DOI issue:
December 10, 1892
DOI Page / Citation link: https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17694#0275
270 PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [December 10, 1892.
CULTCHAH!
Suburban Belle {to her Dressmaker). "And I should like a Medici Collar to my Tea-
gown. Do you understand ? A medici collar—like that of the venus de medici ! "
Daddy Neptune may delight in the Island
" DAVY JONES'S LOCKER." trim and tight, where his sea-dogs breed
and fight, as in days of yore,
Davy Jones, loquitur.— When old Charlie Dibdin's fancy piped
tiTTT/v „ „ . t 7 7 >i - tt i free songs of Jack and Nancy, of Jolly
Fifteen men on the dead man' chest. Hey! ^ * and m T Bree£8 ashor/;
PWWW £U i U ■' ... But if Britons rule the waves, as the grog-
Faith that's a chorus I can rattle off with fi d n hcn >h d ^ *f
zest. Gratefully it clatters upon Davy s glorioug grayes ^ deep dark mai^
Like a dev'il's t'attoo from Death's drum! Dad^ Neptune must allow Davy shares
Fi! Fol Fumi These be very Darlous ^rs enlplre now' ?T th? Sultan and the
times for old kgendiTof the sea'7 P JI™e W *0Iie down m vam'
Vanderdecken is taboo'd, the Sea Sarpint Daddy Neptune loves me not. Plumped by
is pooh-pooh'd, but 'tis plain as any storm or by shot, my Locker held a lot
pikestaff they can't disestablish Me ! in the days gone by,
But 'tis daily growing fuller. Is the British
Tar off colour, are the sea-dogs slower,
duller, though as game to die ?
Has Science spoilt their skill, that their iron
pots so fill my old Locker ? How I thrill
at the lumbering crash,
When a-crunch upon a rock, with a thun-
dering Titan shock, goes some shapeless
metal block, to immortal smash ?
Oh! it's real, rasping fun! Mighty hull,
monster gun, all are mine ere all's done;
and the millions madly spent
On a lollopping wolloping kettle, with ten
thousand tons of metal sink as the Titans
settle, turtle-turned, or wrenched and
rent,
To my rocks and my ooze. I seem little like
to lose by the "Progress" some abuse,
and the many crack up.
Ah! Neptune, sour old lad, Davy Jones
may well look glad at the modern Iron-
clad, and thank Armstrong and Krupp !
Science and Salvage ? Fudge ! If J am any
judge, my sea-depths and salt sludge
will not lose by them.
Nep calls me callous mocker, but, according
to my Cocker, I may laugh, with a full
_ Locker, whilst the fools condemn.
Think of daring the blue brine with a chart
of the Eighty-Nine, and "a regular gold-
mine " in one huge black hulk !
Whilst the lubbers stick to that, I shall
'•' flourish and grow fat like a shark or
,ocean-rat, though old Nep may sulk.*
Demon-Sexton of the Deep! Ha! ha!
Ho ! ho ! I keep my old office. Wives
may weep, and the taxpayers moan ;
Let the grumblers make appeal to King
Science! Lords of Steel, Iron Chieftains,
do ye feel when your victims groan ?
Davy Jones is well content with that tribute
ye have sent, with the millions ye have
spent just to glut his gorge ;
He had seldom such a fill in the days of
wood—and skill—constant sea-fights, or
the spill of the Royal George.
Good old false last-century Chart! Though
the conning may be smart, and the
steersman play his part, Palinurus-like,
Whilst they trust to your vain vellum, which
is almost sure to sell 'em, even Davy
Jones can tell 'em, they may sink or
strike.
Hooray, King Death, hooray! Who says
we've had our day! Pass the rum and
let's be gay. Not that "dead man's
chest,"
Robert Louis grimly sings, like my
"Locker Chorus" rings — mingling
weirdly wedded things—grisly doom and
jest! _
On an Irish. Landlord.
"Love thou thy Land!" So sang the
Laureate.
Were that sole Landlord duty, you'd
fulfil it!
But land makes not a Land, nor soil a State ,
Loving your land, how sullenly you hate—
The People-who've to till it!
Of the earth, earthy is that love of soil
Which for wide-acred wealth will sap and
spoil
The souls and sinews of the thralls of Toil.
Churl! Bear a human heart, a liberal hand!
Then thou may'st say that thou dost "love
thy Land.."
When a Stag has once been uncarted, and
has been given so many minutes law to get
away, the Huntsman may correctly allude to
him as " The Deer Departed."
CULTCHAH!
Suburban Belle {to her Dressmaker). "And I should like a Medici Collar to my Tea-
gown. Do you understand ? A medici collar—like that of the venus de medici ! "
Daddy Neptune may delight in the Island
" DAVY JONES'S LOCKER." trim and tight, where his sea-dogs breed
and fight, as in days of yore,
Davy Jones, loquitur.— When old Charlie Dibdin's fancy piped
tiTTT/v „ „ . t 7 7 >i - tt i free songs of Jack and Nancy, of Jolly
Fifteen men on the dead man' chest. Hey! ^ * and m T Bree£8 ashor/;
PWWW £U i U ■' ... But if Britons rule the waves, as the grog-
Faith that's a chorus I can rattle off with fi d n hcn >h d ^ *f
zest. Gratefully it clatters upon Davy s glorioug grayes ^ deep dark mai^
Like a dev'il's t'attoo from Death's drum! Dad^ Neptune must allow Davy shares
Fi! Fol Fumi These be very Darlous ^rs enlplre now' ?T th? Sultan and the
times for old kgendiTof the sea'7 P JI™e W *0Iie down m vam'
Vanderdecken is taboo'd, the Sea Sarpint Daddy Neptune loves me not. Plumped by
is pooh-pooh'd, but 'tis plain as any storm or by shot, my Locker held a lot
pikestaff they can't disestablish Me ! in the days gone by,
But 'tis daily growing fuller. Is the British
Tar off colour, are the sea-dogs slower,
duller, though as game to die ?
Has Science spoilt their skill, that their iron
pots so fill my old Locker ? How I thrill
at the lumbering crash,
When a-crunch upon a rock, with a thun-
dering Titan shock, goes some shapeless
metal block, to immortal smash ?
Oh! it's real, rasping fun! Mighty hull,
monster gun, all are mine ere all's done;
and the millions madly spent
On a lollopping wolloping kettle, with ten
thousand tons of metal sink as the Titans
settle, turtle-turned, or wrenched and
rent,
To my rocks and my ooze. I seem little like
to lose by the "Progress" some abuse,
and the many crack up.
Ah! Neptune, sour old lad, Davy Jones
may well look glad at the modern Iron-
clad, and thank Armstrong and Krupp !
Science and Salvage ? Fudge ! If J am any
judge, my sea-depths and salt sludge
will not lose by them.
Nep calls me callous mocker, but, according
to my Cocker, I may laugh, with a full
_ Locker, whilst the fools condemn.
Think of daring the blue brine with a chart
of the Eighty-Nine, and "a regular gold-
mine " in one huge black hulk !
Whilst the lubbers stick to that, I shall
'•' flourish and grow fat like a shark or
,ocean-rat, though old Nep may sulk.*
Demon-Sexton of the Deep! Ha! ha!
Ho ! ho ! I keep my old office. Wives
may weep, and the taxpayers moan ;
Let the grumblers make appeal to King
Science! Lords of Steel, Iron Chieftains,
do ye feel when your victims groan ?
Davy Jones is well content with that tribute
ye have sent, with the millions ye have
spent just to glut his gorge ;
He had seldom such a fill in the days of
wood—and skill—constant sea-fights, or
the spill of the Royal George.
Good old false last-century Chart! Though
the conning may be smart, and the
steersman play his part, Palinurus-like,
Whilst they trust to your vain vellum, which
is almost sure to sell 'em, even Davy
Jones can tell 'em, they may sink or
strike.
Hooray, King Death, hooray! Who says
we've had our day! Pass the rum and
let's be gay. Not that "dead man's
chest,"
Robert Louis grimly sings, like my
"Locker Chorus" rings — mingling
weirdly wedded things—grisly doom and
jest! _
On an Irish. Landlord.
"Love thou thy Land!" So sang the
Laureate.
Were that sole Landlord duty, you'd
fulfil it!
But land makes not a Land, nor soil a State ,
Loving your land, how sullenly you hate—
The People-who've to till it!
Of the earth, earthy is that love of soil
Which for wide-acred wealth will sap and
spoil
The souls and sinews of the thralls of Toil.
Churl! Bear a human heart, a liberal hand!
Then thou may'st say that thou dost "love
thy Land.."
When a Stag has once been uncarted, and
has been given so many minutes law to get
away, the Huntsman may correctly allude to
him as " The Deer Departed."