Punch (95.1888)

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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

[July 28, 1888.

WINDOW STUDIES.

A SCHOOL TREAT IN JULY, 1888.

THE BRITISH VOLUNTEER.

(A Neto Song to an Old Tune, piped by Mr. Punch
to his beloved Boys of tlie N.R.A.)

Sotie talk of going; to Brighton,

And some to Aldershot;
The target-potting Crichton

Must have some place to pot.
For of all our national nrusic that

Which most delight to hear,
Is the pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop
Of the British Volunteer.

For seasons close on thirty
They've popped at Wimbledon;

In weather bright or dirty,
That music still rang on.

But those well-known ranges will no more
Resound—that's sadly clear—

With the pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop
Of the British Volunteer!

Piinch feels a pang of sadness

He cannot well suppress.
He hailed " the Camp" with gladness,

He welcomed its success ;
And many a time his manly voice

There sounded forth in cheer,

'Midstnie+1?0% P?pV P^P' P°P> P°P- P°P
Of the British Volunteer!

He saw young Ross made hero,
Young Fulton shouldered high.

In weather down, near zero,
Beneath a naming sky,

His annual visit he has made
To watch the butts, and hear

The pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop,
Of the British Volunteer !

Damply this year, but suavely, No harm ? That's bosh and will not wash.

He held the soddden field,
And saw the Pats win bravely
The Elcho Challenge Shield.

Such shooting hath he never seen

As in this last wet year,
Of the pop, pop, pop, (at Wimbledon)
Of the British Volunteer!

To prejudice a stranger,

Punch will not stop to judge
The Rifles or " The Ranger ; "

But, boys, you '11 have to budge.
And Bull some suitable new range

Will have to find or clear,
For the pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop

Of the British Volunteer !

Eh ? Camp'neath Richmond's shades, lads ?

No, no t—that will not do !
Can't yield those rural glades, lads,

Even, dear boys, to you.
Those oaken clumps, those bracken-spreads,

Were sacrifice too dear
To the pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop

Of the British Volunteer!

Wantage is wrong this time, lads,

And Walter East is right.
A stroll 'neath elm or lime, lads,

Is the tired man's delight.
Our choicest Cockney's Paradise

We can't give up, that's clear,
To the pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop
Of the British V olunteer!

You '11 twig, my lads, instanter !

Take Punch's friendly tip.
The ramble or the eanter

Tired toilers can't let slip.

George Ranger's right, lads, here.
a,rk won't
Of the Br

The Park won't stand the pop, pop
British Volunteer 1

But find some fitting range, boys,
For his crack-shots Bull ?nust,

And since you 're bound to change, hoys,
'Tis to improve, I trust.

Pot-hunters there, and popinjays;
No more should raise the jeer

Midst the pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop
Of the British Volunteer !

Such soldiers had the Teuton,

So willing—and so cheap,
A range for them to shoot on

Be sure he'd find—and keep.
And we, your Grace, must sight som
place

Where Bull henceforth may hear
The pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop
Of the British Volunteer !

"John Leech's Sisters' Fund."— The
circumstances of the case have been fully set
forth in the Times. Never was there a
Physician so successful in his treatment of
dull care and despondency as was our Leech.
Those who are indebted to him for many a
hearty laugh can pay _ off the score to his
Sisters. Mr. Punch will be happy to receive
and forward any subscriptions to "our Mr.
Agnew," who is on the J. L. S. F. Com-
mittee. In the name of the Sisters of The
Leech, we cry, " Give! Give ! " and we are
assured of a hearty response.

Very Shall Beer—Conybeare.