Punch (103.1892)

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

'December 31, 1892.

DE MORTUIS."

Chatty Passenger. " Dead is he ? Poor Chap ! He used to Drive a City Atlas, and many's the time he's Driven me I
He was a Good Fellow, but not much of a Whip, eh ?"

Driver. "Ah, well! what d'y'expect ? Why, he was a Gen'l'man's Coachman afore he took to the Road I"

THE YOUNG GUAED.

" Old Sentry. For this relief, much thanks ; 'tis
bitter cold,
And I am sick at heart.''—Samlet.

Fibst Sentry-go ! Night, stars and snow!

The air bites shrewdly, nipping, eager,
As in old Denmark long ago.
A long, long watch through storm and
leaguer
Thatjdim, departing Sentinel
Has held. He hails the Young Guard's
entry—

"Who goes there P" "Friend!" "Pass,
friend!" "All's well!"
Tired age retreats—fresh youth's on
sentry.

All's Well ? Why that's a formal hail

From Guard to Guard. "Not a mouse
stirring,"
Francisco cried, chill, sleepy, pale.

No bat through night-wastes wheeling,
whirring ;
No trumpet's shrill, no rocket's roar.

And here all seems as calm and quiet
As on the heights of Elsinore,—

Save for far sounds of wassail riot.

Some " wake to-night and take their rouse "

In England as in Denmark, doubtless,
But here calm broods on midnight's brows ;

The flag clings to the flag-staff, floutless ;
And if ghosts walk—well, youngling Year,

With hints of spectres why alarm you ?
Take your first watch, boy, void of fear,

With hope, that inward fire, to warm you!

The Old Guards know that youthful glow

Is not the only thing that's needed
For a long spell of Sentry-go;

But when were veteran croakings heeded P
And if they were, would oarking care,

Not wrinkle boy-brow prematurely ?
All's well—to-night. May your watch fare

Serenely, steadfastly, securely.

Angels and ministers of grace

Defend you from all spooks alarming !
There 's something in your younker face

That even ghosts should find disarming.
They come in questionable shapes,

Those phantoms of the Social Crisis.
Are their cries menaces—or japes ?

These be our Mysteries of Isis!

The Citadel you have to ward

Is old, and forces new are mustering.
Vigilant valour will afford

More help, my boy, than fear or flustering.
Young Harry with his beaver up

Should be your model, my young "nipper!"
Punch, lifting high a brimming cup,

Tips the Young Guard a friendly flipper!

Distinguished Invalid. —The latest
bulletin states that " Mr. C. A. Pearson
still continues weekly. Whether circula-
tion is much impaired will be ascertained
within a short time." Dr. Stephenson,
his Medical Adviser, thinks the system must
have sustained a severe shock, but hopes
that entire rest, coupled with a liberal diet,
may eventually be successful in combating
the malady.

TO SOME EXPECTANT BARDS.

God rest you, merry gentlemen!

You twittering, chirping poetasters.1
What though you ply for praise the pen,

'Tis a mad world, you know, my masters.

And therefore in our land of fools,
Where genius starves in many a gutter,

And all the lore of all the schools
Scarce finds a man in bread-and-butter ;

Where rhymes abound, though small and
few

The prizes are that any bard won,
Your lot, 0 facile rhyming crew
Of would-be laureates, is a hard one.

Go on and versify. God wot,
With bards and rhymes I would not
quarrel.

You have my sympathies, but not
(And may it so remain) the laurel.

Extraordinary Fact in Natural His-
tory.—A Gentleman, whose name is well
known in scientific circles, vouches for the
following fact. He was, he says, passing a
poulterer's shop, when he actually saw a
hare buy a rabbit! ! He subsequently added,
that much depended on the way of spelling
"buy."

* * * *

Mrs. R., whose nephew broke his leg at
football the other day, told a friend that it
was a confounded fraction, but she hoped the
bones would ignite in the end.