Punch (94.1888)

34 PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVAEL [January 21, 1888.

FESTIVE.

Old Gent {from "jo'y Rrism'sh Par'y," setting his " Wa'seh" to Underground Railway time, by
the Weighing - Machine!). "Thish mtjsh be Eigh'day Clock 1"

S. E. and L. C. & D. Raillery (Victorian Era).

" If I were Chairman of the South-Eastern," ohserved Mr. L-ns, " I should resign
like winkin'!"

" Like winkin', perhaps," returned Mr. j. S. F-be-s, " hut unlike Watkin."

"All the same," remarked a shareholder of the S. E., "I don't see why your Co-Directors
should have written such a reply to our polite request as appeared in last Saturday's papers."

" Well," replied Mr. J. S. F-e-b-s, fi you see, it's a way we've pot; or, I might say, it's
a Ahbott of ours." [Exeunt omnes severally.

Change of Name.—In consequence of the unbounded confidence displayed by the Metro-
politan Board of Works in the apathy of the Public, and in the conscientiousness of its
officials, it will be in future entitled " The Board of Faith Without Works."

Wbites a " Lost Londoner " :—" No Evolutionist was ever more eager to find the Missing
Link than was I on attempting to return home from the theatre in the dense fog last
Wednesday, Jan. 11."

POETRY AND PASTRY.

Deab Mb. Punch,

I have written this pome about the
mince pies, thinking it might be a good
thing to have it printed. I have also put in
something about Elsie, because she made
them. I don't want my name put to the
pome, because the fellows are sure to see
Punch, and they don't understand things of
this kind, and would very likely laugh at
me. And one doesn't care to have one's
friends' names humbugged about in the
playground. Tom has looked over the
verses, and says they are very good, now he
has invested them with artic merit, and he
has put in some of his own, which are
rather rot. He very nearly got " the New-
gate" (I always thought "Newgate" was a
prison, he says it's a prize 'un) at Oxford,
only he wasn't allowed to go in for the
Exam, for it, as he had to be in training.
I enclose a stamp, not necessarily for use,
but as a quarantine of good faith.

Tours truly, Eenest p^Dnro.

(My nom de "plum.")

P.S.—If you don't want to use the stamp,
you might send it back to me.

THE POME.

Elsie went down to the Kitchen
Where they made the Twelfth-Night
_ feast,

And it's oh, she look'd so betwitching
That Cook from her cooking ceas'd,

And let her make tart, pie and cake,
And she wasted a pound at least

Of butter and flour; but Cook never look'd
sour,

And she's sometimes a surly beast.

Oh, the yule log, and the ewe, ewe lamb,

But and the yew-tree gray;
And a new year's coming up, my love,
For the old year's gone away.

\_Tom made this up. He says it
gives a cachet.

She look'd so lovely as she sway'd

The paste with dainty fingers,
That round the pastry that she made

An endless glamour lingers,
Like the hidden light of a swallow's flight,

Or the silence of perfect singers.

How dull and beas'ly are our schools,

And starting is the worst day;
They always have new-fangled rules,

And give us French the first day;
And Elsie's face will fill the place,

Like a mirage when you 're thirsty.

Aunt Post says that horrid boy

Will kill himself with eating,
But little wots she of the joy

That sets my pulses beating:
It's not the tart that shakes my heart,

It's Elsie, pretty sweeting.

And why not die P What hope is mine ?

She's now five years my senior.
In vain bright eyes upon you shine

If rivals come between you;
Bat the holidays were all divine,

And Elsie was their genia*

Yes! How can boy make better end,

An end more sweet and sudden,
Than smiling die of Elsie's pie

After a course of pudding,
With teeth fast fix'd in the mince she mix'd
And her pastry, white and wooden.
Oh, the yule log, and the ewe, ewe lamb,

But and the yew tree gray ;
And a new year's coming up, my love,
For the old year's gone away.

* This is a female good genius.