DOI Heft:
December 31, 1880
DOI Seite / Zitierlink: https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17694#0307
302
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [December 31, 1892.
THE INEVITABLE.
{As Illustrated by recent Political, Social, and
other Public " .FwwetfioM*.")
Say you'd get up an " Inaugural Meeting,"
Anything "forming," or Anyone "greeting,"
If you'd have guests in their tankards their
nose bury,
Ruddy with mirth, you must put up Lord
Rosebery.
If facts and statistics your minds you will
task with,
He must be followed—of course—by young
ASQUITH.
O..C. and canny Earl, Earl and 'cute Q.C.,
gents!
There you've your "Popular Programme''
in mice, gents!
A PRIME CUT.
Mrs. Fidget {who has been fingering all the Joints for some time). "Can you guarantee
this to be Welsh Mutton ? "
Butcher's Assistant. "Certainly we can, Mum; but if you go 'Andling it much
longer, it 'll be IRISH STOO directly ! "
THE PLEA OF THE POSTMAN.
All work and no play
Makes a dull boy; so they say,
Proverb-mongers, pretty bards.
" All play," may be, worse I '11 bet 'em!
If they doubt my word, then let 'em
Try my hand at (Christmas) Cards !
Punch in reply.
True for you! You growl with reason.
Hearts are trumps, and at this season,
Pray remember, Ooldylocks,
When your cards arrive in flocks,
Postman earns his Christmas Box!
"Rede me Aright! "—Sir Edward Reed,
M.P., is anything but a "bruised reed."
On the contrary. More correct would it be
to describe him as A Bruiser Reed? for his
plucky encounter with his adversaries, over
whom he triumphed by " A Yast Majority."
Tinned Dinners."
A propos of an interesting
article in the Daily Telegraph
last Thursday on this subject,
the problem that most na-
turally suggests itself is,
" How about the dinner, if
you haven't any tin ? " "No
Song, No Supper" is plea-
santly alliterative, but is not
of universal application. "No
tin, no dinner," may pass into
a proverb, but, anyhow, it's
a fact.
"Ah!" exclaimed our dear old Mrs. R.,
" I'm fond of high-class music. For many
years I've heard my musical friends talking
about ' Shoolbred's Unfinished Symphony.'
Why doesn't he get it finished ? When was
it ordered ? But there—I know geniuses are
always unpunctual."
TO MY RIYAL.
How I loved her, blindly, madly!
Sighing sadly,
Feeling hurt
If I did not see her daily.
Oh, how gaily
She could flirt!
Flirt with me, or flirt with others,
With my brothers
Just as well,
How I could be such a duffer
So to suffer,
I can't tell.
Then you came, played tennis finely,
Danced divinely,
Sang as well;
Half Adonis, half Apollo,
Beat me hollow.
Such a swell!
How I hated you, so clever!
You were never
Thought a bore!
When I saw you so romantic
I was frantic;
How I swore!
I've recovered. Is she not a
Child that's got a
Newer toy ?
From the first she thought she 'd booked you;
Now she's hooked you.
Wish you joy!
I '11 forgive you altogether,—
She '11 see whether
I shall care,—
Shake your hand and gaily greet you,
When I meet you
Anywhere.
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [December 31, 1892.
THE INEVITABLE.
{As Illustrated by recent Political, Social, and
other Public " .FwwetfioM*.")
Say you'd get up an " Inaugural Meeting,"
Anything "forming," or Anyone "greeting,"
If you'd have guests in their tankards their
nose bury,
Ruddy with mirth, you must put up Lord
Rosebery.
If facts and statistics your minds you will
task with,
He must be followed—of course—by young
ASQUITH.
O..C. and canny Earl, Earl and 'cute Q.C.,
gents!
There you've your "Popular Programme''
in mice, gents!
A PRIME CUT.
Mrs. Fidget {who has been fingering all the Joints for some time). "Can you guarantee
this to be Welsh Mutton ? "
Butcher's Assistant. "Certainly we can, Mum; but if you go 'Andling it much
longer, it 'll be IRISH STOO directly ! "
THE PLEA OF THE POSTMAN.
All work and no play
Makes a dull boy; so they say,
Proverb-mongers, pretty bards.
" All play," may be, worse I '11 bet 'em!
If they doubt my word, then let 'em
Try my hand at (Christmas) Cards !
Punch in reply.
True for you! You growl with reason.
Hearts are trumps, and at this season,
Pray remember, Ooldylocks,
When your cards arrive in flocks,
Postman earns his Christmas Box!
"Rede me Aright! "—Sir Edward Reed,
M.P., is anything but a "bruised reed."
On the contrary. More correct would it be
to describe him as A Bruiser Reed? for his
plucky encounter with his adversaries, over
whom he triumphed by " A Yast Majority."
Tinned Dinners."
A propos of an interesting
article in the Daily Telegraph
last Thursday on this subject,
the problem that most na-
turally suggests itself is,
" How about the dinner, if
you haven't any tin ? " "No
Song, No Supper" is plea-
santly alliterative, but is not
of universal application. "No
tin, no dinner," may pass into
a proverb, but, anyhow, it's
a fact.
"Ah!" exclaimed our dear old Mrs. R.,
" I'm fond of high-class music. For many
years I've heard my musical friends talking
about ' Shoolbred's Unfinished Symphony.'
Why doesn't he get it finished ? When was
it ordered ? But there—I know geniuses are
always unpunctual."
TO MY RIYAL.
How I loved her, blindly, madly!
Sighing sadly,
Feeling hurt
If I did not see her daily.
Oh, how gaily
She could flirt!
Flirt with me, or flirt with others,
With my brothers
Just as well,
How I could be such a duffer
So to suffer,
I can't tell.
Then you came, played tennis finely,
Danced divinely,
Sang as well;
Half Adonis, half Apollo,
Beat me hollow.
Such a swell!
How I hated you, so clever!
You were never
Thought a bore!
When I saw you so romantic
I was frantic;
How I swore!
I've recovered. Is she not a
Child that's got a
Newer toy ?
From the first she thought she 'd booked you;
Now she's hooked you.
Wish you joy!
I '11 forgive you altogether,—
She '11 see whether
I shall care,—
Shake your hand and gaily greet you,
When I meet you
Anywhere.