Punch (102.1892)

Mat H, 1892.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. 237

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OVER-EXTENDED FRANCHISE.

(The Radical Grocer has just "been elected County Councillor.)

My Lady (to her pet protegee). "Pray whom did your Husband votk for?"

Martha Stubbs. "I don't know, my Lady."

My Lady. "But surely your Husband told you?"

Martha Stubbs. "He doesn't know himself, my Lady. He's such a poor
Ignorant Creature ! "

BURNING "WOEDS.

(From a Working Man.)

[" How many of you men would contribute to a Working
Men's Fund the shilling you put on Orme, who, by the way, I
am sorry to see was not poisoned to death."—Mr. John Burns
in the Bark.]

Look'ere, John, you stow it; you're nuts on the spoutin';

I don't mind a man as can 'oiler a bit;
And if shillings are goin', I 'd back you for shoutin',

Though your game 's an Aunt Sally, all miss and no 'it.
But the blusterin' chap as keeps nag gin' the boys on

To fight and get beat all for nothing's an ass.
And I'm certain o' this, that the wust kind o' poison

Is the stuff as you fellers 'ave lots of—that's gas !

What's Orme done to you ? 'JE can't 'elp a cove bettin'.

To get at 'im for that is a trifle too warm.
And poisonin' racers ain't my kind o' vettin'.

I likes a good 'orse, so 'ere's 'ealth to old Orme.
Take a bolus yourself, it might stop you from roarin';

There's nothin' like tryin' these games on yourself !
And I '11 throw Benny Tillett and one or two more in,

Just to lay the whole lot o' you up on the shelf.

Ben Tillett talks big of a mind that's a sewer ;

Well, 'e knows what it is, for I '11 lay 'e's bin there.
And you'd make a 'orse into cat'smeat on skewer.

My eye, but just ain't you a nice-spoken pair !
I ain't goin' to foller you two like a shadder,

Your 'eads is a darned sight too swelled up with brag.
If you don't want to bust and go pop like a bladder,

Why you'd best take my tip—put 'em both in a bag.

So ta-ta, John. I ain't the least wish to offend you,
But plain words to fellers like you is the best.

If they'd give me my way, why I'd jolly soon end you,
Beard, blather and all; you 're no more than a pest.

I can fight and take knocks, and I '11 stand by my folk,
Sir,

I '11 'elp them as 'elps me with whatever 1 earns ;
But I've this for your pipe, if you 're wantin' a smoke,
_ Sir —

I ain't one for poison, nor yet for John Burns !

" Murder in Jest."—Is it not an extraordinary plea
on behalf of a person under sentence of death for murder,
that, like Ibsen's heroine, "she had never been able to
take life in earnest P" Surely it should be added that
" when she took somebody else's life she did take it very
much in earnest."

POPULAE SONGS EE-SUNG.

Writing of the brilliant Boanerges of the
Liberal Party, the Times says:—" Sir Wil-
liam is the strongest stimulant known to the
Gladstonian wire-pullers, and his appearance
is always an indication that the vital ener-
gies of the patient are low. It is well under-
stood that his proper place is by his own
fireside, and that his true function is to
evolve epigrams and construct original sys-
tems of finance in that calm retreat. . . .Bat
whenever they feel particularly downcast
and unhappy, they break in upon his fecund
meditations, and get him to fire off a roys-
tering speech."

This affectionate and admiring tribute
from the Thunderer to its old favourite con-
tributor "Historicus," is worthy of cele-
brating in deathless verse. How well a
dithyramb on the subject would go to a
certain popular tune ! As thus :—

No. VIII.-GET YOUR HARCOURT!
Air—" Get your Hair Cut! "

'Twould serve them right if never I came

From my own fireside again!
The way the " Thunderer" cuts me up

Is vixenish— as vain.
I was born an Opportunist,

In a general sort of way,
But it's really very impertinent

For the Times to grin and say:—

Chorus.

'' Get your Harcourt ! Get your Har-
court !"

Oh! whenever I'm on spout,

You can hear the Tories shout,
'' Get your Harcourt ! Get your Harcourt !
To cheer you when your spirits are down ! "

I started in the Buffo line.

When things seem getting slack,
I'm to the front, with lots of go.

My critics may cry " Quack ! "
But quacking's not confined to me.

I do extremely well,
And the more " I give them physic," why

The more they squirm and yell—

Chorus,

"Get your Harcourt! Get your Har-
court ! "

But they know my sparkling spout—
Will help to turn them out.
'' Get your Harcourt ! Get your Har-
court ! "

But I'll meet them when their sun goes down.

To play the great " Historicus" part,

I years ago appeared.
The Thunderer's stage then knew my art,

But now that pitch is queered !
They swear that I apostatised

To follow W. G.,
And patter about " Parnellite juice,"

And holloa after me—

Chorus.

"Get your Harcourt! Get your Har-
court !''

But, with quip, and jibe, and flout,
I completely put them out. [court ! "

"Get your Harcourt! Get your Har-
But I beat them, and their sun goes down !

They try all sorts of " counters" to

My slogging strokes—in vain.
The " Thunderer" slates me every day,

But still I slog again.
Old W. G. in 'Ninety-Three

May form a Cabinet;
Then his first thought will be of Me,

And all will cry (you bet!) —

Chorus.

'' Get your Harcourt ! Get your Harcourt !

Whoever may stand out,

Malwood's Squire must join, no doubt.
Get your Harcourt ! Get your Harcourt ! "
And I '11 mock them when their sun goes down!

To the Grand Old Tory.

(By the Wife of a Dissenting Cumbrian Workman.)

0 William, you have managed to offend
The Workmen, and the Women, and the
Welsh.

Beware, or you '11 discover ere the end,
That the three W.'s the great one can
squelch 1