Punch (101.1891)

September 19, 1891.]

PUNCH, OR

THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

133

OFF DUTY.

The " Daily Graphic " Weather- Young- Woman gets
her " Sundays out."

SILENCE AND SLEEP.

{Lines written at Cock-crow.)

Night-time and silence ! O'er the brooding hill
The last faint whisper of the zephyr dies ;

Meadows and trees and lanes are hushed and still,
A shroud of mist on the slow river lies ;

And the tall sentry poplars silent keep

Their lonely vigil in a world of sleep.

Yea, all men sleep who toiled throughout the day
At sport or work, and had their till of sound,

The jest and laughter that we mate with play,
The beat of hoofs, the mill-wheel grinding round,

The anvil's note on summer breezes borne,

The sickle's sweep in helds of yellow corn.

And I too, as the hours go softlv by,
Lie and forget, and yield to sleep's behest,

Leave for a space the world without a sigh,
And pass through silence into dreamless rest;

Like a tired swimmer floating tranquilly

Full in the tide upon a peaceful sea.

But hark, that sound ! Again and yet again!

Darkness is cleft, the stricken silence breaks,
And sleep's soft veil is rudely rent in twain,

And weary nature all too soon awakes ;
Though through the gloom has pierced no ray of light,
To hail the dawn and bid farewell to night.

Still is it night, the world should yet sleep on,
And gather strength to meet the distant morn.

But^one there is who, though no ray has shone,
Waits not, nor sleeps, but laughs all rest to scorn,

The demon-bird that crows his hideous jeer,

Restless, remorseless, hateful Chanticleer.

One did I say ? Nay, hear them as they cry;

Six more accept the challenge of the foe :
From six stretched necks six more must make reply,

Echo, re-echo and prolong the crow.
First shrieking singly, then their notes thev mix
In one combined cacophony of six.

Miscalled of poets " herald of the day,"

Spirit of evil, vain and wanton bird,
Was there then none to beg a moment's stay

Ere for thy being Fate decreed the word ?
Could not ASCLEPIAS, when he ceased to be,
Take to the realms of death thy tribe and thee ?

VOL. CI.

What boots it thus to question ? for thou Art,
And still shalt be ; but never canst be still,

Destined at midnight thus to play thy part,
And when all else is silent to be shrill.

Tea, as 1 lie all sleepless in the dark,

I love not those who housed thee in the Ark.

"AS GOOD AS A BETTER."

Dr. AjTDBEW Wilson (in " Science Jottings," in the Illustrated London Keics)
dares disparage Golf " as an ideal game for young men," venturing to advocate
the preferential claims of fogeyish Cricket, and even of futile Lawn Tennis—

" 0 Scots, wha hae wi' Balfour teed."

What wall ye say to this disloyal, slanderous, sacrilegious Andy ? He hints
that Golf is a mere modish fashion—even a fin de Steele fad! ! ! How many
perfervid and patriotic Scots will

" Condemn his soul to eternal perdition
For his theory of the—National Game ? "

He says "you hit a ball and walk after it, and manoeuvre it into ajhole." Eugh !
Such icy analysis would make Billiards a bore, and resolve "Knuckle-down"
into nonsense! "It is not [Golf is not!) a proceeding (proceeding, quotha!) of
which youths and young men should grow enamoured." As though, forsooth,
Golf were a sort of elderly Siren luring limp and languorous youths into ille-
gitimate courses; a passee Delilah, whose enervating fascinations sapped the
virile vigour that might be dedicated to "that noblest of sports," Cricket, or
even that " much better game," Lawn Tennis! ! !

Surely the devotees of the Golf-cultus, the lovers of the Links, will be
down like a " driver" upon Dr. Wilson. Oh, Andy, Andy, between you and
your "brither Scots" there is henceforth " a great Golf fixed" !

A Cricket Paradox.

Though true without questioning, yet all the same,
It's a trifle perplexing to know what it means—

That the counties that hate most to lose in a game
Would be pleased very much at your giving them Beans

Wigs on the (Sea) Green !—Some Frenchman (we are told by The Gentle-
woman) has done Ladies a good turn by inventing a Bathing Wig, which
keeps the hair dry without making the fair bather look " a fright." Hooray !
Sabrlna herself might shout for such an invention, which even the Nereids need
not despise. Dizzy once sarcastically referred to certain " Bathing W(h)igs,"
but they were of another sort. Not even the most adventurous Tory could
"steal the clothes " of oar latter day " Bathing Wigs."

"Fine Salmon you've got there, Poulter !"—" Sixty-five Pounds, my
Lord ! Shall I send it Home to your Lordship? "—" Well—er—look here !
Just cut me Half a Pound out of the Middle there, and give it me in
a Piece of Paper!"