Punch (100.1891)

18

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

[January 10, 1891.

METROPOLITAN RAILWAY TYPES.

The Party that nsvbr says, "Thank you I" | The Party that always says, "Thank you !"

When you open the Door, shut the Window, or give up your Seat for her.

BUMBLE AT HOME ;

Or, The Winter of Our Discontent.

" Notwithstanding the most superlative, and, I may say, supernat'ral exer-
tions on the part of this parish," said Bomble, " we have not been able to—
do anythink."—Oliver Twist.

Mr. Bumble, loquitur : —

Gr-r-r-r ! ! ! Old-fashioned "Winter, indeed ! Well, I'ope them
as talks on it relishes it!

The City seems give up to snow; which I can't say it greatly em-
bellishes it.

But, really, of all the dashed imperence,—s'posing of course as they
meant it,—■

The greatest is that of the Papers appealing to Me to pervent it I

Ah! it's a hinsolent Hage, and -without no respect for Autho-
rity.

The cry of them demmycrat 'owlers is all for low In-fe-ri-or-ity.
Things is about bottom uppards, as far as I judges, already,
And if the porochial dignity's floored, what is left to stand
steady ?

Progressists, indeed I Ah, Z'd "progress" 'em, pack o1 perposterous
basses,

A regular pollyglot lot, breeding strife 'twixt the classes and

masses.

The masses is muck; that 'a my motter, as who should have learnt
it more betterer r

Bumble could hopen the heyes of them Boothses, John Burnses,
ancetterer.

Snov? Is it me brings the snow, and the hice, and the peasoupy
slushiness,

Making the subbubs one slough ? No I The Age is give over to
gushiness.

Parties as writes to the Papers is snivellers, yus, every one of 'em,
Barring the few as cracks jokes, though I own as I can't see the
fun of 'em.

Look at " Ucalegon," now, him as writes to a cheap daily journal,
Along o' the "'Orrors of 'Ampstead," as he calls hy—wot's it?—
"hybernal,"

(Wotever that crack jaw may mean) or that fellow, " Infelix The "—
blow it.

Sech names you can't write nor yet spell, if you're not a School
Board or a Poet.

Talks of our "hard hide," does " Infelix," I'd like to lay hands
upon hisn!

ill becos Upper 'Ampstead, it seems, is a sort of a dark ice-bound
prison.

No 'busses, no trams, and no cabs, no grub, and no gas, and no water!
Ha! ha! Pooty picter it is, and thanks be I don't dwell in that
quarter!

But wot's it to do with poor Me ? If he wants it himproved he had
best try

Them proud County-Councillor coves, not come wallopping into the
Westry.

Wot use, too, to talk of Wienna? Don't know where that is, and
don't wanter,

But, 'cording to " Snowbound," their style of snow-clearing beats
ourn in a canter.

Ratepayers' Defencers may rave, and the scribblers may scold
or talk funny,

But clean streets in Winter mean this,—you must plank down a
dollup more money !

Me up and be doing meanwhile ? No, not if I jolly well knows it.
I likes my own fireside too well to go snow-clearing, don't you
suppose it.

A choice between slither and slush miy come 'arl on the Mighty
Metrolopus,

But Westrydom ain't on the job, 'owsomever they worry and wallop
us.

Bless yer, we've stood it before, and can stand it agen, all this fussing.
My game's a swig and a smoke ; as for them—they can go on "dis-
cussing."

[Shuts door, and retires to his snuggery for spirituous solace.