PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOLUME 98.
February 8, 1890.
UNTILED; OR, THE MODERN ASMODEUS.
"Très volontiers," repartit le démon. "Vous aimez les tableaux changeans: je veux vous contenter."
Le Diable Boiteux.
"A Late Symposium! Yet they're not engaged
In compotations. Argument hath raged
Four hours by the dial;
But zealotry of party, creed, or clique
Marks not the clock, whilst of polemic pique
There's one unvoided vial."
So smiled the Shade. Dusk coat and gleaming head,
Viewed from above, before my gaze outspread
Like a black sea bespotted
With bare pink peaks of coral isles; all eyes
Were fixed on one who reeled out rhapsodies
In diction double-shotted.
A long and lofty room, with pillars cold,
And spacious walls of chocolate and gold;
The solid sombre glory
Of tint oppressive and of tasteless shine,
Dear to the modern British Philistine,
Saint, sceptic, Whig, or Tory.
"No Samson-strength of intellect or taste
Shall bow the pillars of this temple chaste
Of ugliness and unction.
What is't they argue lengthily and late?
The flame of patriot passion for the State
Fires this polemic function.
"A caitiff Government has done a thing
To make its guardian-angel droop her wing
In sickened indignation:
That is, has striven to strengthen its redoubts,
Perfidious 'Ins,' to foil the eager 'Outs.'
Hence endless execration.
"Hence all Wire-pullerdom is up in arms;
With clarion-toned excursions and alarms
The rival camp is ringing.
Hence perky commoners and pompous peers,
'Midst vehement applause and volleying cheers,
Stale platitudes are stringing.
"The British Public—some five hundred strong—
Is here to 'strangle a Gigantic Wrong,'—
So Marabout is saying.
Watch his wide waistcoat and his wandering eyes,
His stamping boots of Brobdingnagian size,
Clenched hands, and shoulders swaying.
"A great Machine-man, Marabout! He dotes
On programmes hectographed and Party votes.
For all his pasty pallor
And shifty glance, he has the mob's regard,
And he is deemed by council, club, and ward
A mighty man of valour.
"A purchased henchman to a Star of State?
Perhaps. But here he'll pose and perorate,
A Brutus vain and voluble.
And who, like Marabout, with vocal flux
Of formulas, can settle every crux
That wisdom finds insoluble?
"'Hear! hear!' That shibboleth of shallow souls
Around his ears in clamorous cadence rolls;
He swells, he glows, he twinkles;
The sapient Chairman wags his snowy pate,
Whilst cynic triumph, cautious yet elate,
Lurks laughing in his wrinkles.
"And there sits honest zeal, absorbed, intent,
And cheerfully credulous. Marabout has bent
To the Commercial Dagon
He publicly derides; but many here
Will toast 'his genuine grit, his manly cheer,'
Over a friendly flagon.
"Look on him later! There he snugly sits
With his rich patron. Were it war of wits
That wakes their crackling chuckles,
They scarce were heartier. It would strangely shock
Marabout's worshippers to hear him mock
The 'mob' to which he truckles.
"Truckles in platform speech. In club-room chat
With Wagstaff, shrewd wire-puller, flushed and fat,
Or Dodd, the rich dry-salter,
You'd hear how supply he can shift and twist,
How Brutus with 'the base Monopolist'
Can calmly plot and palter,"
"Whilst Marabouts abound, O Shade," I cried,
"What wonder men are 'Mugwumps?'" Then my guide
Laughed low. "The æsthetic villa
Finds Shopdom's zeal on its fine senses jar;
Yet the Mugwumps Charybdis stands not far
From the Machine-man's Scylla.
"Culture derides the Caucus for its heat,
Its hate—its absence of the Light and Sweet,
So jays might flout the vulture.
Partisan bitterness and purblind haste?
Come, view the haunts of dilettante Taste,
The coteries of Culture!
"Here Savants wrangle o'er a fossil bone,
Champer, with curling lip and caustic tone,
At Ruddiman is railing.
Champer knows everything, from Plato's text
To Protoplasm; yet his soul is vext,
His cheeks with spite are paling.
"Why? Because Ruddiman, the rude, robust,
Has pierced with logic's vigorous vulgar thrust
The shield of icy polish.
Champer, in print, is hot on party-hate,
Here his one aim is in the rough debate
His rival to demolish.
"Sweet Reasonableness? Another host
Of sages see! The habits of the Ghost,
The Astral Body's action,
Absorb them, eager. Does more furious fire
The councils of the Caucusites inspire,
Or light the feuds of faction?
"And there? They argue out with toil intense
A 'cosmic' poet's esoteric sense,
Of which a world, unwitting,
Recks nothing. Yet how terribly they'd trounce
Parliament's pettifogging, and denounce
'Political hair-splitting'!"
"O Shade, the difference is but small, one dreads.
Betwixt logomachists at loggerheads,
Whether their theme be bonnets
Or British interests. Zealot ardour burns
Scarce fiercer o'er Electoral Returns
Than over Shakspeare's Sonnets.
"At Marabout the Mugwump sniffs and sneers;
Gregarious 'votes of thanks' and sheepish 'cheers'
Stir him to satire scornful.
But when sleek Culture apes, irate and loud,
The follies of the Caucus and the Crowd,
The spectacle is mournful."
"True!" smiled the Shade. "Yon supercilious sage,
With patent prejudice and petty rage,
Penning a tart jobation
On practised Statesmen, must as much amuse
As Statesmen-sciolists venting vapid views
On rocks and revelation."
(To be continued.)
THE SOUTH-EASTERN ALPHABET.
A was the Anger evinced far and wide;
B was the Boat-train delayed by the tide;
C was the Chairman who found nothing wrong;
D was the Driver who sang the same song;
E was the Engine that stuck on the way;
F stood for Folkestone, reached late every day;
G was the Grumble to which this gave rise;
H was the Hubbub Directors despise;
I was the Ink over vain letters used;
J were the Junctions which some one abused;
K was the Kick "Protest" got for its crimes;
L were the Letters it wrote to the Times;
M was the Meeting that probed the affair;
N was the Nothing that came of the scare;
O was the Overdue train on its way;
P was the Patience that bore the delay;
Q was the Question which struck everyone;
R the Reply which could satisfy none;
S was the Station where passengers wait;
T was the Time that they're bound to be late;
U was the Up-train an hour overdue;
V was the Vagueness its movements pursue;
W stood for time's general Waste;
X for Ex-press that could never make haste;
Y for the Wherefore and Why of this wrong;
And Z for the Zanies who stand it so long!
Startling for Gourmets.—"Bisques disallowed." But it only refers to a new rule of the Lawn Tennis Association; so "Bisque d'écrevisses" will still be preserved to us among the embarras de richesse—(i.e. the trouble caused subsequently by the richness,—free trans.)—of a thoroughgoing French dinner.
THE NEW TUNE.
Heroes bold owe much to bold songs.
What's that? "Cannot sing the old songs"?
Pooh! 'Tis a Britannic ditty.
Truth, though, in it,—more's the pity!
"En revenant de la Revue."
People tire of that—too true!
I must give them something new.
Played out, Frenchmen? Pas de danger!
Whilst you've still your Brav' Boulanger!
Do they think Boulanger "mizzles,"
After all his recent "fizzles"?
(Most expressive slang, the Yankee!)
Pas si bête, my friends. No thank ye!
Came a cropper? Very true!
But I remount—my hobby's new,
So's my trumpet. Rooey-too!
France go softly? Pas de danger!
Whilst she has her Brav' Boulanger!
Cannot say her looks quite flatter.
Rather scornful. What's the matter?
Have you lost your recent fancy
For me and my charger prancy?
Turn those eyes this way, now do!
Mark my hobby,—not a screw!
Listen to my chanson new!
Bismarck flout you? Pas de danger!
He's afraid of Brav' Boulanger.
Of your smile be not so chary!
The sixteenth of February
Probably will prove my care is
The especial charge of Paris.
Then you'll know that I am true.
"En revenant de la Revue;"
Stick to me, I'll stick to you.
Part with you, sweet? Pas de danger!
Not the game of Brav' Boulanger!
THE CAPTAIN OF THE "PARIS."
Captain Sharp, of the Newhaven steamer, Paris, you're no craven;
Grim and growling was the gale that you from your dead reckoning bore;
And, but for your brave behaving, she might never have made haven,
But have foundered in mid-Channel, or been wrecked on a lee-shore.
With your paddle-floats unfeathered, wonder was it that you weathered
Such a storm as that of Sunday, which upset our nerves on land,
Though in fire-side comfort tethered. How it blew, and blared, and blethered!
All your passengers, my Captain, say your pluck and skill were grand.
Much to men like you is owing, when wild storms around are blowing,
As they seem to have been doing since the opening of the year:
Howling, hailing, sleeting, snowing; but for captains calm and knowing,
Passage of our angry Channel were indeed a task of fear.
Well, you brought them safely through it, when not every man could do it,
And your passengers, my Captain, are inspired with gratitude.
Therefore, Mr. Punch thus thanks you, and right readily enranks you,
As a hero on the record of our briny island brood.
Verily the choice of "Paris" in this case proved right; and rare is
Fitness between name and nature such as that you illustrate.
Captain Sharp! A proper nomen, and it proved a prosperous omen
To your passengers, whom Punch must on their luck congratulate.
On Board the Channel Steamer "Paris"
(Night of Saturday, January 25, 1890).—"Sharp's the word!"
NOTHING LIKE A CHANGE!
Dr. Cockshure. "My good Sir, what you want is thorough alteration of Climate. The only thing to Cure you is a long Sea Voyage!"
Patient. "That's rather inconvenient. You see I'm only just Home from a Sea Voyage round the World!"
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
The title of the second chapter of The Days of the Dandies, in Blackwood, is calculated to excite curiosity,—it is, "Some Great Beauties, and some Social Celebrities." After reading the article, I think it would have been styled more correctly, "A Few Great Beauties." However, it is discursively amusing and interesting. There is much truth in the paper on Modern Mannish Maidens. I hold that no number of a Magazine is perfect without a tale of mystery and wonder, or a ghost-story of some sort. I hope I have not overlooked one of these in any Magazine for this month that I have seen. Last month there was a good one in Macmillan, and another in Belgravia. I forget their titles, unfortunately, and have mislaid the Magazines. But After-thoughts, in this month's Macmillan, is well worth perusal.
My faithful "Co." has been looking through the works of reference. He complains that Dod's Peerage, Baronetage, and Knighthood for 1890 is carelessly edited. He notes, as a sample, that Sir Henry Leland Harrison, who is said to have been born in 1857, is declared to have entered the Indian Civil Service in 1860, when he was only three years old—a manifest absurdity. As Mr. Punch himself pointed out this bêtise in Dod's &c., &c., for 1889, it should have been corrected in the new edition. "If this sort of thing continues," says the faithful "Co.," "Dod will be known as Dodder, or even Dodderer!" Sir Bernard Burke's Genealogical and Heraldic Dictionary of the Peerage and Baronetage is, in every sense, a noble volume, and seems to have been compiled with the greatest care and accuracy. Kelly's Post Office Directory, of course, is a necessity to every man of letters. Whitaker's Almanack for 1890 seems larger than usual, and better than ever. Webster's Royal Red Book, and Gardiner's Royal Blue Book, it goes without saying, are both written by men of address. The Century Atlas and Gazetteer is a book amongst a hundred. Finally, the Era Almanack for 1890, conducted by Edward Ledger, is, as usual, full of information concerning things theatrical—some of it gay, some of it sad. "Replies to Questions by Actors and Actresses" is the liveliest contribution in the little volume. The Obituary contains the name of "Edward Litt Leman Blanchard," dramatist, novellist, and journalist, who died on the 4th of September, 1889. It is hard to realise the Era Almanack without the excellent contributions of poor "E. L. B.!"
"Co." furnishes some other notes in a livelier strain:—
Matthew Prior. (Kegan Paul.) If you are asked to go out in this abominable weather, shelter yourself under the wing of Mr. Austin Dobson, and plead a prior engagement. (Ha! Ha!) You will find the engagement both prior and profitable. Mr. Dobson's introductory essay is not only exhaustive, but in the highest degree interesting, and his selection from the poems has been made with great taste and rare discretion.
In the Garden of Dreams. The lack of poets of the softer sex has been recently a subject of remark. Lady-novelists we have in super-abundance, of lady-dramatists we have more than enough, of lady-journalists we have legions—but lady-poets we have but few. Possibly, they flourish more on the other side of the Atlantic. At any rate we have a good example of the American Muse in the latest volume by Mrs. Louise Chandler Moulton. This little book is full of grace, its versification is melodious, and has the genuine poetic ring about it, which is as rare as it is acceptable. It can scarcely fail to find favour with English readers.
Baron de Book-Worms & Co.
Epidemiological.
Dear Mr. Punch,—The Camel is reported to be greatly instrumental in the spread of cholera. This is evidently the Bacterian Camel, whose humps—or is it hump?—have long been such a terror to those who really don't care a bit how many humps an animal has.
Yours faithfully,
Humphry Campbell.
To Those who get their Living by Dyeing.—"Sweet Auburn!" exclaimed a ruddy, aureate-haired lady of uncertain age,—anything, in fact, after fifty,—"'Sweet Auburn!'" she repeated, musingly, "What does 'Sweet Auburn' come from?" "Well," replied her husband, regarding her coiffure with an air of uncertainty, "I'm not quite sure, but I think 'Sweet Auburn' should be Gray."
MR. PUNCH'S MORAL MUSIC-HALL DRAMAS.
No. V.—BRUNETTE AND BLANCHIDINE.
Dramatis Personæ.
Blanchidine, } By the celebrated Sisters Stilton, the
Brunette. } Champion Duettists and Clog-dancers.
Fanny Furbelow. By Miss Sylvia Sealskin (by kind permission of the Gaiety Management).
Frank Manly. By Mr. Henry Neville.
Scene—A Sunny Glade in Kensington Gardens, between the Serpentine and Round Pond.
Enter Blanchidine and Brunette, with their arms thrown affectionately around one another. Blanchidine is carrying a large and expressionless wooden doll.
Duet and Step-dance.
Bl. Oh, I do adore Brunette! (Dances.) Tippity-tappity, tappity-tippity, tippity-tappity, tip-tap!
Br. Blanchidine's the sweetest pet! (Dances.) Tippity-tappity, &c.
Clickity-clack, clickity-clack, clickity, clickity, clickity-clack;
Bl. (apologetically to Audience). Her taste in dress is rather plain! (Dances.) Tippity-tappity, &c.
Br. (in pitying aside). It is a pity she's so vain! (Dances.) Tippity-tappity, &c.
Bl.
Br.
[N.B.—In consideration of the well-known difficulty that most popular variety-artists experience in the metrical delivery of decasyllabic couplets, the lines which follow have been written as they will most probably be spoken.
Bl. (looking off with alarm). Why, here comes Fanny Furbelow, a new frock from Paris in!
She'll find me with Brunette—it's too embarrassing!
To Brunette. Brunette, my love, I know such a pretty game we'll play at—
Poor Timburina's ill, and the seaside she ought to stay at.
(The Serpentine's the seaside, let's pretend,)
And you shall take her there—(hypocritically)—you're such a friend!
Br. (with simplicity). Oh, yes, that will be splendid, Blanchidine,
And then we can go and have a dip in a bathing-machine!
Fanny (languidly). Ah, howdy do—isn't this heat too frightful?
And so you're quite alone?
Bl. (nervously). Oh, quite—oh yes, I always am alone, when there's nobody with me.
Fanny (drawling). Delightful!
When I was wondering, only a little while ago,
If I should meet a creature that I know;
Allow me—my new doll, the Lady Minnie!
Bl. (rapturously). Oh, what a perfect love!
Fanny. She ought to be—for a guinea!
Here, you may nurse her for a little while.
Be careful, for her frock's the latest style.
She's the best wax, and has three changes of clothing—
For those cheap wooden dolls I've quite a loathing.
Bl. (hastily). Oh, so have I—they're not to be endured!
Br. I've brought poor Timburina back, completely cured!
Why, aren't you pleased? Your face is looking so cloudy!
F. (haughtily). Is she a friend of yours—this little dowdy?
Bl. (after an internal struggle). Oh, no, what an idea! Why, I don't even know her by name!
Some vulgar child ...
Br. (indignantly). Oh, what a horrid shame!
I see now why you sent us to the Serpentine!
Bl. (heartlessly). There's no occasion to flare up like turpentine.
Br. (ungrammatically). I'm not! Disown your doll, and thrust me, too, aside,
The one thing left for both of us is—suicide!
Yes, Timburina, us no more she cherishes—
(Bitterly.) Well, the Round Pond a handy place to perish is!
Bl. (making a feeble attempt to follow). Come back, Brunette; don't leave me thus, in charity!
F. (with contempt). Well, I'll be off—since you seem to prefer vulgarity.
Bl. No, stay—but—ah, she said—what if she meant it?
F. Not she! And, if she did, we can't prevent it.
Bl. (relieved). That's true—we'll play, and think no more about her.
F. (sarcastically). We may just manage to get on without her!
So come—(perceives doll lying face upwards on path)—you odious girl, what have you done?
Left Lady Minnie lying in the blazing sun!
'Twas done on purpose—oh, you thing perfidious!
You knew she'd melt, and get completely hideous!
Don't answer me, Miss—I wish we'd never met.
You're only fit for persons like Brunette!
Bl. Gone! Ah, I am rightly punished! What would I not give now to have homely little Brunette, and dear old wooden-headed Timburina back again! She wouldn't melt in the sun.... Where are they now? Great Heavens! that threat—that rash resolve ... I remember all! 'Twas in the direction of the Pond they vanished. (Peeping anxiously between trees.) Are they still in sight?... Yes, I see them! Brunette has reached the water's edge.... What is she purposing! Now she kneels on the rough gravel; she is making Timburina kneel too! How calm and resolute they both appear! (Shuddering.) I dare not look further—but, ah, I must—I must!... Horror! I saw her boots flash for an instant in the bright sunlight; and now the ripples have closed, smiling over her little black stockings!... Help!—save her, somebody!—help!... Joy! a gentleman has appeared on the scene—how handsome, how brave he looks! He has taken in the situation at a glance! With quiet composure he removes his coat—oh, don't trouble about folding it up!—and why, why remove your gloves, when there is not a moment to be lost? Now, with many injunctions, he entrusts his watch to a bystander, who retires, overcome by emotion. And now—oh, gallant, heroic soul!—now he is sending his toy terrier into the seething water! (Straining eagerly forward.) Ah, the dog paddles bravely out—he has reached the spot ... oh, he has passed it!—he is trying to catch a duck! Dog, dog, is this a time for pursuing ducks? At last he understands—he dives ... he brings up—agony! a small tin cup! Again ... this time, surely—what, only an old pot-hat!... Oh, this dog is a fool! And still the Round Pond holds its
[Swoons hysterically, amid deafening applause.
Enter Frank Manly, supporting Brunette, who carries Timburina.
Bl. (wildly). What, do I see you safe, beloved Brunette?
Br. Yes, thanks to his courage, I'm not even wet!
Frank (modestly). Nay, spare your compliments. To rescue Beauty, When in distress, is every hero's duty!
Bl. Brunette, forgive—I'm cured of all my folly!
Br. (heartily). Of course I will, my dear, and so will dolly!
"THE NEW GERMAN RIFLE."
(A Fancy Sketch of its Startling Appearance.)
"The Regulations for the employment of the new German Infantry Rifle have just been published. With regard to the capabilities of the new rifle, the Regulations assert, that in this arm the German Infantry possesses a weapon standing fully abreast of the time with a range such as was heretofore held to be impossible of attainment."—Standard, Jan. 25.
ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.
Commemoration Birthday Concert.—The programme you are preparing, after the fashion set the other evening in St. James's Hall, at an entertainment organised in honour of the birthday of the poet Burns, for the purpose of paying a similar tribute to the memory of his great fellow-countryman, Sir Walter Scott, certainly promises well. As you very truly point out that, as at the Concert which you are taking as your model, though the name of Burns was tacked on to nearly every item in the programme, as if he had been responsible for the words, music and all, it did not seem limited to the Poet's work alone, you might certainly allow yourself the latitude you propose in arranging your own scheme. The fact that, at the Burns Celebration, M. Nachez played his own Hungarian dances, the connection between which and the Poet's birthday is not, at first sight, entirely obvious, and that another gentleman, with equal appropriateness, favoured the company with "The Death of Nelson," on the trombone, seems certainly to give you a warrant for the introduction you contemplate making, in commemoration of Sir Walter, of the Chinese Chopstick Mazurka, and the Woora-woora Cannibal Islanders side-knife and sledge-hammer war-dance. It may of course be possible, in a remote way, to introduce them, as you suggest, into Old Mortality, but we should think you would be nearer the mark with that other item of your programme, that associates Jem Baggs with The Lay of the Last Minstrel. Your idea of accepting and utilising the offer of the Giralfi family to introduce their Drawing-room Entertainment into your programme seems excellent, and has certainly as much in common with the Birthday of Sir Walter Scott as the "Death of Nelson," on the trombone, has with that of the distinguished Novelist's great brother Poet. There is no reason, as you further point out, why you should not organise a whole Series of Commemorative Birthday Entertainments, as you think of doing, on the same plan, and with Beethoven, Macaulay, Dr. Johnson, and Warren Hastings, the celebrities you mention, to begin upon, you ought to have no difficulty in working in the solo on the big drum, the performance of the Learned Hyæna, the Japanese Twenty-feet Bayonet-jump, and the other equally appropriate attractions with which you are already in communication. Anyhow, begin with Sir Walter Scott, following the St. James's Hall lead, and let us hear how you get on.
Striking Wedding Presents.—As you seem to think that a list of the presents made to your young friends who are about to be married will in all probability be published in some of the Society papers, "with the names of the donors," we think, on the whole, we would advise you not to give them, as you seem rather inclined to do, those three hundred weight of cheap sardines of which you became possessed through a seizure of your agents for arrears of rent. You might certainly present them with the disabled omnibus horse that came into your hands on the same occasion. Horses are sometimes given as wedding presents. There were four down in a list of gifts at a fashionable marriage only last week. But, of course, it would not suit your purpose to appear as the donor of a "damaged" creature. We think, perhaps, it would be wiser to accept the five pounds offered you through the veterinary surgeon you mention, and lay out the money, as you suggest, in sixteen hundred Japanese fans. If it falls through, and you find the horse still on your hands, there is no need to mention its association with the omnibus. "Mr. John Johnson—a riding horse," doesn't read badly. We almost think this is better than the fans. Think it over.
THE LUXURY OF PANTOMIME.
One day last week, after a struggle for life, Her Majesty's Theatre was shut up, five hundred persons, so it was stated, lost employment, and the Cinderella family, proud sisters and all, nay, even the gallant Prince himself, were turned adrift. Smiling, at the helm of the Drury Lane Ship, stands Augustus Druriolanus, who sees, not unmoved, the wreck of "Her Majesty's Opposition," and murmurs to himself as Jack and the Beanstalk continues its successful course, "This is, indeed, the survival of the fittest," and, charitably, Druriolanus sends out a life-boat entitled "Benefit Performance" to the rescue of the shipwrecked crew. Ave Cæsar!
From this disaster there results a moral, "which, when found," it would be as well to "make a note of." It is this: as evidently London will not, or cannot, support two Pantomimes, several Circuses, and a Show like Barnum's, all through one winter, why try the experiment? especially when the luxe of Pantomime, fostered by Druriolanus, is so enormous, that any competitor must be forced into ruinous and even reckless extravagance, in order to enter into anything like rivalry with The Imperator who "holds the field" for Pantomime, just as he holds "The Garden" for Opera, against all comers.
These rival establishments only do harm to one another, spoil the public by indulging their taste for magnificent spectacle, increasing in gorgeousness every year, until true Pantomime will be overlaid with jewelled armour, crushed under velvet and gold, and be lying helpless under the weight of its own gorgeosity. We should question whether the
"Mr. Gladstone desires that ALL LETTERS, &c., should be addressed to him at 10, St. James's Square, London."—Standard, Jan. 25.
Why should "all letters" be addressed to Mr. Gladstone? Isn't anybody else to have any? How about Valentine's Day? Will "all letters" be addressed to him then? If so—then the above Illustration conveys only a feeble idea of the result.
FELINE AMENITIES.
Fair Hostess (to Mrs. Masham, who is looking her very best). "Howdydo, Dear? I hope you're not so Tired as you look!"
THE FINISHING TOUCH;
Or, Preparing for Mr. Speaker's Party.
Ah! he's ready now, thanks be!
But a plaguier child than he
I am sure we Nusses three
Never dressed.
But at last we have got through;
Well-curled hair, and sash of blue!
Yes, we rather think he'll do,
Heaven be blessed!
Ah! the awful time it took!
Never mind; by hook or crook
We have togged him trimly. Look!
There he stands!
His long wailings nearly hushed,
Buttoned, pinned, oiled, combed and brushed,
And his tight glove-fingers crushed
On his hands.
Does us credit, don't you think?
How the chit would writhe and shrink,
Get his garments in a kink
Every way!
Awful handful, hot and heady,
Shuffling round, ne'er standing steady,
Feared we'd never get him ready
For the day.
Mr. Speaker's Party,—yes!
Hope he'll be a great success;
His clean face and natty dress
Ought to please.
But there'll be no end of eyes
On his buttons, hooks, and ties;
Prompt to chaff and criticise,
Tear and tease.
There'll be many an Irish boy
Who will find it his chief joy
To upset and to annoy
The young Turk;
And, with no particular call,
Try to make him squeal and squall,
Disarrange him, after all
Our hard work.
Not to mention other lads,
Regular rowdy little Rads,
Full of ill-conditioned fads,
And mean spite;
Who will pinch and pull the hair
Of our charge who's standing there,
After all our patient care
Right and tight.
For we know they don't like us,
And they're sure to scold and cuss
The tired three, and raise a fuss
And a pother
About Hopeful here. Heigho!
But he's ready, dears, to go.
Ah! they little little know
All our bother!
On our hands heaven knows how long
We have had him. 'Twould be wrong
To indulge in language strong;
But how hearty
Is our joy that we have done!
There now, Reppy, off you run!
Only hope you'll have good fun
At the Party!