DOI Heft:
September 10, 1892
DOI Seite / Zitierlink:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17694#0119
1U PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [September 10, 1892.
THE WOMAN THAT WAS!
Monsieur le Mar&chal {who, during the Forties, ivas a dashing young Military Attache" at the
French Embassy in London). "Ah, Duchess, and do you remember ze so beautiful young
Lady Mary Gwendolen Verb de Vere, zat everybody vent mad about ven I vas in
England ? Ven I tink of 'er, my 'Earrt beat even now I"
Tlte Duchess {nie Mary Gwendolen Vere de Vere). "Oh yes, Monsieur le Martchal, I
remember her only too well !"
M. le Martchal. "Vat 'as became of 'er, Madame la Duchesse ?"
Her Grace (ivith a sigh). " Elle a'est plus ! "
STUDIES IN THE NEW POETRY.
No. V.
It may be objected tbat Mr. Punch's
fifth example does not strictly conform to
the canons laid down by him in his prefa-
tory remarks to No. I. Mr. Punch neither
admits nor denies the charge. He is con-
vinced, however, that those who do him the
honour to read these Studies, might justly
complain if he failed to include in them an
example of the work of a Poet who has
shown our generation how rusticity and
rhymes, cattle and Conservative convic-
tions, peasants and patriotism, may be com-
bined in verse. It is scarcely necessary to
add that the author of the following mag-
nificent piece is Mr. A-fr-d A-st-n. Like
others who might be named, he has not the
honour to be an agricultural labourer; but
no living man has sung at greater length
of rural life, and its simple joys. Many of
his admirers have asserted that Britain
ought to have more than one Laureate, and
that Mr. A-fr-d A-st-n ought to be among
the number. Others are not prepared to go
quite so far. They have been heard to com-
plain that cows and trees, and woodmen and
farms, and sheep and wains, and hay and
turnips, do not necessarily suggest the
highest happiness, and that it is not always
dignified for an aspiring Poet to be led
about helpless through the byeways of sense
by those wilful, wanton playfellows, his
rhymes. The two factions may be left to
fight out their quarrel over the present
example, which, by the way, is not taken
from the collected edition of the Poet's
works.
IS LUNCH WORTH LUNCHING ?
{By A-fr-d A-st-n.)
Is Lunch worth lunching? Go, dyspeptic
man,
Where in the meadows green the oxen
munch.
Is it not true that since our land began
The horned ox hath given us steaks for
lunch ?
St3aks rump or otherwise, the prime sirloia,
Sauced with the stinging radish of the horse.
Beeves meditate and die ; we pay oui coin,
And though the food be often tough and
coarse,
We eat it, we, through whose bold British
veins
Bold British hearts drive bubbling British
blood.
No true-born Briton, come what may, disdains
To eat the patient chewers of the cud.
Or seek the uplands, where of old Bo Peep
(So runs the tale) lost all her fleecy fiocks ;
There happy shepherds tend their grazing
sheep
(Some men like mutton, some prefer the ox).
Ay, surely it would need a heart of flint
To watch the blithe lambs caper o'er the lea,
And, watching them, refrain from thoughts
of mint,
Of new potatoes, and the sweet green pea.
Is Lunch worth lunching ? The September
sun
Makes answer "Yes;" no longer must
thou lag.
Forth to the stubble, cynic; take thy gun,
And add the juicy partridge to thy bag.
Out in the fields the keen-eyed pigeons coo ;
They fill their crops, and then away they fly.
Pigeons are sometimes passable in stew,
And always quite delicious in a pie.
Or pluck red-currants on some summer day,
Then take of raspberries an equal part,
Add cream and sugar—can mere words convey
The luscious joys of this delightful tart ?
Is Lunch worth lunching? If such cates
should fail,
Go cut of country bread a solid hunch,
Pile on it cheese, wash down with country ole,
And, faring plainly, yet enjoy thy lunch.
Yea, this is truth, the lunch of knife and fork,
The pic-nic lunch, spread out upon the
earth,
Lunches of beef, bread, mutton, veal, or pork,
All, all, without exception all, are worth !
Ninety-nine out of a Hundred Candi-
dates must be "Pilled."—The Living of
" Easington-with-Liverton, Yorkshire, worth
£600 per annum," is vacant. Is it in the
gift of the celebrated Dr. Cockle ? or of Dr.
Carter, of Little-Liverpill-Street fame ?
THE WOMAN THAT WAS!
Monsieur le Mar&chal {who, during the Forties, ivas a dashing young Military Attache" at the
French Embassy in London). "Ah, Duchess, and do you remember ze so beautiful young
Lady Mary Gwendolen Verb de Vere, zat everybody vent mad about ven I vas in
England ? Ven I tink of 'er, my 'Earrt beat even now I"
Tlte Duchess {nie Mary Gwendolen Vere de Vere). "Oh yes, Monsieur le Martchal, I
remember her only too well !"
M. le Martchal. "Vat 'as became of 'er, Madame la Duchesse ?"
Her Grace (ivith a sigh). " Elle a'est plus ! "
STUDIES IN THE NEW POETRY.
No. V.
It may be objected tbat Mr. Punch's
fifth example does not strictly conform to
the canons laid down by him in his prefa-
tory remarks to No. I. Mr. Punch neither
admits nor denies the charge. He is con-
vinced, however, that those who do him the
honour to read these Studies, might justly
complain if he failed to include in them an
example of the work of a Poet who has
shown our generation how rusticity and
rhymes, cattle and Conservative convic-
tions, peasants and patriotism, may be com-
bined in verse. It is scarcely necessary to
add that the author of the following mag-
nificent piece is Mr. A-fr-d A-st-n. Like
others who might be named, he has not the
honour to be an agricultural labourer; but
no living man has sung at greater length
of rural life, and its simple joys. Many of
his admirers have asserted that Britain
ought to have more than one Laureate, and
that Mr. A-fr-d A-st-n ought to be among
the number. Others are not prepared to go
quite so far. They have been heard to com-
plain that cows and trees, and woodmen and
farms, and sheep and wains, and hay and
turnips, do not necessarily suggest the
highest happiness, and that it is not always
dignified for an aspiring Poet to be led
about helpless through the byeways of sense
by those wilful, wanton playfellows, his
rhymes. The two factions may be left to
fight out their quarrel over the present
example, which, by the way, is not taken
from the collected edition of the Poet's
works.
IS LUNCH WORTH LUNCHING ?
{By A-fr-d A-st-n.)
Is Lunch worth lunching? Go, dyspeptic
man,
Where in the meadows green the oxen
munch.
Is it not true that since our land began
The horned ox hath given us steaks for
lunch ?
St3aks rump or otherwise, the prime sirloia,
Sauced with the stinging radish of the horse.
Beeves meditate and die ; we pay oui coin,
And though the food be often tough and
coarse,
We eat it, we, through whose bold British
veins
Bold British hearts drive bubbling British
blood.
No true-born Briton, come what may, disdains
To eat the patient chewers of the cud.
Or seek the uplands, where of old Bo Peep
(So runs the tale) lost all her fleecy fiocks ;
There happy shepherds tend their grazing
sheep
(Some men like mutton, some prefer the ox).
Ay, surely it would need a heart of flint
To watch the blithe lambs caper o'er the lea,
And, watching them, refrain from thoughts
of mint,
Of new potatoes, and the sweet green pea.
Is Lunch worth lunching ? The September
sun
Makes answer "Yes;" no longer must
thou lag.
Forth to the stubble, cynic; take thy gun,
And add the juicy partridge to thy bag.
Out in the fields the keen-eyed pigeons coo ;
They fill their crops, and then away they fly.
Pigeons are sometimes passable in stew,
And always quite delicious in a pie.
Or pluck red-currants on some summer day,
Then take of raspberries an equal part,
Add cream and sugar—can mere words convey
The luscious joys of this delightful tart ?
Is Lunch worth lunching? If such cates
should fail,
Go cut of country bread a solid hunch,
Pile on it cheese, wash down with country ole,
And, faring plainly, yet enjoy thy lunch.
Yea, this is truth, the lunch of knife and fork,
The pic-nic lunch, spread out upon the
earth,
Lunches of beef, bread, mutton, veal, or pork,
All, all, without exception all, are worth !
Ninety-nine out of a Hundred Candi-
dates must be "Pilled."—The Living of
" Easington-with-Liverton, Yorkshire, worth
£600 per annum," is vacant. Is it in the
gift of the celebrated Dr. Cockle ? or of Dr.
Carter, of Little-Liverpill-Street fame ?