DOI issue:
April 30, 1892
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17693#0222
April 30, 1892.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
213
The sword-edge and snake-bite, though
hidden in blossoms, are hatred's old
arms.
And what is your May Queen at heart, oh,
true hearts, that succumb to her charms ?
Dropped and deep in the blossoms, with eyes
that flicker like fire,
The asp of Murder lies hid, which with poison
shall feed your desire.
More than these things will she give, who
looks fairer than all these things ?
Not while her sceptre 's a snake, and her orb
the red horror that rings
Devilish, foul, round the world; while the
hiss and the roar are the voice
Of this monstrous new Queen of the May, in
whose rule you would bid us rejoice.
MR. PUNCH'S UP-TO-DATE POETRY
FOR CHILDREN.
No. II.—"LITTLE JACK HOBNEK."
Little Jack Horner,
He sat in the corner,
And cried for his " Mummy ! " and " Nuss! "
For, while eating his cake,
He had got by mistake
In a horrid piratical 'bus.
Now, some ten minutes back,
You'd have seen little Jack
From an Aerated Bread Shop emerge,
And proceed down the Strand—
Slice of cake in his hand—
In a crumb-covered suit of blue serge.
To be perfectly frank,
He was bound for the Bank,
For it chanced to be dividend day,
And he jumped on the 'bus,
After reasoning thus—
In his logical juvenile way :—
" Here 's a 'bus passing by,
And I cannot see why
I should weary my infantile feet;
I 've a copper to spare,
And the authorised fare
Is a penny to Liverpool Street."
As the 'bus cantered on,
Little cake-eating John
In the corner contentedly sat,
And with that one and this
(Whether Mister or Miss)
Had a meteorological chat.
Came a bolt from the blue
When, collecting his due,
The conductor remarked, " Though I thank
That young cake-eating gent
For the penny he 's sent,
It's a tuppenny ride to the Bank ! "
" You 're a pirate ! " sobbed Jack,
" And your colours are black I "
But he heard—as he struggled to speak—
The conductor observe,
With remarkable verve,
That he didn't want none of his cheek!
With a want of regard,
He demanded Jack's card,
And young Horner was summoned next day,
When the poor little lad
Lost the battle, and had
All the costs in addition to pay.
Now the Moral is this:
Little Master and Miss,
Whom I'm writing these verses to please;
If your tiny feet ache,
Then a 'bus you may take,
But be sure it's an L. G. O. C.'s /
A CURSORY OBSERVATION.
From the Figaro for Dimanche, April 17,
we make this extract:—
"Sports Athletiques.—Le match interna-
tional de foot ball entre le Stade Fran^ais et le
Kosslyn Park foot ball Club de Londres sera joue
demain sur le terrain du Cursing Club de France a
Levallois. L'equipe anglaise est arrivee a Paris
hier soir. Le match sera preside par le marquis
de Duiferin."
"The Cursing Club!" What an awful
name! For what purpose are they banded
together ? Is it to curse one another by their
gods ? to issue forth on premieres to damn
a new play P What fearful language would
be just audible, curses, not loud but deep,
during the progress of the Foot-ball Match
over which the Marquis of Dtjpferist is to
preside ! It is all over by now ; but the re-
sult we have not seen. We hope there is no
Cursing Club in England. There existed,
once upon a time, in London, a Club with an
awful Tartarian name, whioh might have
been a parent society to a Cursing Club. Let
us trust-
The Editor cuts short the article at this
point, being of opinion that "Cursing" is only a
misprint for " Coursing ;," or, if not, he certainly
gives Le Figure the benefit of the doubt. Note,
also, that the match was to be played on " Cursing
Club Ground," lent for the occasion, and was not
to be played by Members of the " C. C."]
THE LAY OF THE LITERARY AUTOLYCUS.
(See Correspondence in the Times on
"Literary Thefts.")
Enter Autoltcus, singing.
When books and magazines appear,
With heigh! the hopes of a big sale!—
Why, then comes in the cheat o' the year,
And picks their plums, talk, song, or tale.
The white sheets come, each page my "perk,"
With heigh! sweet bards, 0 how they
sing!—
With paste and scissors I set to work;
Shall a stolen song cost anything ?
The Poet tirra-lirra chants,
With heigh ! with heigh! he must be a J.—
His Summer songs supply my wants;
They cost me nought—but, ah! they pay.
I have served Literature in my time, but
now Literature is in my service.
But shall I pay for what comes dear,
To the pale scribes who write,—
For news, and jokes, and stories queer ?
Walker! my friends, not quite !
Since filchers may have leave to live,
And vend their "borrowed" budget,
For all my " notions " nix I '11 give,
Then sell them as I trudge it.
My traffic is (news) sheets. My father named
me Atjtoltcus, who, being as I am, littered
under Mercury, was likewise a snapper-up of
unconsidered trifles. With paste and scissors
I procured this caparison; and my revenue
is the uninquiring public; gallows and gaol
are too powerful on the highway; picking
and treadmilling are terrors to burglars;
but in my line of theft I sleep free from the
thought of them. A prize ! a prize ! . . .
Jog on, jog on, the foot-pad way,
In the modern Sikes's style-a :
Punctilious fools prefer to pay ;
But I at scruples smile-a.
. . . Ha, ha! what a fool Honesty is! and
Trust, his sworn brother, a very simple
gentleman ... I understand the business,
I do it; to have an open ear, a quick eye,
and a nimble hand with the shears is neces-
sary for a (literary) cutpurse ; a good nose is
requisite also, to smell out the good work of
other people. I see this is the time that
the unjust man doth thrive.
THE WELLINGTON MONUMENT.
At last! How long ago the time
When England's paltry meanness killed
Her greatest Sculptor in his prime.
And hid his work, now called sublime,
In narrow space so nearly filled!
When, using Art beyond
^KLtftPl Her greatest Captain's
^1»fflTi^^Hi|IP^ tomb he wrought,
ill ll^Pllfcs no^es^ eff°rt was
W^^^^W^ It seemed to her a need-
^ JplHUU. The Budget Surplus
... —- - was ker thought.
Now may she, with some sense of shame,
Amend the errors of the past,
Show honour to the Great Luke's name,
Repair the wrong to Stephens' fame,
And move the Monument at last!
" KNOW ALL MEN BY THESE PRESENTS."
It is believed that the Rossendale Union of
Liberal Clubs, having given a pair of slippers,
a rug, and two pieces of cretonne to Mr.
Gladstone, will also make the following
presents, in due course:—
Sir W. L-ivs-n.—Twelve dozen Tea-cosies,
and ten yards of blue Ribbon.
Mr. L-b-ch-re.—A Jester's cap.
Sir W. V. H-rc-rt.—A Spencer, without
arms, but emblazoned with those of the
Plantagenets.
Mr M-cl-re.—A Hood.
Mr. McN-ll.—A knitted Respirator, to be
worn in the House.
Lord R. Ch-rch-ll.—Twelve dozen table-
cloths, twenty-four dozen Dinner-napkins,
and thirty-six dozen Pudding-cloths.
Sir JE. Cl-rke.—A scarlet Jersey, inscribed
" Salvation Army."
Mr. R. Sp-ne^r.—A Smock Frock.
Mr. JB-lf-r.—Some Collars of Irish linen,
and one of hemp, the latter to be supplied by
the Irish patriots in America.
Mr. JE. St-nh-pe.—k. Necktie of green
poplin, embroidered with shamrocks.
Mr. M. H-ly.—Axi Ulster.
Col. S-nd-rs-n.—A Cork jacket.
Mr. W. O'Br-n.—A. pair of Tr—rs, in
fancy cretonne.
Sir G. O. Tr-v-ly-n.—A Coat (reversible).
Mr. C. C-nyb-re—A Waistcoat (strait).
213
The sword-edge and snake-bite, though
hidden in blossoms, are hatred's old
arms.
And what is your May Queen at heart, oh,
true hearts, that succumb to her charms ?
Dropped and deep in the blossoms, with eyes
that flicker like fire,
The asp of Murder lies hid, which with poison
shall feed your desire.
More than these things will she give, who
looks fairer than all these things ?
Not while her sceptre 's a snake, and her orb
the red horror that rings
Devilish, foul, round the world; while the
hiss and the roar are the voice
Of this monstrous new Queen of the May, in
whose rule you would bid us rejoice.
MR. PUNCH'S UP-TO-DATE POETRY
FOR CHILDREN.
No. II.—"LITTLE JACK HOBNEK."
Little Jack Horner,
He sat in the corner,
And cried for his " Mummy ! " and " Nuss! "
For, while eating his cake,
He had got by mistake
In a horrid piratical 'bus.
Now, some ten minutes back,
You'd have seen little Jack
From an Aerated Bread Shop emerge,
And proceed down the Strand—
Slice of cake in his hand—
In a crumb-covered suit of blue serge.
To be perfectly frank,
He was bound for the Bank,
For it chanced to be dividend day,
And he jumped on the 'bus,
After reasoning thus—
In his logical juvenile way :—
" Here 's a 'bus passing by,
And I cannot see why
I should weary my infantile feet;
I 've a copper to spare,
And the authorised fare
Is a penny to Liverpool Street."
As the 'bus cantered on,
Little cake-eating John
In the corner contentedly sat,
And with that one and this
(Whether Mister or Miss)
Had a meteorological chat.
Came a bolt from the blue
When, collecting his due,
The conductor remarked, " Though I thank
That young cake-eating gent
For the penny he 's sent,
It's a tuppenny ride to the Bank ! "
" You 're a pirate ! " sobbed Jack,
" And your colours are black I "
But he heard—as he struggled to speak—
The conductor observe,
With remarkable verve,
That he didn't want none of his cheek!
With a want of regard,
He demanded Jack's card,
And young Horner was summoned next day,
When the poor little lad
Lost the battle, and had
All the costs in addition to pay.
Now the Moral is this:
Little Master and Miss,
Whom I'm writing these verses to please;
If your tiny feet ache,
Then a 'bus you may take,
But be sure it's an L. G. O. C.'s /
A CURSORY OBSERVATION.
From the Figaro for Dimanche, April 17,
we make this extract:—
"Sports Athletiques.—Le match interna-
tional de foot ball entre le Stade Fran^ais et le
Kosslyn Park foot ball Club de Londres sera joue
demain sur le terrain du Cursing Club de France a
Levallois. L'equipe anglaise est arrivee a Paris
hier soir. Le match sera preside par le marquis
de Duiferin."
"The Cursing Club!" What an awful
name! For what purpose are they banded
together ? Is it to curse one another by their
gods ? to issue forth on premieres to damn
a new play P What fearful language would
be just audible, curses, not loud but deep,
during the progress of the Foot-ball Match
over which the Marquis of Dtjpferist is to
preside ! It is all over by now ; but the re-
sult we have not seen. We hope there is no
Cursing Club in England. There existed,
once upon a time, in London, a Club with an
awful Tartarian name, whioh might have
been a parent society to a Cursing Club. Let
us trust-
The Editor cuts short the article at this
point, being of opinion that "Cursing" is only a
misprint for " Coursing ;," or, if not, he certainly
gives Le Figure the benefit of the doubt. Note,
also, that the match was to be played on " Cursing
Club Ground," lent for the occasion, and was not
to be played by Members of the " C. C."]
THE LAY OF THE LITERARY AUTOLYCUS.
(See Correspondence in the Times on
"Literary Thefts.")
Enter Autoltcus, singing.
When books and magazines appear,
With heigh! the hopes of a big sale!—
Why, then comes in the cheat o' the year,
And picks their plums, talk, song, or tale.
The white sheets come, each page my "perk,"
With heigh! sweet bards, 0 how they
sing!—
With paste and scissors I set to work;
Shall a stolen song cost anything ?
The Poet tirra-lirra chants,
With heigh ! with heigh! he must be a J.—
His Summer songs supply my wants;
They cost me nought—but, ah! they pay.
I have served Literature in my time, but
now Literature is in my service.
But shall I pay for what comes dear,
To the pale scribes who write,—
For news, and jokes, and stories queer ?
Walker! my friends, not quite !
Since filchers may have leave to live,
And vend their "borrowed" budget,
For all my " notions " nix I '11 give,
Then sell them as I trudge it.
My traffic is (news) sheets. My father named
me Atjtoltcus, who, being as I am, littered
under Mercury, was likewise a snapper-up of
unconsidered trifles. With paste and scissors
I procured this caparison; and my revenue
is the uninquiring public; gallows and gaol
are too powerful on the highway; picking
and treadmilling are terrors to burglars;
but in my line of theft I sleep free from the
thought of them. A prize ! a prize ! . . .
Jog on, jog on, the foot-pad way,
In the modern Sikes's style-a :
Punctilious fools prefer to pay ;
But I at scruples smile-a.
. . . Ha, ha! what a fool Honesty is! and
Trust, his sworn brother, a very simple
gentleman ... I understand the business,
I do it; to have an open ear, a quick eye,
and a nimble hand with the shears is neces-
sary for a (literary) cutpurse ; a good nose is
requisite also, to smell out the good work of
other people. I see this is the time that
the unjust man doth thrive.
THE WELLINGTON MONUMENT.
At last! How long ago the time
When England's paltry meanness killed
Her greatest Sculptor in his prime.
And hid his work, now called sublime,
In narrow space so nearly filled!
When, using Art beyond
^KLtftPl Her greatest Captain's
^1»fflTi^^Hi|IP^ tomb he wrought,
ill ll^Pllfcs no^es^ eff°rt was
W^^^^W^ It seemed to her a need-
^ JplHUU. The Budget Surplus
... —- - was ker thought.
Now may she, with some sense of shame,
Amend the errors of the past,
Show honour to the Great Luke's name,
Repair the wrong to Stephens' fame,
And move the Monument at last!
" KNOW ALL MEN BY THESE PRESENTS."
It is believed that the Rossendale Union of
Liberal Clubs, having given a pair of slippers,
a rug, and two pieces of cretonne to Mr.
Gladstone, will also make the following
presents, in due course:—
Sir W. L-ivs-n.—Twelve dozen Tea-cosies,
and ten yards of blue Ribbon.
Mr. L-b-ch-re.—A Jester's cap.
Sir W. V. H-rc-rt.—A Spencer, without
arms, but emblazoned with those of the
Plantagenets.
Mr M-cl-re.—A Hood.
Mr. McN-ll.—A knitted Respirator, to be
worn in the House.
Lord R. Ch-rch-ll.—Twelve dozen table-
cloths, twenty-four dozen Dinner-napkins,
and thirty-six dozen Pudding-cloths.
Sir JE. Cl-rke.—A scarlet Jersey, inscribed
" Salvation Army."
Mr. R. Sp-ne^r.—A Smock Frock.
Mr. JB-lf-r.—Some Collars of Irish linen,
and one of hemp, the latter to be supplied by
the Irish patriots in America.
Mr. JE. St-nh-pe.—k. Necktie of green
poplin, embroidered with shamrocks.
Mr. M. H-ly.—Axi Ulster.
Col. S-nd-rs-n.—A Cork jacket.
Mr. W. O'Br-n.—A. pair of Tr—rs, in
fancy cretonne.
Sir G. O. Tr-v-ly-n.—A Coat (reversible).
Mr. C. C-nyb-re—A Waistcoat (strait).