DOI issue:
August 6, 1892
DOI Page / Citation link: https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17694#0064
58
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVAEI.
TROP DE ZELE.
Clerical Customer. "I want to buy a nice Diamond Brooch for my Better Half."
Over-anxious Shopkeeper. "Certainly, Sir. We have just the very Thing. We can
accommodate you also for your Other Half, if you wish." [They did not trad*-.
THE WAIL OF A PESSIMIST POET.
0 lift me out of this weary world,
And put me on a tree,
For life is all noughts
And crosses, or thoughts
That are busy for brawl and spree !
For where is the man would strike the lyre,
Or spurn with his foot the thief,
Or melt all day,
In a Midsummer way,
At the sight of repentant grief ?
No ! Lift me up to a leafy'bough.
Where my feet may play in the breeze,
If my hot head there
Still singe my hair,
My heels may be ready to freeze !
MINOR MISERIES.
No. II.—The Winged Hat.
Mr hat, my'Jiat—away it flew— [strong—
The Strand was damp, the wind blew
My tall silk hat, so bright and new;
Ye Bishops, tell me was it wrong
That, in that moment's agony,
My langxiage, like my hat, Hew free ?
Away in swift pursuit I dashed,
The hat went scudding fast before ;
By Busmen mocked, by Hansoms splashed,
The more I ran, it flew the more.
While boys screeohed forth, in chorus yile,
" 1 '11 lay the toff don't catch 'is tile."
On. on—at last it'seemed to tire
Of pavements and pursuing feet.
It soared, then settled in the mire,
Full in the middle of the street,
A mud-stained, shattered relio—not
The bright new hat I bought from Scott.
Now was my time ; I rushed—but no—
Fate ever mocks an ardent man;
Even as I rushed, unwieldy, slow.
Bore down a ponderous Piekford-Van,
And under two broad wheels crushed flat
My loved but suicidal hat.
Have hats got souls, and ean they hate ?
Are street-boys higher than the brute ?
Avails it to discuss of fate,
Free-will, fore-knowledge absolute ?
Nay, why of all created things
Should new silk hats be made with wings ?
I know not. Wherefore, oh ye powers,
Speed me to some deserted land,
Where blow no winds and fall no showers,
Far from the street-boys and the Strand.
There all unfriended let me dwell,
A. hatless hermit in a cell.
THE CYCLE-RIDING DUSTMAN.
A very New Song to a very Old Tune.
Air—" The Literary Dustirum."
[" A resolution on the Agenda of the Greenwich
Board of Works runs as follows : —' That, in order
to enable the foreman of the dustmen in the Parish
of St. Paul, Deptford, to get about that parish
with more expedition, and so superintend the
work of the men under his control to greater ad-
vantage than is now possible, a trieyele be obtained
for his use, at a cost not exceeding £21 Is. Qd.' "
Daily Chronicle.']
Bumble will ope his eyes, egad,
In hutter consternation.
He 'd think as soon of a park-prad
For covies in my station.
Our Board o' Works knows wot is wot,
And has a feller-feeling.
About the parish must I trot ?
No, hang it I I '11 go Wheeling!
Chorus.
Out o' the road! The highway clear !
Osmond's the Cyclist's fust man ;
And I, by co-in-side-ance clear,
Am the fust Cycling Dustman!
The happy foreman Dustman !
The Cycle-riding Dustman!
Yes, by a co-in-side-ance queer,
I'm the fust Cycling Dustman!
Old fogies to the papers write,
Grumbling about their dust, Sirs.
They says we 're scarce and imperlite,
Unless we 're well tipped fust, Sirs.
When I wheels round on my machine,
Like Zimmerman on hisn,_
If we don't keep their dustbins clean,
Wy, pop me into prison!
Chorus
Their refuse-pails we '11 promptly clear,
When on the wheels I'm fust man ;
And even sour old maids shall cheer
The Cycle-riding Dustman ! &c.
Cycles for Dust-hos ! Arter that,
It's Hosborne to my hattic
That Dusty Bob of the flap 'at
Will turn haristocratic.
Bumble, old buck, I cannot tell
'Ow bloomin' proud I feel, man,
Old Shanks's mare I once knew well,
But now I'm turned swell Wheelman.
Chorus.
Good Greenwich Board o' Works ! Hurroo !
Elated ? Ain't I rust, man I
Show the Big D ! 'Twill bring to you
The Cyele-riding Dustman I &c.
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVAEI.
TROP DE ZELE.
Clerical Customer. "I want to buy a nice Diamond Brooch for my Better Half."
Over-anxious Shopkeeper. "Certainly, Sir. We have just the very Thing. We can
accommodate you also for your Other Half, if you wish." [They did not trad*-.
THE WAIL OF A PESSIMIST POET.
0 lift me out of this weary world,
And put me on a tree,
For life is all noughts
And crosses, or thoughts
That are busy for brawl and spree !
For where is the man would strike the lyre,
Or spurn with his foot the thief,
Or melt all day,
In a Midsummer way,
At the sight of repentant grief ?
No ! Lift me up to a leafy'bough.
Where my feet may play in the breeze,
If my hot head there
Still singe my hair,
My heels may be ready to freeze !
MINOR MISERIES.
No. II.—The Winged Hat.
Mr hat, my'Jiat—away it flew— [strong—
The Strand was damp, the wind blew
My tall silk hat, so bright and new;
Ye Bishops, tell me was it wrong
That, in that moment's agony,
My langxiage, like my hat, Hew free ?
Away in swift pursuit I dashed,
The hat went scudding fast before ;
By Busmen mocked, by Hansoms splashed,
The more I ran, it flew the more.
While boys screeohed forth, in chorus yile,
" 1 '11 lay the toff don't catch 'is tile."
On. on—at last it'seemed to tire
Of pavements and pursuing feet.
It soared, then settled in the mire,
Full in the middle of the street,
A mud-stained, shattered relio—not
The bright new hat I bought from Scott.
Now was my time ; I rushed—but no—
Fate ever mocks an ardent man;
Even as I rushed, unwieldy, slow.
Bore down a ponderous Piekford-Van,
And under two broad wheels crushed flat
My loved but suicidal hat.
Have hats got souls, and ean they hate ?
Are street-boys higher than the brute ?
Avails it to discuss of fate,
Free-will, fore-knowledge absolute ?
Nay, why of all created things
Should new silk hats be made with wings ?
I know not. Wherefore, oh ye powers,
Speed me to some deserted land,
Where blow no winds and fall no showers,
Far from the street-boys and the Strand.
There all unfriended let me dwell,
A. hatless hermit in a cell.
THE CYCLE-RIDING DUSTMAN.
A very New Song to a very Old Tune.
Air—" The Literary Dustirum."
[" A resolution on the Agenda of the Greenwich
Board of Works runs as follows : —' That, in order
to enable the foreman of the dustmen in the Parish
of St. Paul, Deptford, to get about that parish
with more expedition, and so superintend the
work of the men under his control to greater ad-
vantage than is now possible, a trieyele be obtained
for his use, at a cost not exceeding £21 Is. Qd.' "
Daily Chronicle.']
Bumble will ope his eyes, egad,
In hutter consternation.
He 'd think as soon of a park-prad
For covies in my station.
Our Board o' Works knows wot is wot,
And has a feller-feeling.
About the parish must I trot ?
No, hang it I I '11 go Wheeling!
Chorus.
Out o' the road! The highway clear !
Osmond's the Cyclist's fust man ;
And I, by co-in-side-ance clear,
Am the fust Cycling Dustman!
The happy foreman Dustman !
The Cycle-riding Dustman!
Yes, by a co-in-side-ance queer,
I'm the fust Cycling Dustman!
Old fogies to the papers write,
Grumbling about their dust, Sirs.
They says we 're scarce and imperlite,
Unless we 're well tipped fust, Sirs.
When I wheels round on my machine,
Like Zimmerman on hisn,_
If we don't keep their dustbins clean,
Wy, pop me into prison!
Chorus
Their refuse-pails we '11 promptly clear,
When on the wheels I'm fust man ;
And even sour old maids shall cheer
The Cycle-riding Dustman ! &c.
Cycles for Dust-hos ! Arter that,
It's Hosborne to my hattic
That Dusty Bob of the flap 'at
Will turn haristocratic.
Bumble, old buck, I cannot tell
'Ow bloomin' proud I feel, man,
Old Shanks's mare I once knew well,
But now I'm turned swell Wheelman.
Chorus.
Good Greenwich Board o' Works ! Hurroo !
Elated ? Ain't I rust, man I
Show the Big D ! 'Twill bring to you
The Cyele-riding Dustman I &c.