Punch (101.1891)

October 31, 1891.]

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

205

YOUNG GRANDOLPH'S BARTY.

{Afrikander
Version of the
great Brcit-
mann Ballad,
nenned, "more
in sorrow than
in anger," by a
" Be'utscher"
resident in the
distant regions
where the Cor-
respondent of
the 11 Daily
Graphic" is,
like der Herr
Breitmann
himself, " dra-
fellivJ apout
like efery-
dings.")

ot'xe Geaxdolph hat a Barty—
There ish dat Barty now?
He fell'd in luf mit der African goldt;

Mit Solly he 'd hat a row ;
He dinks dat his secession

Would make der resht look plue,
But, before he drafel vast and var,
His Barty sphlit in two.

Young Geaxdolph hat a Barty—

Dere rash B-lf-e, W-lff, and G-est,
Dey haf vorgot deir " Leater,"

Und dat ish not deir vorst.
B-lf-e vill "boss " der Commons,

Thile Geaxdolph—sore disgraced—
Ish " oop a tree," like der Bumble Bee,
Und TV-lff and G-est are " placed."

Young Geaxdolph hat a Barty—

Then he dat Barty led,
B-lf-e vash but a "Bummer,"

A loafing lollop-head.
Young Tories schvore by Geaxdolph,

(Dey schvear at Geaxdolph now,)
Now at de feet of der "lank aesthete "
Der Times itshelf doth bow !

Young Geaxdolph hat a Barty,
Dere all yash " Souse und Brouse."*

1 ^h0lf\J\ ! ' ' _C Now he hets not dat prave gompany

m"1'"' jf?i 1 All in der Commons House,

' f /')'Y if^S To see/u'm skywgle Gl-dst-xe,

/ff/ i ^ > scnl°o on der kop.

as/ f'f / ■ / ^ Young Tory bloods no longer shout

^ Till der Schpeakee bids dem shtop.

Young Geaxdolph hat a Barty ;

He hunts der lions now,
All in der lone Mashonaland,

But he does not " score "—somehow.
One Grand Old Lion he dared to peard,

Und he "potted " Earls and Dukes,
Bat eight or nine real lions at once,

He thinks are " trap de luxe.'"

Young Geaxdolph hat a Barty,

But he scooted 'cross der sea,
Und he tidn't say to dem, "Come, my poys

Und draf el along mit me!"

Und, like dat Rhine Mermaiden
"Tot hadn't got nodings on,"

Dey " don't dink mooch of beoplesh
Tat goes mit deniselfs alone ! "

Young Geaxdolph hat a Barty—

There ish dat Barty now ?
There ish dat oder Aethtje's song

Tot darkened der Champerlain's prow
There ish de himmelstrahlende stern,

De shtar of der Tory fight ?
All gon'd afay, as on Woodcock's wing,
Af ay in de ewigkeit!

* Saus und Braus—Gav., Eiot and Bustle.

" Coreect Cabd, Gexts ! "—" AT anted a Map of London " was the heading of aletterin
the Ti mes last Thursday. No, Sir! that's not what is wanted. There are hundreds of 'em,
specially seductive pocket ones, with just the very streets that one wants to discover as short
cuts to great centres carefully omitted. What is wanted is a correct map of London, divided
into pocketable sections, portable, foldable, durable, on canvas,—but if imperfect, as so many
of these small pocket catch-shilling ones are just now, although professedly brought up to
date '91, they are worse than useless, and to purchase one is a waste of time, temper and money.

We could mention an attractive-looking little map—which, but no- Publishers and public

are hereby cautioned ! N.B.—Test well your pocket map through a magnifying glass before
buying. Experto crede '

vol. cr. t

OYSTEELESS.

{By an Impecunious Gourmet.)

[Oysters are very dear, and are likely, as the season
advances, to be still higher in price]

Oh, Oyster mine ! Oh, Oyster mine !

You 're still as exquisitely nice ;
With perfect pearly tints you shine,

But you are such an awful price.
The lemon and the fresh cayenne,

Brown bread and butter and the stout
Are here, and just the same, but then

What if I have to leave you out ?

What wonder that my spirits droop,
That life can bring me no delight,

When I must give up oyster soup,
So softly delicately white.

The curry powder stands anear,
The scallop shells, but what care I—

You 're so abominably dear,

0 Oyster ! that I cannot buy.

With sad imaginative flights,

1 think upon the days of yore :
Like Tickleb, on Ambrosian nights,

I have consumed thee by the score.
And still, whenever you appeared,

My pride it was to use you well;
I let the juice play round your beard,

And always on "the hollow shell.

l)VSTEi\S

I placed you in the fair lark-pie,

With steak and kidneys too, of course;
Your ancestors were glad to die,

So well I made the oyster sauce.
I had you stewed and featly fried,

And dipped in batter—think of that ;
And, as a pleasant change, I've tried

You, skewered in rows, with bacon-fat.

"Where art thou, Alice ? " cried the bard.

"Where art thou, Oyster?" I exclaim.
It really is extremely hard,

To know thee nothing but a name.
For this is surely torment worse

Than Daxte heaped upon his dead;—
To tind thee quite beyond my purse,

And so go oysterless to bed.

A propos of the Seceetaey foe Wae's

eoseate aftee - DlXXEE speech {on the
entirely satisfactory state of the Army
generally).—(Stax-) "hope told a flattering
tale."

Uxiveesity Mem.—The Dean of Christ
Church will keep his seat till Christmas, and
just a Lid dell longer.