? " He muttered, " Oh
beblowed!"
"Ribald!" said she, " your rowdy impudence
'Has shocked and sickened every man of
sense.

"Apollo pretty soon on you will wait,
And tie you up in a tremendous chain,

Inextricably tight and fast as fate,
Unless you can delude the god again,

Even when within his arms—ah, runagate!
A pretty plague you '11 be to gods and men.

Why can you not behave yourself ? "—" Dear
Mother,"

Replied sly Hermes, "Wherefore scold
and bother ?

" As if J were like other babes as old,
And knew no more than the Old Gang
what's what,

Or cared how much a dozen Mothers' scold.
I, in my subtle brain, a scheme have got

To extricate us from " Out in the cold,"
To profit you and me, and mend our lot.

It does not suit a chap of my condition

To spend his brightest days in Opposition.

" But we will leave these shades, not for a
' Cave,'

But live among the gods, and pass each
day