Punch: Punch (101.1891)

August 22, 1891.]

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

93

TO THE SHELVED SEX.

{By One who keeps his Bars open,)

["Believing firmly in the absolute justice of
woman's claim to the ' Parliamentary5 franchise, 1
shall at all times support that claim."—Mr. Logan,
the new M.B.for the Scarborough Division.]

0 Woman, in
hours of ease,

The mockery of false
M.P.'s!

When an Election
comes in sight,

E'en Ministers admit
thy "right."

Believe them not;
they do not dote

On the Political Pet-
ticoat.

'Tis all a politic pre-
tence.

Some of them are upon the fence ;
Some of them have political" wives,
And shirking stings in their home-hives,
Take up "the Cause " with a sham zeal,
Which not five in five thousand feel.
But hear them over a Club-dinner
Chuckling about the "pretty sinner"
Who hankers for that finer Club,
The House o' Commons! There's the rub !
They do not want you there, my dears ;
The prospect of your "franchise" queers
Wire-pullers' plans, and party reckoning—
Hope, in male guise, stands blandly

beckoning.
He—Codlin—is the friend, not Short,
But, in his heart he's making sport.
Of course 'tis wickedest of shames,
But—recollect Sir Hexey Jasies,
Your open enemy avowed,
Did not the House o' Commons crowd
Of frauds and shams play up to him.
And shelve "the Female" Franchise " whim
Only the other day ? Sheer diddle !
Have you not nous to read the riddle ?
How wondrous prompt was W. Or.
To back up Smith ! With what sly glee
The " Woman's Rightists" did subside.
And—sub silentio—let you slide! [human.
Your Grand Old Man, dears,—well, he's
He doesn't want some Grand Old Woman
As colleague or as rival. Woodall ?
w ell, he is gentle, genial, good all;
But there 's a twinkle in his eye
Persuades me that he would not die
Did you consent to drop your " claim."
And now there comes another name
To raise for Shes the party slogan.
Well, trust, dears—if you like—to logah ;
He " will support you at alltimes ! " [rhymes
Keep your eye "on him! Shakspeaee's
Tell you "Men were deceivers ever."
M.P. 's wise, foolish, crass, and clever,
Are—nominally—on your side,
And—privately—your cause deride.
Take the straight tip, my dears—I glean it
From private talk—they don't half mean it!

The Yoluxteebs' Foothold.—Shoebury-
ness,

lames glusstll ICotucIL

Borx, Feb. 22, 1819. Died, Arc. 12, 1891.

" We could not have been prouder of him had he
been one of us."—Times.

Baed of two worlds, and friend of both,

As ripe in years as culture, verily
To miss that voice two worlds are loth,

In which much wisdom spake so merrily.
A voice, and no mere echo, thine,

Of many tones, but manly ever.
Thy rustic Rigloiv's rugged line

A grateful world neglecteth never!
It smote hypocrisy and cant [ripple

With flail-like force; sleek bards that
Like shallow pools—who pose and pant,

And vaguely smudge or softly stipple,—
These have not brain or heart to sing

As Biglow sang, our quaint Hosea,
Whose " Sunthin in the Pastoral line,"

Full primed with picture and idea,
Lives, with " The Courtin'," unforgot,

And worth whole volumes of sham-Shen-
stone.

Yes, you could catch, as prigs may not,

Pure women's speech and valiant men's
Zekle and Huldy in our hearts [tone.

Have found a place. But a true Poet,
Like Shakspeaee's Man, plays many parts.

You chid us sharply, well we know it,
For you'd the gift of Satire strong,

And knew just how to lay the lash on.
You smote what you thought British wrong,

Well, that won't put us in a passion.
" I ken write long-tailed if I please,"

You said. And truly, polished writer,
More like " a gentleman at ease,"

Never touched quill than this' shrewd
smiter.

Your " moral breath of temperament "

Found scope in scholarly urbanity ;
And wheresoever Lowell went

Sounded the voice of Sense and Sanity.
We loved you, and we loved your wit.

Thinking of you, uncramped, uncranky ;
Our hearts, ere we 're aware of it,

" Run helter-skelter into Yankee."
" For puttin' in a downright lick

'Twixt Humbug's eyes, there's few to
metch it."
Faith, how you used it; ever quick

AYhere'er Truth dwelt, to dive and fetch it.
Yernacular or cultured verse,

The scholar's speech, the ploughman's
patter

You'd use, but still in each were terse,

As clear in point as full in matter.
You'd not disdain " the trivial flute,"

The rustic Pan-pipe you would finger,
Yet could you touch ApoUo's lute "

To tones on which Love's ear would linger.
Farewell, farewell! Two countries loved,

Two countries mourn you. None will
quarrel

With English hands, which, unreproved,
Lay on your bier an English Laurel!

An Old School Blot.—Under the heading
of "Church and Schools," the St. James's
Gazette gave an interesting; illustration of
" public spirit in schools." It recounted how
"An Old Bedford Boy"—no relation to
Robert, the Waiter, we believe—in the course
of returning thanks, said, " I have bathed in
all the great rivers of the world." Then he
added, "the water of the sluggish Ouse is the
sweetest of them all." Oddlv enough his name
was " Zltstcke," though evidently he must be
a first-rate " Zwimmer." With genuine love
for his old school, he might have added that
he wished he was a Buoy again. But he
seems to have got on swimmingly every-
where.

" HELPS;; AND WHELPS.

The following advertisement appeared some
little time since in the columns of a daily
contemporary :—

TO those who have not time to give their dogs
sufficient exercise in London.—A Ladv, expe-
rienced, would EXERCISE DOGS in the Park.
Terms, one hour daily, 5s. a week; two hours, 7*. Qd.
—Address, &c.

LESSEES to this, Rover, my hound !

This passes expectation !
A " Lady Guide," who '11 trot you round

For scant remuneration!

When pain and anguish wring my brow

Because I'm doomed to hark
To vour " Whv-not-go-out ? " bow-wow,

She 'R take you to the Park !

Cometh this ministering sprite,

Smiling upon us meekly,
And says, " I '11 make your burden light

For seven-and-sixpence weekly."

They talk of "woman's sphere," when sole,
Her hemisphere, when mated;

But surely here she's reached the goal
For which she was created!

She'll chaperon you down the Row,

With silken cord she 'U lead
Your footsteps where the fiowerets blow,—

A "lucky dog," indeed!

She '11 win your love by bits of cake,

She 'U let you bark, or growl,
And fight with other dogs, and make

War on the water-fowl.

Yet is it right your wayward tramp
Her maiden steps should hamper ?

Kb one who knows you for a scanip
Would take you for a scamper !

And oh !—a thought most base and black,

That puts me in a liuster—
My Rover, ivould she bring you back ?

]Sb, no, I wiR not trust her !

The offer tempts—(again that bark !)—

But no—'tis weak to falter ;
The chain that leads you to the Park

May lead me to the Altar !

Feom a Yeet Occasional Coeeespoxdent.
—"At Craig-y-nos we've been keeping up
quite Craig-y-noces. High jinks up here.
Craig-v-nos means the 'Rock of the Night,'
but, mind vou, no rock has been required by
any of us when we did go to bed, even
though we had real Welsh rabbits for supper.
Madame Patti, who takes the Path-cake
here, is far too wiry ever to be a Patti de
foie gras. Delicious air here, as any air must
be in which Patti has a voice.—Yours truly,
"The Appiest of the Ap Joneses."