Punch: Punch (101.1891)

174

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

[October 10, 1891.

A CONNOISSEUR.

Sir Pompey Bedell "This Bottle of Romanee-Conti seems bathes Cloudy, Brown! It ought to be all eight. I know

it stands me in TWELVE GUINEAS A DuZEN!"

Tlxe New Butler. "There certainly his some Sediment, Sir Pompey; but it's of no consequence whatever! I tried a
Bottle of it Myself the other day, and found it first-rate ! "

"WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT?"

[" The ' tchorni narod'—the inconceivably ill-
used, patient, long-suffering ' black people,' as the
moujiks of White Russia are grimly denominated
by their rulers—are dying by thousands, of sheer

"Little Father," we are hungering- now,
neglected,

While the foreigner shouts praises in our
ports ;

We are honoured, say your scribes, loved,
feared, respected,

starvation, without a hand being stretched out by j Tne proud Frank, we'fought for you, your
^l^-DairTeU r^h1^ 7 ^' friendship courts.

° Th^oniik* VJvwmIZL*™* even rrfmlW ' Thegolden price of it you hug most gladly.

The moujiks are remonstrating and even rebellin_
in consequence.]

" Little Father," we have suffered long, and
sorrowed,

We the " children " of the wonderful White
Tsar,

Steadfast patience from staunch loyalty have
borrowed,

Slaved for Slavdom still in Peace, and died
in War ;

We have borne the yoke of power, and its
abuses,

We have trusted cells and shackles served
their turn ;

Nay, that e'en the ruthless knout had noble

uses ;

Now we starve—and think—and burn.

'' Little Father," is your power then so paternal

As in pious proclamation is set forth ?
If the round earth bears a brand of the
infernal, _ [North ?

Does the trail of it not taint our native
Ay, we love it as in truth we've ever loved it,
Our devotion, poorly paid, is firm and
strong ;

Have our little pitied miseries not proved it,
And our weary tale of wrong ?

Well, that price, what is its destined end
and aim ?

The indulgence of ambitions cherished madly ?
The pursuit of warrior fame ?

Tour realm is ever widening, Tsar, and
lengthening,
Though its peoples—your dear children—
prosper not;
Railways stretching, boundaries creeping,
legions strengthening !
And the end, 0 Tsar, is—where ?—the
purpose—what ?
The Afghan, Tartar, Turk feel your ad-
vancing, [tread,
The Persian and the Mongol hear your
And an eager watchful eye is eastward
glancing
Where the Lion lifts his head.

And your children, "Little Father " ? They
are lying

In their tbousands at your threshold,
waiting death.
Gold you gather whilst your foodless thralls
are dying !

Is appeal, oh Great White Tsar, but wasted
breath ?

On armaments aggressive are you spending
What might solace the " black people"
midst their dead ?
Of the millions the effusive Frank is lending
Is there nothing left for bread ?

BOUILLABAISSE.

[There has been some correspondence lately about
Bouillabaisse, and a writer in the Evening News
(who misquotes Thackeray) actually gives a
recipe without oil!]

Our Thackeray in ancient days,

Wrote of a very famous dish,
And said in stanzas in its praise,

'Twas made of several kinds of fish.
A savoury stew it is indeed,

And he's "in comfortable case "
Who finds before him at his need

A smoking dish of Bouillabaisse.

And now folks laud that dish again,

And o'er it raise a pretty coil,
While one rash man we see with pain,

Would dare to make it minus oil.
Oh ! shade of Terre, you no doubt

Would make once more the '' droll grimace,"
At such a savage, who left out

The olive oil, in Bouillabaisse.

"Thought-Waves." (Byan Un-JEsotertc.)
—The Theosophists talk mistily about '' the
concentration of mind-force on a thought-
wave"—which seems only another way of
saying that such minds are, at the time,
" quite at sea."