Punch (103.1892)

July 16, 1892.]

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

13

ELECTION INTELLIGENCE.

Brilliant Elector {at the Polling Station). " It's a stoutisii koind of a Man, with a Bald
'Ead, as ar wishes to Vote for, but ar'm blessed if ar know 'is Naame ! I"

TO THE FIRST BATHING-MACHINE.

{After Wordsworth.)

0 blank new-comer ! I hare seen,

I see thee with a start :#
So gentle looking a Machine,

Infernal one thou art!

When first the sun feels rather hot,

Or even rather warm,
From some dim, hibernating spot

Polls forth thy clumsy form.

Perhaps thou babblest to the sea
Of sunshine and of flowers ;

Thou bringest but a thought to me
Of such bad quarter hours.

I, grasping tightly, pale with fear,

Thy very narrow bench,
Thou, bounding on in wild career,

All shake, and jolt, and wrench.

Till comes an unexpected stop;

My forehead hits the door,
And I, with cataclysmic flop,

Lie on thy sandy floor.

Then, dressed in Nature's simplest style,

I, blushing, venture out;
And And the sea is still a mile

Away, or thereabout.

Blithe little children on the sand
Laugh out with childish glee;

Their nurses, sitting Dear at hand,
All giggling, stare at me.

Unnerved, unwashed, I rush again

Within thy tranquil shade,
And wait until the rising main

Shall banish child and maid.

Thy doors I dare not open now,
Thy windows give no view ;

'Tis late ; I will not bathe, I vow :
I dress myself anew.

Set wide the door. All round is sea !

" Hold tight, Sir ! " voices call,
And in the water, jerked from thee,

I tumble, clothes and all!

0 blessed thing ! this earth we pace
Thy haunt should never be,

A quite unmentionable place
That is fit home for thee!

STUDIES IN THE NEW POETBY.
No. III.

It is with the greatest possible pleasure that
Mr. Punch presents to his readers the follow-
ing example of the New Poetry. It is taken
from a collection entitled 1;' Rhymes of the
Ropes." These Phymes are intended to
illustrate the everyday life of the British
prize-fighter, his simple joys, his manly
sorrows, his conversational excellences, and
his indomitable pluck. The author has
never been a prize-fighter himself, but he
claims for these Phymes the merit of abso-
lute truth in every detail. In any case it is
quite certain that every critic who reviews
the volume will say of it, that no previous
book has ever presented to us, with such com-
plete fidelity, the British prize-fighter as he
lives and moves, and has his being—not the
gaudy, over-dressed and over-jewelled crea-
ture whom the imagination of the public pic-
tures as haunting the giddy palaces of
pleasure, and adored by the fairest of the
fair, but the rough, uncouth, simple creature
to whom we Britons owe our reputation for
pluck and stamina. How the critic knows
this, never having been a prize-fighter him-
self, and never having associated with them,
is a question which it might be difficult to
answer. But, nevertheless, the critic will
guarantee the ''''Rhymes of the Ropes"

If some of Mr. Punch's readers, while
recognising the force and go of the lines,

shall think them tant sort peu coarse and
brutal, the fault must not be ascribed to Mr.
Punch, but to the brilliant young author.
Moreover, Mr. Punch begs leave to say, that
squeamishness of that kind is becoming more
and more absurd every day under the in-
fluence of the New Poetry and its professors.
Here then is—

KNOCKED OUT.

By Mr. R*d**rd K*pl*ng.

Oh it's bully when I land 'em with a counter
on the jaw,

When the ruby 's all a drippin' and the conks

are red and raw ;
And it's bully when I've downed 'em, and

the lords are standin' booze,
Them lords with shiny shirt-fronts, and their
patent-leather shoes.
But you'd best look jolly meek
When you 're up afore the beak,
For they hustle you, and bustle you, and treat
you like a dog.
And its 'Olloway for you
For a month or may be two,
Where the Widow keeps a mansion and pur-
vides you with your prog.

It was 'ero 'ere and 'ero there, I might 'aye

been a King,
For to 'ear 'em 'ip 'urraying as I stepped into

the ring,

When I faced the Tipton Slasher, me and 'im

in four-ounee gloves,
Just to make us look as 'armless as a pair o'
bloomin' doves.

Then I bruises 'im and batters,
And 'e cuts my lips to tatters,
And I gives'im 'alf a dozen where 'is peepers
ought to be.

And 'e flattens out my nose
With a brace of bally blows,
Which I 'ardly 'ad expected from a pug as
couldn't see.

Next round the Slasher's groggy, 'e 'angs 'i

'ands and gropes
(I'd knocked him orf 'is legs at last) a-feelin'

for the ropes.
And, lor, 'e looked so cheerful with 'is face a

mask of red
That I bust myself with laughin' when I
bashed 'im on the 'ead.

Then they counted up to teH,
But 'e couldn't rise again ;
'E gasped a bit, and puffed a bit, and laid
there in a 'eap.

And I copped a thousand pounds
For a fight of seven rounds,
Which was all the time it took me for to put
my man to sleep.

Ah, the soft uns call it brutal; there's Mr.

H. P. Cobb,
And 'is talk, which isn't pretty, about ruffians

(meanin' us).
I'd like to tap 'is claret when 'e's up and on

the job,

And send 'im 'ome a 'owlin' to 'is mammy or
'is nuss.
But I'd rather take the chuck
For a show of British pluck,
And do my month in chockee, and eat my
skilly free;
And I '11 leave the curs to snivel
With their 'Ouse o' Commons drivel,
Which may suit a pack of jaw-pots, but, by
gosh, it don't suit me.

" What I suffer from, at this time of year,
when I go into the country," says Mrs. P.,
"is ' Flybites.'" She pronounced it as a
word of three syllables, and then added, " !
rather think the learned way of spelling it is
' Phlybites.'"

vol. ci 11.

c