قراءة كتاب Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 101, August 15, 1891

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Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 101, August 15, 1891

Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 101, August 15, 1891

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دار النشر: Project Gutenberg
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The CZAR's in Muscovy, and all

Is well with—Tyranny! The harried thrall

Shall still be harried, though, a little while,

The Autocrat on the Republic smile;

The Jew shall be robbed, banished, outraged still,

Although the tyrant, with a shuddering thrill

Diplomacy scarce hides, for some brief days

Must listen to the hated "Marseillaise!"

Fear not, Fanatic! Despot do not doubt!

The rule of Orthodoxy and the Knout

Is not yet over wholly. France may woo,

Columbia plead, the Jew is still the Jew;

And, spite of weak humanitarian fuss,

CÆSAR be praised, the Russ is still the Russ!


A GROUSE OUTRAGE.—Shooting them before the Twelfth.


"WON'T WORK!"

AIR—"St. Patrick's Day in the Morning." Irish Sportsman sings:—

'Won't Work!'

St. Patrick, they say,

Kicked the snakes in the say,

But, ochone! if he'd had such a hound-pack as mine,

I fancy the Saint,

(Without further complaint)

Would have toed the whole troop of them into the brine.

Once they shivered and stared,

At my whip-cracking scared;

Now the clayrics with mitre and crosier and book,

Put the scumfish on me,

And, so far as I see,

There's scarce a dog-crayture

But's changed in his nature.

I must beat some game up by hook or by crook,


But my chances of Sport

Are cut terribly short

On St. Grouse's Day in the morning!

With a thundering polthogue,

And the toe of my brogue,

I'd like to kick both of 'em divil knows where!

Sure I broke 'em meself,

And, so long "on the shelf"

They ought to be docile, the dogs of my care.

O'BRIEN mongrel villin,

And as for cur DILLON

Just look at him ranging afar at his will!

I thought, true as steel,

They would both come to heel,

Making up for the pack

Whistled off by false MAC,

As though he'd ever shoot with my patience and skill!

To me ye'll not stick, Sirs?

What divil's elixirs

Tempt ye on the Twelfth in the morning?

Plague on ye, come back!

Och! ye villainous pack,

Ye slaves of the Saxon, ye blind bastard bunch!

Whelps weak and unstable,

I only am able

The Celt-hating Sassenach wholly to s-c-rr-unch!

Yet for me ye won't work,

But sneak homeward and shirk,

Ye've an eye on the ould spider, GLADSTONE, a Saxon!

He'll sell ye, no doubt.

Sure, a pig with ring'd snout

Is a far boulder baste

Than such mongrels! The taste

Of the triple-plied thong BULL will lay your base backs on

Will soon make ye moan

That ye left me alone

On St. Grouse's Day in the morning!


TO LORD TENNYSON.

On His Eighty-second Birthday, August 6, 1891.

Ay! "After many a summer dies the Swan."1

But singing dies, if we may trust the Muse.

And sweet thou singest as when fully ran

Youth's flood-tide. Not to thee did Dawn refuse

The dual gift. Our new Tithonus thou,

On whom the indignant Hours work not their will,

Seeing that, though old age may trench thy brow,

It cannot chill thy soul, or mar thy skill.

Aurora's rosy shadows bathe thee yet,

Nor coldy. "Give me immortality!"

Tithonus cried, and lingered to regret

The careless given boon. Not so with thee.

Such immortality is thine as clings

To "happy men that have the power to die."

The Singer lives on whilst the Song he sings

Charms the world's heart. Such immortality

Is better than unending lapse of years.

For that the great god-gift, Eternal Youth,

Accompanies it; the failures, the chill fears

Tithonus knew thou may'st be spared in truth,

Seeing that thine Aurora's quickening breath

Lives in thee whilst thou livest, so that thou

Needst neither dread nor pray for kindly Death,

Like "that grey shadow once a man." And now,

Great Singer, still we wish thee length of days,

Song-power unslackened, and unfading bays!

Footnote 1: (return)

"Tithonus."


VICISSITUDES OF A RISING PERIODICAL.

VICISSITUDES OF A RISING PERIODICAL.

The Proprietor. "I'LL TELL YOU WHAT IT IS, SHARDSON, I'M GETTING SICK OF THE 'OLE BLOOMIN' SHOW! THE KNACKER AIN'T SELLING A SCRAP—NO NOTICE TOOK OF US ANYWHERE—NOT A BLOOMIN' ADVERTISEMENT! AND YET THERE AIN'T 'ARDLY A LIVIN' ENGLISHMAN OF MARK, FROM TENNYSON DOWNWARDS, AS WE 'AVEN'T SHOWN UP AND PITCHED INTO, AND DRAGGED 'IS NAME IN THE MUD!"

The Editor. "DON'T LET'S THROW UP THE SPONGE YET, OLD MAN! LET'S GIVE THE DEAD 'UNS A TURN—LET'S HAVE A SHY AT THACKERAY, BROWNING, GEORGE ELIOT, OR, BETTER STILL, LET'S BESPATTER GENERAL GORDON AND CARDINAL NEWMAN A BIT,—THAT OUGHT TO FETCH 'EM A FEW, AND BRING US INTO NOTICE!"


WHAT HOE! RAIKES!—When King RICHARD—no, beg his pardon, Mr. RICHARD KING—says, as quoted in the Times, "That he can only assume that Mr. RAIKES purposely availed himself of a technicality to cover a statement which was a palpable suggestio falsi," he throws something unpleasant into the teeth of RAIKES. It is as well to remember that rakes have teeth.


"LATINÉ DOCTUS."—A Cantab, neither a first-rate sailor nor a first-class classic, arrived at Calais after a rough passage, looking, as his friend, who met him on the quai, observed, "so changed he would hardly have known him." "That's it," replied the staggering graduate, "quantum mutatus ab billow!" Oh! he must have been bad!


THE SONG THAT BROKE MY HEART.

I paused in a crowded street,

I only desired to ride—

Only to wait for a Hammersmith 'bus

With room for myself outside;

When I caught the nastiest tune

My ear had ever heard,

And asked the Police to take it away,

But never a man of them stirred.

So the

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