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قراءة كتاب Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 102, June 18, 1892
تنويه: تعرض هنا نبذة من اول ١٠ صفحات فقط من الكتاب الالكتروني، لقراءة الكتاب كاملا اضغط على الزر “اشتر الآن"
Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 102, June 18, 1892
Minority's parts?
We bow to the yoke of TIM HEALY?
We stoop to the Papisthry rule?
Faix! them who imagine it really
Must fancy that "Orange" spells "fool."
Ri fol didder rol didder rol!
We consint to a sham House o' Commons
Established on ould College Green?
They fancy we're Radical rum 'uns!
Allaygiance we owe to our QUEEN!
But we're fly to their thraitorous dodges;
Our loyalty's edge would they dull?
Fwit! We'll pour like a flood from our Lodges,
And crack every "National" skull!
Ri fol didder rol didder rol!
We're all friends of Law and of Order,
But would they wrench us from the Crown?
We'll soon be a-singing "Boyne Water,"
And marching to "Croppies, lie down!"
'Tis we have the Men and the Money,
We don't want to foight, we're quite cool.
But, by Jingo, our foes will look funny,
When Ulster turns out 'gin Home Rule!
Ri fol didder rol didder rol!
To-day in our myriads we muster.
Friendly warning is all that we mean.
About SOLLY's "incitement" Rads fluster;
We're thrue to the Crown and the QUEEN:
But Ulster no "pathriot" shall sever,
And Ulster no "Papish" shall school.
Whillaloo! Here's the Union for ever,
And into the Boyne wid Home Rule!
Ri fol didder rol didder rol!
Och! Here's to Dutch WILLIAM the Pious!
And here's to VICTORIA the Good!
If they think we won't foight, let 'em try us!
They mock at an Orangeman's mood,
But once set the Green 'gainst the Yellow,
(Wid no one our coat-tails to pull,)
And I pity the pathriots who bellow
(Like bhoys in a bog) for Home Rule!
Ri fol didder rol didder rol!
Come, all loyal props of the nation,
Come fill up a bumper all round!
Drink success to our great federation;
With Brummy JOE's blessing 'tis crowned.
He says we are heroes, right stingo,
He vows W.G.'s an old fool.
No, we don't want to fight, but, by Jingo,
Whin we do—it's all up wid Home Rule!
Ri fol didder rol didder rol!
[Left "bombinating."
A BACHELOR'S GROWL.
Oh, the beautiful women, the women of ancient days,
The ripe and the red, who are done and dead,
With never a word of praise;
The rich, round SALLIES and SUSANS, the POLLIES and JOANS and PRUES,
Who guarded their fame, and saw no shame
In walking in low-heeled shoes.
They never shrieked on a platform; they never desired a vote;
They sat in a row and liked things slow,
While they knitted or patched a coat.
They lived with nothing of Latin, and a jolly sight less of Greek,
And made up their books, and changed their cooks
On an average once a week.
They never ventured in hansoms, nor climbed to the topmost 'bus,
Nor talked with a twang in the latest slang;
They left these fashions to us.
But, ah, she was sweet and pleasant, though possibly not well-read,
The excellent wife who cheered your life,
And vanished at ten to bed.
And it's oh the pity, the pity that time should ever annul
The wearers of skirts who mended shirts,
And never thought nurseries dull.
For everything's topsy-turvy now, the men are bedded at ten,
While the women sit up, and smoke and sup
In the Club of the Chickless Hen.
AN OLD SONG REVIVED.
COLONEL S-ND-RS-N (the Irish "Lion Comique") sings—
"WE DON'T WANT TO FIGHT,
BUT, BY JINGO, IF WE DO, ——"
THE USEFUL CRICKETER.
(A Candid Veteran's Confession.)
I am rather a "pootlesome" bat—
I seldom, indeed, make a run;
But I'm rather the gainer by that,
For it's bad to work hard in the sun.
As a "field" I am not worth a jot,
And no one expects me to be;
My run is an adipose trot,
My "chances" I never can see.
I am never invited to bowl,
And though, p'raps, this seems like a slight
In the depths of my innermost soul
I've a notion the Captain is right.
In short, I may freely admit
I am not what you'd call a great catch;
But yet my initials are writ
In the book against every match!
For although—ay, and there is the rub—
I am forty and running to fat,
I have made it all right with the Club,
By presenting an Average Bat!
PRIVATE REFLECTIONS OF THE PUBLIC ORATOR AT CAMBRIDGE.
(As recorded by Mr. Punch's Patent Phonograph.)
Deadly business, this Latin joking. One speech is bad enough, but fifteen are absolutely crushing. Still it must be done. Shade of CICERO, befriend me! Here goes:—
"What on earth can I say about the DUKE OF EDINBURGH? Mustn't offend these blessed Royalties. Am told they never take kindly to jokes. Let me see, he served on the Euryalus (query? ought I to bring in Nisus). Travelled a great deal—multorum vidit et urbes. Mem. Work this up. By the way, ALFRED's his name. Bring in ALFRED and the cakes. ALFRED thrashed Danes. PRINCE OF WALES married a Dane. To be worked up. Sailor-Prince: mem. O navis referent, etc. See also VIRGIL's description of storm. Prince plays fiddle. Might say that VIRGIL was poet quem vicina Cremonæ Mantua genuit. Did this, years ago, for old JOACHIM, but can use it again. Never mind the væ nimium miseræ vicina Cremonæ. Prince won't know about that. What's the best Latin for Admiral? Daughter betrothed to Crown PRINCE OF ROUMANIA. Can get in Roman legionaries. Ripping!!
"NORTHBROOK's fairly easy. Oxford man. Mustn't mention he only got Second Class. Never mind, India will pull me through. Conquests of ALEXANDER, and all that sort of thing. Must look up RUDYARD KIPLING for latest tips. Dusky brothers (Query, sub-fusci fratres?) good Academical joke this; sure to fetch the VICE-CHANCELLOR. Pity the CHANCELLOR's so poor in Latin.
"CRANBROOK next. Bother all these