Punch (101.1891)

October 24, 1891.]

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

193

LAISSEZ FAIRE.

(Inserivtion -or a Free Public Library.)

Hebe is an Institution doomed to scare
The furious devotees of Laissez Faire.
What mental shock, indeed, could prove immcnser
To Mumbo Jumbo—or to Herbeet Spencee ?
Free Books ? Beading provided from the Bates ?
Oh, that means Freedom's ruin, and the State's !
Self-help's aU right,—e'en if you rob a brother—
But human creatures must not help each other !
The "Self-made Man," whom Samuel Smiles so
AVho on his f eUows' necks his footing raises, [praises,
The systematic " Sweater," who sucks wealth
From toiUng croAvds by cunning and by stealth,—
Lie is aU right, he has no maudlin twist,
He does not shock the Individualist!
But rate yourselves to give the poor free reading ?
The Belican to warm her nestlings bleeding,
Was no such monument of feeble folly.
Let folks alone, and all wiU then be joUy.
Let the poor perish, let the ignorant sink,
The tempted tumble, and the drunkard drink !
Let—no, don't let the low-born robber rob,
Because,—weU, that would rather spoil the job.
If footpad-freedom brooked no interference,
Of Capital there might be a great clearance ;
But, Wealth weU-guarded, let aU else alone.
'Tis thus our race hath to true manhood grown:
To make the general good the common care.
Breaks through the sacred law of Laissez Faire .'

A REMONSTEANCE.

To Luke's Little Summer.

Ah, Summer ! now thy wayward race is run,
With soft, appeasing smiles thou com'st, like
one

Who keeps a pageant waiting all the day,
Till half the guests and all the joy is gone,
And hearts are heavy that awoke so gay.

What though the faithful trees, still gladly
green,

Show fretted depths of blue their boughs
between,

Though placid sunlight sleeps upon the
lawn,

It only teUs us of what might have been
Of fickle favours wantonly withdrawn.

Blown with rude winds, and beaten down

with rain,
How can the roses dare to trust again
The tricksy mistress whom they once
adored r

Even the glad heaven, chiUed with stormy
stain?

Grudges its skylark pilgrims of its hoard.

Poor is the vintage that the mid bee quaffs,
When the taU simple lilies—the giraffes
That browse on loftier air than other
flowers—

When aU the blooms, wherewith late Summer
lauarhs,

Like chidden children droop among the
bowers.

Oft like a moorhen scuttling to the reeds,
The cricket-ball sped o'er the plashy meads,
And rainbow-blended blazers shrank and
ran

When showers, in mockery of his moist needs,
Half-drown'd the water-loving river man.

What woman's rights have crazed thee ?

_ Would'st thou be
A Winter Amazon, more fierce than he ?

Can Summer birds thy shrew-heroics sing ?
Wilt tend no more the daisies on the lea,

Hot wake thy cowslips up on May morning ?

\\ hat, shaU we brew us possets by the fire
And let the wild rose shiver on the brier,
The cowslip tremble in the meadows chin,

vol. ci..

While thy unlovely battle-call wails higher
And dusty squadrons charge adown the hill ?

It is too late ; thou art no love of mine ;
I answer not this sigh, this kiss divine ;

The sunlight penitently streaming down
Shines through the paling leaf like thinnest
wine

Quaff'd in the clear air of a mountain town.

FareweU! For old love's sake I kiss thy
hands;

Go on thy way ; away to other lands
That love thee less, and need thee less than
we;

Pour out thy passion on some desert sands,
Forget thy lover of the Northern Sea.

Away with fond pretence ; let winter come
With snow that strikes the heaviest footfall
dumb.

We know the worst, and face his rage with

glee;

And, though the world without be ne'er so
glum, [thee.
Sit by the hearth, and dream and talk—of

Yes, come again with earliest April; stay,
Thyself once more, through the fair time
when day

Clasps hand with day, through the brief

hush of night—
A twilight bower of roses, where in play
Dance little maidens through from light to

light.

Birds of a Feather.

[Lord Hati ke's team of Cricketers were beaten
at Manheirn by the Philadelphiaris by eight wickets
whereat the Lhilad-elphia Ledger cockadoodles con-
siderably. The Britishers, however, won the return
match somewhat easily.]

The Yankee Eagle well might squeal and
squawk [Hawke.
At having licked the British bird (Lord)
But when that Hawke his brood had " pulled
together," [feather."
That Eagle found it yet might "moult a
Go it, ye friendly-fighting fowls ! But know
'Tis only "Roosters" who o'er conquest crow!

HOME SWEET HOME !

{By one who believes there's no place like it.)

Sweet to return (for home the Briton hankers,

After an exile of two months or so,
Swiss or Italian). Sweet — to find your
Banker's

Balance getting low.

Sweet to return from Como or Sorrento,
Meshed in their shimmering net of drowsy
sheen,

Into a climate that you know not when to
ReaUy call serene.

Sweet to return from

hostelries whose

waiters
Rush to fulfil your

slightest word or

whim,
Back to a cook who

passionately

caters [him.
Not for you, but

Sweet to return from
Table - cT Motes
disgusting

(Oh, how you grumbled at the Sauce Ro-
ma ine.')

Fresh to the filmy sxicculenee incrusting
Solid joints again.

Sweet to return from Innkeepers demurely

Pricing your candle at a franc unshamed,
Back to a land where perquisites are surely
Never, never claimed.

Sweet to return from bargaining, disputing,
L'ourboires and Trinkgelds grudgingly be-
stowed—

Unto the simple charioteers of Tooting,
Or the CromweU Boad.

Sweet to return from " all those dreadful
tourists,"
Such mixed society as chance aUots, _
E'en to the social splendour of the purists
Of those sparkling spots.

Sweet to return to bills and fogs and duty !

(Some of the latter at our Custom House)
Sweet, after smaller game, to hail the beauty
Of the British mouse !

Sweet too the sight of cockchafer; and
sweet '11

Welcome the pilgrim doomed too long to
roam, [beetle
England's tried sentinel, the black, black
With his " Home, sweet Home ! "