DOI issue:
January 26, 1889
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17687#0055
January 26, 1889.]
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
45
Captain Highway (showing his Stables to Friend). “Now there’s a good-looking one—carried me Four Seasons—gave Two
Hundred for her!” Friend. “Clever at Timber?” Captain Highway. “ Er—I—I—don’t know!”
Friend. “Good at Water?” Captain Highway. “Well—I—I—can’t say !”
TOMMY'S TURK.
Young Tommy had a turban’d Turk,
A model toy, a birthday token ;
You wound him up, and watch’d him work—
Till he got broken.
His head would wag, his eyes would roll,
He moved his arms with gesture stately,
A nd played a dozen antics droll,
Which pleased us greatly.
The idol of the chatteringv crowd,
He acquiesced in every notion,
And with unfailing tact allow’d
Our deep devotion.
He ruled, a despot kind and strong,
The nursery’s turbulent tribesmen swaying,
Till something with his works went wrong,
And he ceased playing.
None can tell how. His subjects set
Such store upon his fellow-feeling,
That they were likely to forget
Mere wires and wheeling.1
Did Willy’s killing kindness press
Down the reluctant Paynim’s thrapple
Those crumbs of cake, and watercress,
And hits of apple ?
Did Cissie, curious child of Eye,
Seek to explore his inmost being,
And, frightened, her researches leave
Unblest with seeing ?|
Or Majb, who duty never shirks,
An advocate of Westem polish,
Had dreams perchance of teaching Turks
To speak in Dollish.
For all the dolls at home can speak,
And, on the slightest provocation,
Engage, with ventriloquial squeak,
In conversation.
And she, belike, essay’d to teach
The unresponsive Asiatic,
And caused, instead of answering speech,
Reserve rheumatic.
He sits, serene as other Turks,
In faultless Oriental vesture ;
But never since they hurt his works
Has changed a gesture.
0 Tommy’s Turk, your fate and mine
Are by a mystic bond united,
And neither of us gives a sign
Of being blighted.
On Southern shores the waters fair
Murmur their office pure and priestly,
And Elsie flirts and dances there ;—
It’s simply beastly.
Unmoved I meet my daily lot,
Mechanically eat my dinner,
Indifferently lose a “pot,”
Or back the winner ;
Waltz with dear Mrs. Bumblebee,
Although no normal arm can span her—
Eat, fair, and fortiter in re,
And suave in manner.
Or to Miss Jonquil on the stairs,
Where Elsie shone a drift of whiteness,
Pour out the unexpressive pray’rs
Of pure politeness.
And if our fingers chance to touch,
If I gaze fondly at her tresses,
It is because their taste is much
The same in dresses.
1 ’ll hie away to Qamlingay,
Chester-le-Street, or Thorpe-le-Soken ;
I cannot work ; like Tommy’s Turk,
My springs are broken.
HARDY SUCKERS.
Sir,—I am sure all your readers will he
gratified to hear of the extraordinarily mild
season we are having at Fossilton-on-the-
Sludge. While in other places tender plants
have gone to the Conservatory (or gone to
pot), here my thermometer frequently registers
80 degrees; I am quite certain of the fact,
as I keep the instrument under constant
observation on my dining-room mantelpiece.
I have actually in my garden, in full bloom,
specimens of the Fungus vulgaris, the Peri-
winklia pulrnonaris, and the daisy-like Aus-
tralian Waggawagga retrosilvensis! The
petals are extraordinarily developed for the
time of year, and the stamens have a lot of
stamina in them. The little work which I
am about to publish on “ Our Deciduous
Plants ” (for which I anticipate a large sale
after this gratuitous advertisement), will
contain further particulars. I enclose you
an advance copy, and some specimens of out-
of-door flowers (which I have been unable to
dispose of to local customers). As you will,
no doubt, be glad to receive the parcel, I have
not prepaid the postage.
Yours grubbily, Peter Mould.
P.S.—I may, perhaps, mention that I am
prepared to send any of the above-quoted
varieties to any address in England, at low
and inclusive rates.
Proverbial Philosophy.—In a multitude
of Councillars there is safety ; but too many
cooks spoil the broth. It is to be hoped
that the County Councillors won’t make a
hash of it!
Motto for the Defeated Candidates.—
Vis (County) consili expers mole ruit sud !
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
45
Captain Highway (showing his Stables to Friend). “Now there’s a good-looking one—carried me Four Seasons—gave Two
Hundred for her!” Friend. “Clever at Timber?” Captain Highway. “ Er—I—I—don’t know!”
Friend. “Good at Water?” Captain Highway. “Well—I—I—can’t say !”
TOMMY'S TURK.
Young Tommy had a turban’d Turk,
A model toy, a birthday token ;
You wound him up, and watch’d him work—
Till he got broken.
His head would wag, his eyes would roll,
He moved his arms with gesture stately,
A nd played a dozen antics droll,
Which pleased us greatly.
The idol of the chatteringv crowd,
He acquiesced in every notion,
And with unfailing tact allow’d
Our deep devotion.
He ruled, a despot kind and strong,
The nursery’s turbulent tribesmen swaying,
Till something with his works went wrong,
And he ceased playing.
None can tell how. His subjects set
Such store upon his fellow-feeling,
That they were likely to forget
Mere wires and wheeling.1
Did Willy’s killing kindness press
Down the reluctant Paynim’s thrapple
Those crumbs of cake, and watercress,
And hits of apple ?
Did Cissie, curious child of Eye,
Seek to explore his inmost being,
And, frightened, her researches leave
Unblest with seeing ?|
Or Majb, who duty never shirks,
An advocate of Westem polish,
Had dreams perchance of teaching Turks
To speak in Dollish.
For all the dolls at home can speak,
And, on the slightest provocation,
Engage, with ventriloquial squeak,
In conversation.
And she, belike, essay’d to teach
The unresponsive Asiatic,
And caused, instead of answering speech,
Reserve rheumatic.
He sits, serene as other Turks,
In faultless Oriental vesture ;
But never since they hurt his works
Has changed a gesture.
0 Tommy’s Turk, your fate and mine
Are by a mystic bond united,
And neither of us gives a sign
Of being blighted.
On Southern shores the waters fair
Murmur their office pure and priestly,
And Elsie flirts and dances there ;—
It’s simply beastly.
Unmoved I meet my daily lot,
Mechanically eat my dinner,
Indifferently lose a “pot,”
Or back the winner ;
Waltz with dear Mrs. Bumblebee,
Although no normal arm can span her—
Eat, fair, and fortiter in re,
And suave in manner.
Or to Miss Jonquil on the stairs,
Where Elsie shone a drift of whiteness,
Pour out the unexpressive pray’rs
Of pure politeness.
And if our fingers chance to touch,
If I gaze fondly at her tresses,
It is because their taste is much
The same in dresses.
1 ’ll hie away to Qamlingay,
Chester-le-Street, or Thorpe-le-Soken ;
I cannot work ; like Tommy’s Turk,
My springs are broken.
HARDY SUCKERS.
Sir,—I am sure all your readers will he
gratified to hear of the extraordinarily mild
season we are having at Fossilton-on-the-
Sludge. While in other places tender plants
have gone to the Conservatory (or gone to
pot), here my thermometer frequently registers
80 degrees; I am quite certain of the fact,
as I keep the instrument under constant
observation on my dining-room mantelpiece.
I have actually in my garden, in full bloom,
specimens of the Fungus vulgaris, the Peri-
winklia pulrnonaris, and the daisy-like Aus-
tralian Waggawagga retrosilvensis! The
petals are extraordinarily developed for the
time of year, and the stamens have a lot of
stamina in them. The little work which I
am about to publish on “ Our Deciduous
Plants ” (for which I anticipate a large sale
after this gratuitous advertisement), will
contain further particulars. I enclose you
an advance copy, and some specimens of out-
of-door flowers (which I have been unable to
dispose of to local customers). As you will,
no doubt, be glad to receive the parcel, I have
not prepaid the postage.
Yours grubbily, Peter Mould.
P.S.—I may, perhaps, mention that I am
prepared to send any of the above-quoted
varieties to any address in England, at low
and inclusive rates.
Proverbial Philosophy.—In a multitude
of Councillars there is safety ; but too many
cooks spoil the broth. It is to be hoped
that the County Councillors won’t make a
hash of it!
Motto for the Defeated Candidates.—
Vis (County) consili expers mole ruit sud !