Punch (100.1891)

S4

[January 31, 1891.

GENUINE ENTHUSIASM.

(A Thaw Picture.)

Whit matter an Inch or Two of Surface-Water, if the Ice bi still sound underneath !

" ROUGE ET NOIR ! "

Or, Jonathan's Perplexing Problem.

(Some Way after Hosea Biglow's "Jonathan to
John.")

Jonathan (ivho has been reading the Articles
on " The Negro Question in the United
States," in the English " Times") log : —

It may be ez you're right, John,

And both my hands are fall;
You know ez I can fight, John,

(I've wiped out "Sitting Bull").
Ole Uncle S sez he, "I guess

We see our fix," sez he.
"The'Thunderer's' paw lays down the law,

Accordin' to J. B.

To square it's left to me ! "

Blood ain't so cool as ink, John ;

Big words are easy wrote ;
The " coons"—well, you don't think, John,

I '11 let 'em cut my throat.
Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess

Ghost-dance must stop," sez he.
" Suppose the ' braves ' and black ex-slaves

Hed b'longed to ole J. B.

Insted of unto me ? "

Ten art'cles in your Times, John,

Hev giv me good advice.
I mind th' old Slavery crimes, John.

I don't need tellin' twice.
Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess,

I only guess," sez he,
" Seven million blacks on his folkb' backs

Would kind o' rile J. B.

Ez much ez it riles me I "

The Red Man,—well, I s'pose, John,

We '11 hev to wipe him aout.
Sech pizonous trash ez those, John,

The world kin do without.
Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess

Injuns must go," sez he.
" Cooper's Red Man won't fit our plan,

Though he once witched J. B.

As once he fetched e'en me !"

The Black Man! Ah, that's wuss, Joh ^.

The chaps wuz right, &y joost,
Who said the Slavery cuss, John,

Wud yet come home to roost.
Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess

The problem set," sez he,
" By that derned Nig. is black and big,

And fairly puzzles me,

Ez it wud do J. B."

Your Times would right our wrongs, John.

—Always xouz sweet on us!—■
But on dilemma's prongs, John,

To fix me don't you fuss.
Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess,

Though physic's good," sez he,
" It doesn't foiler that he can swaller

Prescriptions signed J. B.

Put up by you for me I "

Thet swaggerin' black buck Nig., John,

Is jest a grown-up kid ;
Ez happy as a—pig, John,

When doin' wut he's bid.
Ole Uncle S. sez he, " I guess

He's hateful when he's free.
Equal with him, that dark-skinn'd limb ?

No ; that will not suit me,

More than it wud J. B.! "

Emigrate the whole lot, John ?

Well, that's a tallish task !
In Afric's centre hot, John,

Send 'em to breed and bask P
Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess

-Z~'d be right glad," sez he,
"But—will they gof 'Taiu't done, you

As easy as J. B. Lbi'JW,

Wud settle it—for me 1"

R mge—there I see my way, John.

But Noii—thet's hard to front!
It wun't be no child's play, John,

Seven million Nigs to shunt.
Ole Uncle S. sez he, " I guess

We've a hard row," sez he,
" To hoe just now, but thet, somehow,

I fancy, friend J. B.,

Your l^i?nes may leave to me ! "

[Left considering it.

WELCOME BACK!

[Mr. Santley, who has been Ions: absent in
Australia, reappeared at St. James's Hall on Jan.
19, and was received with great enthusiasm.]

Back from your Australian trip !
Punch, my Charles, your fist must grip.
You have lighted on a time
When we're all chill, choke, and grime.
'Twere no marvel, 0 great baritone,
Did you find your voice had nary tone.
But there's none like vou can sing
" To Anthea," " TheErl-Jving."
Schubert, Gounod, English Hatton,
Equally your Fine Art's pat on.
Punch can never praise you scantly.
A voire sante, good Charles Santley !