DOI issue:
Punch’s Almanack for 1863
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17016#0005
PUNCH’S ALMANACK FOE 1803
AUTOGRAPHS OF AUTHORS,
VOICES OF THE STARS,
FOR ALBUMS.
“Stuff,” said the Duke of
Wellington.
But Rigby, though he wor-
shipped a duke more than any-
' thing in or out of the world, was
not put down. The Duke had de-
molished Napoleon, but could
not demolish Rigby.
“ I would not contradict your
grace,” he said, with his inimit-
; able mixture of abjectness and
audacity. “ Rigby’s Mixture," as
Lucian Gay called it.
“ I would n’t, if I were you,”
said the young Viscount, who in
his Eton days could blush with
i honest anger at an impertinence.
Rigby did not care a rush for
him, for his father was ruined,
and Mr. Rigby knew where he
had tried in vain to get a bill
done that very week.
“ Wouldn't you?” said Rigby,
turning on him insolently. ‘ ‘ Well,
you should know. Dr. Cookesley
tells me he has cured you. of
making answers. How's birch?
But, your Grace,” he continued,
resuming his own manner, “ I
contend that if you had used
Dartford gunpowder at Waterlso,
the battle would have been over
six hours sooner.”
• ‘ You be-,’’ began the Duke
of Wellington ; but at the mo-
ment, Miriam, in all her fresh
and pearly beauty, entered, and
the Duke advanced to meet her.
“ i'll punch that beggar's head
one of these days,” said the Vis-
count.—Author of Vivian Tancred
Temple.
The Life of a Swell.—All’s
well if a Swell ends a Swell as well
as he began.
CROQUET.
BY MOTHER GOOSE.
August.—Mars leaves Leo, ah 1
but you don’t catch the British
Lion asleep, no more than a
weasel, whatever you may the
’Merican Eagle, if you puts a bit o’
salt on his tail. Howsomedever
now there’s two ’Merican Eagles, a
clapperclawrin’ one another like
mad, and as like as not to be
madder about the eclipse of the
moon, which bein’ sure to appear,
there’s one prediction for you as
can't turn out all moonshine.
Much beer drinked at arvest-
omes.
LINES ON AUTUMN,
BY A GARDENER.
Convolvulus arvensis now.
And all the Hieracia fade;
And, sweet Nymphsea alba, thou
Dost feel the frost thy soils
invade.
The Anthuxanthum’s pollen falls.
Though the Libellula are dead ;
Sad Nectarynia leaves the walls,
Hypericum deserts the bed.
No more. Oh Passiflora, rise
Thy radii leguminous ;
But Cailium pratense dies,
And Hyacinth us insciiptus.
A Modern Oracle.—“ As re-
gards diet, how about malt
liquor? ” was the question put
to a mesmeric somnambulist prac-
tising medicine in the state of
clairvoyance. The reply of the
Seer was “No beer but All-sop.”
An Obtuse Angle.—An Old
Maid fishing for a compliment.
VOICES OF THE STARS, BY MOTHER GOOSE.
September.—Wenus and Mars at their wagaries. Mars
about the Ouse o’ the Haustrian Keysir, praps in the shape
of Garrybawldy ; and Wenus occasions crowned eds and
many others great exciseman. There’s a talk of invasion,
endin’in smoke. Git out! T11ere’s the Wolunteers ready
te receive ’em and my old broomstick will be about their
ears, which, if to be as they do come, they ’ll go away with
fleas in ’em.
The Quickest Way of Learning French.—Turn Englion
Dramatic Author.
The Racecourse and the Ring.—She who takes a sport-
ing man for better or for worse, may find him both better
and worse than she expected.
Con by a Poor Crossing Sweeper.—Why is a birch-
j broom like a weeping willow ? Because it ’s a thing as
| ('s/weeps.
AUTOGRAPHS OF AUTHORS,
VOICES OF THE STARS,
FOR ALBUMS.
“Stuff,” said the Duke of
Wellington.
But Rigby, though he wor-
shipped a duke more than any-
' thing in or out of the world, was
not put down. The Duke had de-
molished Napoleon, but could
not demolish Rigby.
“ I would not contradict your
grace,” he said, with his inimit-
; able mixture of abjectness and
audacity. “ Rigby’s Mixture," as
Lucian Gay called it.
“ I would n’t, if I were you,”
said the young Viscount, who in
his Eton days could blush with
i honest anger at an impertinence.
Rigby did not care a rush for
him, for his father was ruined,
and Mr. Rigby knew where he
had tried in vain to get a bill
done that very week.
“ Wouldn't you?” said Rigby,
turning on him insolently. ‘ ‘ Well,
you should know. Dr. Cookesley
tells me he has cured you. of
making answers. How's birch?
But, your Grace,” he continued,
resuming his own manner, “ I
contend that if you had used
Dartford gunpowder at Waterlso,
the battle would have been over
six hours sooner.”
• ‘ You be-,’’ began the Duke
of Wellington ; but at the mo-
ment, Miriam, in all her fresh
and pearly beauty, entered, and
the Duke advanced to meet her.
“ i'll punch that beggar's head
one of these days,” said the Vis-
count.—Author of Vivian Tancred
Temple.
The Life of a Swell.—All’s
well if a Swell ends a Swell as well
as he began.
CROQUET.
BY MOTHER GOOSE.
August.—Mars leaves Leo, ah 1
but you don’t catch the British
Lion asleep, no more than a
weasel, whatever you may the
’Merican Eagle, if you puts a bit o’
salt on his tail. Howsomedever
now there’s two ’Merican Eagles, a
clapperclawrin’ one another like
mad, and as like as not to be
madder about the eclipse of the
moon, which bein’ sure to appear,
there’s one prediction for you as
can't turn out all moonshine.
Much beer drinked at arvest-
omes.
LINES ON AUTUMN,
BY A GARDENER.
Convolvulus arvensis now.
And all the Hieracia fade;
And, sweet Nymphsea alba, thou
Dost feel the frost thy soils
invade.
The Anthuxanthum’s pollen falls.
Though the Libellula are dead ;
Sad Nectarynia leaves the walls,
Hypericum deserts the bed.
No more. Oh Passiflora, rise
Thy radii leguminous ;
But Cailium pratense dies,
And Hyacinth us insciiptus.
A Modern Oracle.—“ As re-
gards diet, how about malt
liquor? ” was the question put
to a mesmeric somnambulist prac-
tising medicine in the state of
clairvoyance. The reply of the
Seer was “No beer but All-sop.”
An Obtuse Angle.—An Old
Maid fishing for a compliment.
VOICES OF THE STARS, BY MOTHER GOOSE.
September.—Wenus and Mars at their wagaries. Mars
about the Ouse o’ the Haustrian Keysir, praps in the shape
of Garrybawldy ; and Wenus occasions crowned eds and
many others great exciseman. There’s a talk of invasion,
endin’in smoke. Git out! T11ere’s the Wolunteers ready
te receive ’em and my old broomstick will be about their
ears, which, if to be as they do come, they ’ll go away with
fleas in ’em.
The Quickest Way of Learning French.—Turn Englion
Dramatic Author.
The Racecourse and the Ring.—She who takes a sport-
ing man for better or for worse, may find him both better
and worse than she expected.
Con by a Poor Crossing Sweeper.—Why is a birch-
j broom like a weeping willow ? Because it ’s a thing as
| ('s/weeps.