Punch: Punch (100.1891)

2SS PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [May 30, 1891.

OUR ARTISTS ARE SOMETIMES COMPENSATED FOR ALL THEY HAVE TO PUT UP WITH.

Young E. A. [newly-elected). "What, not seen our Royal Academy yet, Miss von Trump! Don't you care for Picture',
then?" " Fair American. "Well, some. But your Royal Academy's rather crowded, you know!"

Pictor Ignotus [who hates the Academy like poison). " Perhaps Miss von Trump prefees our National Gallery. That's not
inconveniently crowded I " Fair American. " Well, yes. I like to go and sit in a nice, cool, quiet, deserted Spot,

like your National Gallery,—with a bound-up Volume of Punch.' That's my idea of Pictures !"

" GENERAL ELECTION STAKES."

A Colloquy on the Course.

Mr. Punch. Your Stable, no doubt, has of late been a winning one ;

Horses and Jockeys have both done their best.
Trainer. Tes; Guv'nor's black phiz—bless his heart!—is a grinning

All our nags answer when put to the test. [one ;

Mr. Punch. All ? That's a bit of a stretch, my dear fellow.

Wheel Tax went wrong, Compensation came down.
Hasn't Matt's riding at times turned you yellow,

And Raikes's wild steering almost done you brown ?
Trainer. Maybe, Sir, maybe! We can't always spot 'em,

But average winnings come out very well.
On this next race, now, I fancy we've got 'em,

Ab, fairly on toast, far as Jean hear tell.
Mr. Punch. The Sanguine Old Man—is he of your opinion ?

And Solly, the owner, is he at his ease ?
Trainer. Oh, dash the doldrums ! I ecorn their dominion.

There are some people no fellow can please.
What I say, Mister, is, look at their Stable,

The old Opposition shop. Lot of old crocks !
Flowing- Tide f Faugh 1 Half his doings are fable.

Home Pule f The deadest of utter dead-locks !
Socialist f Why, half the Party won't back him.

Eight Hour f A roarer, all noise and no pace !
Eh ? Local Option ? Won't win, though they whaok him !

What have they got, that can score the Big Race ?
Mr. Punch. Well, I must own they do seem a bit out of it.

Still, the Big Race for surprises is famed.
Trainer. Bah ! It's a moral for us, not a doubt of it.

Horse that can lick us is not foaled or named.
Mr. Punch. Glad you 're so cock-sure, dear Jokim. Still lately

They've scored some small handicaps, that you '11 allow.
Trainer. Oh ! Harborough Stakes I Well, that don't scare me greatly,

Mere fluke after all, though they raised a big row.

Mr. Punch. It's mostly " a fluke " when opponents go by us;

But flukes, you know, count, at the end of the game.
Trainer. Well, look at the betting ! Although they decry us,

They'd like to have money on us all the same.
Their best horse is "aged," their best jockey oldish,

He's plucky, but years, Sir, will tell on the nerve.
Some of 'em who've backed him the longest grow coldish,

Whilst others do hint that he seems on the swerve.
The lot who are sweet on that leggy colt, Labour,

Would like a new "mount," if they dared to speak out.
There isn't a man of 'em quite trusts his neighbour,

Home Rule with Bill up ! That inspires 'em with doubt!
(A.sk H-rc-rt or R-s-b-ry—on the q.T., Sir.)

The Old Jock is obstinate, new 'uns can't ride.
Funk M-rl-y, or L-bby and that lot! Not me, Sir!

I tell you the chances are all on our side. [shrinkei'3.
Mr. Punch. Well, luck goes with them who 're not shirkers or

Ah ! here comes your crack—rather restive, I fear.
By Jove, are you going to run him in blinkers ?

And who's your new Jock ? His seat seems a bit queer.
Trainer. Well, Sir, don't you see, it's just this way. He's bor-

That Jock is; a wonderful pet of Brum Joe's [rowed,
Must work with his Party; some of us have sorrowed

To make such close pals of such reglar old foes ;
The horse don't half like him, I'm bound to admit it,

Between you and me I don't like it myself,
For me and dear Joseph have not always hit it.

But then, he stands in ; we must look to the pelf ;
Can't afford to offend him, our Stable can't—blow it!

Eh ! What ? You have heard me disparage Boy Bill
As too Free in his ways by long chalks. Well, I know it ;

But Joe is dead nuts on his go and his skill—
The Blinkers ? Oh yes I Horse not used to him yet, Sir,

And if he should spot him, might throw the young pup—
We must " go it blind," only square ohance, you bet, Sir,

Of winning,—espesh'lly with Joe's jockey up !