Punch (99.1890)

November 29, 1890.]

PUNCH, OK THE LONDON CHAEIVARI.

255

Ah, she's the true "Expert"; wuth
fifty Committees!
But then 'er decision means money—
and blood. [one pities

Wot price Tommy Atkins, then ? Every-
His fate, when he's snuffed it, and
pity's no good.
Whether Stanhope is right, or the
Times, I ain't sayin' ;
But here Marm Beixonek gives both
a big hint,
As it's rayther a touch-and-go game
they are playin'.
And Tommy, he thinks she is right,—
plain as print!

THE MAGIC HORSE.

(A Parallel not to ie pushed, too far.)

"SIC ITUR AD ASTRA!"

Look out for Mr. Punch Among the
Planets ! He is a Star of the first mag-
nitude, and the above is the title of his
Christmas Number. It will issue from,
to use astrological language, the House
of Bkadbuey-Agnew-&-Co., although
the sidereal and celestial subjects of the
forthcoming Christmas Number are sug-
gestive of the old days of " Bhadbtjey
and Heavens."

THKEE TASTES,
i.

My pipe, he tastes of turpentine—

He is a penny pipe—
A taste that every pipe of mine

Has when he is not ripe.
I.bought him at a little shop

Where they sell fruit and cheese,
Tobacco, toys, and ginger-pop,

And said, "A cheap pipe, please."

It was a maiden sold him me,

And she was proud and cold;
She'd briar pipes at two-and-three

For them that squandered gold;
She'd one that had a leather case.

Item, a curly stem ; [face,
And cheap pipes make her shrug her

She had such scorn of them.

n.

Myiipipe he tastes of cherry now;
Gone, like the foam of wine,

Gone, like the mist from mountain-
Gone is that turpentine. [brow,

With the pure herb I feel it blend—
That charm of cherry-wood, [end.

And smoke him six times straight on
Because he is so good.

And yet my aunt gets up, and sniffs,

And therewith wags her head;
And warns me in between the whiffs

That I shall soon be dead ;
And says excessive smoking must

Debase and bring me low,
She makes herself offensive, just

Because she loves me so.
in.

My pipe, he tastes of chocolate,

And he has grown so dear so dear,
That I get up at half-past eight

And smoke till night is here.
My aunt informs me that the smell

Is ranker than before—
I could not love her half so well

Loved I not baccy more.
The female mi ad! The female mind!

How beautiful it is !
And yet it has to sit behind

When it's compared with this—
This taste that falls upon my pipe,

That calms when woman clacks,
In the sweet season when he's ripe,

And just before he cracks.

[" You are like-wise to understand that Malam-
petino told me that, -whenever fortune should direct
me to the knight who was to be our deliverer, he
-would send him a steed—not like the vicious jades
let out for hire, for it should be that very wooden
horse upon which Petek of Provence carried off
1he fair Magalona. . . . Malambrtjno, by his art,
lias now got possession of him, and by this means
posts about to every part of the world."

" Hoodwink thyself, Sancho," said Don Quixote,
" and get up. . . . And supposing the Buccess of the
adventure should not be equal to our hopes, yet of
the glory of so brave an attempt no malice can
deprive us. . . . The whole company raised their
voices at once, calling out, 'Speed you well,
valorous Knight! heaven guide thee, undaunted
Squire! Now you fly aloft!'"—Adventures of Don
Quixote,']

Yes, " Speed you well, most valorous Knight!
Heaven guide you!"—and sound sense
inspire you!
Small marvel that our land's black blight

Of want and misery should fire you,
Or any man whose heart will mourn

Moreforwrecked lives than broken crockery.
This picture is not shaped in scorn,
Nor meant in mockery.

La Mancha's Knight, though brave, was
blind,

Squire Sancho just a trifle credulous,
But our dear Don was nobly kind,

And in the oause of suffering sedulous.
If, mounting Malambbuno's steed,

He showed more sanguine than sagacious,
He was not moved by huckster greed,
Or pride edacious.

But " with what bridle is he led ?

And with what halter is he guided ? "
Asked Sancho, rubbing his clown's head.

So they who have the least derided

Tour plan for floating " the submerged,"

Colossal, costly, wide extending,
Feel some few questions may be urged,
Without offending.

Benevolence the crupper mounts,
His arms, like Sancho1 s, from' behind
fold;

But it would seem, from all accounts,
He, like Don Quixote's Squire, rides blind-
fold;

It may be to most glorious ends,

It may be to disastrous spittings.
Sense fain would know before it spends
Its hard-earned shillings.

If all were genuine that is Big,
If all were sound that's well intended,

Quixote's wild jaunt and Sancho1 s jig
Would very differently have ended.

Zeal boldly mounts the Magic Horse,
Charity on behind holds tightly,

Who will not wish them skill and force
To guide it rightly ?

But Human Life's a complex maze,
And Nature's laws are most despotic.

Vice is not killed by kindly craze,
Nor suffering quelled by zeal Quixotic.

Big questions the Big Scheme beset.
Bid Pity think, and do not ask it

Too blindly all its eggs to get
In one huge basket.

Philanthropy, which facts will school,
Is not a theme for mocking merriment.

As Mobxey says, he is the fool
Who never ventures hold experiment.

Against the ills our State that shake,
The spectre Vice, Want the pale ogress,

Punch hopes the Magic Horse may make
Practical progress.