قراءة كتاب Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 107, December 22, 1894
تنويه: تعرض هنا نبذة من اول ١٠ صفحات فقط من الكتاب الالكتروني، لقراءة الكتاب كاملا اضغط على الزر “اشتر الآن"
tag="{http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml}a">[5] Shakspeare.
[6] Lubbock.
[7] Lubbock adapting Shakspeare.
[8] Marriage service.
[9] Tom Moore.
[10] Peter Pindar.
[11] Lubbock.
[12] Carlyle.
THE MAKING OF A MAN.
["Lord Rosebery is not a man at all: he is a political Joint-Stock Company, Limited."—Letter from Mr. Chamberlain in the "Times."]
Oh, Chamberlain, with joy I note the labour of the file
In this delightful sample of your literary style.
I seem to see you trying it in half a hundred ways,
Before your taste could settle on the perfect final phrase.
With just a little polish here, a slight erasure there,
You got it into shape at last, and made your copy fair.
Lo, how its graceful suavity all meaner folk rebukes,
In every little word I trace the influence of dukes;
The gallant style, the courtly thrust with controversial sword
Of one—what need to tell his name?—who dearly loves a lord;
Who learnt amid our feudal halls the ancient courtesy
That scorns to stoop to Billingsgate, or ape the bold bargee.
Serene and proud he follows still the good old maxim's plan,
And by his manners proves himself to all the world a Man.
Solution of Prize Conundrum given in our Last Week's Issue.
"How to make life happy by adding fifty-nine to the latter half of it."
The latter half of "Life" is "fe," isn't it?
Fifty-nine is "LIX," isn't it? Add this to FE, and the result is happy—"FELIX."
[⁂ The Conundrumist left the explanation and the country at the same time.—Ed.]
THE FORCE OF HABIT.
The Vicar's Daughter. "Oh, Papa dear, did you hear old Mr. Rogers snoring in his Pew this afternoon?"
The Vicar. "No, my love. During the Sermon, I suppose?"
The Vicar's Daughter. "No! that's the funny part of it!"
"LYING LOW."
["The Chancellor of the Exchequer has preserved, with admirable composure, an oracular silence during the controversies of the past few weeks. It is sad to think that the despairing appeals of the Ministerial Press to Sir William Harcourt to 'remember his swashing blow' may remain unanswered until the opening of the debate on the Address some two months hence."—The Times.]
"Little Boy Blue, come blow up your horn!
The sheep's in the meadow, the cow's in the corn.
Where is the boy who looks after the sheep?
He's under the haycock, fast asleep(?)"
Much worrited Old Liberal Party loquitur:—
O little Boy Blue!—('tis a sweet name for you,
Though Pickwickian, perhaps, in suggestiveness!)—
What are you a-doing? There's mischief a-brewing,
Our flocks appear troubled with restiveness;
Our cattle are straying. You ought to be playing
That horn with your old force and unction.
Of what are you thinking? In long forty-winking
Boy Blue seems forgetting his function!
You're not worth a button! That Forfarshire mutton
The Unionist meadow is munching in;
Our bonny Brigg cow, boy, now can't you see how, boy,
The Tory corn-field she is crunching in?
You are losing your sheep, like poor little Bo-Peep,
And still that old horn lies unblown, boy.
You're letting them roam, and they will not "come home"
If you do nought but "let them alone," boy!
Still drowsing! Oh, drat it! Young Primrose is at it
Without half your power of bellows.
And cynics are hinting that, while he is sprinting,
You're lazy—because you feel jealous.
Of course, that's all footle. Still, your rootle-tootle
Is wanted our courage to toughen.
'Twas never your habit, like artful Brer Rabbit,
Of old to "lie low and say nuffin'!"
Your horn, like great Roland's, through high lands and low lands,
From Lincoln to Scotland, should blare up.
We need its loud rallies, or our Roncesvallês
Will come,—when there will be a flare-up!
'Tis surely not rifted? When Roland uplifted
His Olifant, everyone heard it
For thirty miles round. So your sheep-horn should sound,
And too long, my Boy Blue, you've deferred it.
Their noses foes may cock, whilst under that haycock
At Malwood at ease you're reclining.
Poor Primrose, our shepherd, is getting will peppered,
The flock for your rally are pining.
You are only Boy Blue, not the shepherd? That's true;
Still, horn-blowing boys have their duty.
Wake up, and wake now, Sir, and give us a rouser.
Your best blast, we know, is a beauty!
Our fold's getting thinnish, our flocks fast diminish,
Our milch-cows are sickening or straying.
Up! back up the pastor, or there'll be disaster.
The enemy's sheep-horns are braying;
They're "calling the cattle home." Rouse, with a rattle-home!
Asleep? Well, perhaps you're "purtending"!
But though one may easily play up too weaselly,
Sheep do demand watchful tending.
"LYING LOW."
"LITTLE BOY BLUE,
