قراءة كتاب Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 103, July 16, 1892
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Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 103, July 16, 1892
PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
Vol. 103.
July 16, 1892.
TO THE FIRST BATHING-MACHINE.
(After Wordsworth.)
O blank new-comer! I have seen,
I see thee with a start:
So gentle looking a Machine,
Infernal one thou art!
When first the sun feels rather hot,
Or even rather warm,
From some dim, hibernating spot
Rolls forth thy clumsy form.
Perhaps thou babblest to the sea
Of sunshine and of flowers;
Thou bringest but a thought to me
Of such bad quarter hours.
I, grasping tightly, pale with fear,
Thy very narrow bench,
Thou, bounding on in wild career,
All shake, and jolt, and wrench.
Till comes an unexpected stop;
My forehead hits the door,
And I, with cataclysmic flop,
Lie on thy sandy floor.
Then, dressed in Nature's simplest style,
I, blushing, venture out;
And find the sea is still a mile
Away, or thereabout.
Blithe little children on the sand
Laugh out with childish glee;
Their nurses, sitting near at hand,
All giggling, stare at me.
Unnerved, unwashed, I rush again
Within thy tranquil shade,
And wait until the rising main
Shall banish child and maid.
Thy doors I dare not open now,
Thy windows give no view;
'Tis late; I will not bathe, I vow:
I dress myself anew.
Set wide the door. All round is sea!
"Hold tight, Sir!" voices call,
And in the water, jerked from thee,
I tumble, clothes and all!
O blessed thing! this earth we pace
Thy haunt should never be,
A quite unmentionable place
That is fit home for thee!
ELECTION INTELLIGENCE.
Brilliant Elector (at the Polling Station). "IT'S A STOUTISH KOIND OF A MAN, WITH A BALD 'EAD, AS AR WISHES TO VOTE FOR, BUT AR 'M BLESSED IF AR KNOW 'IS NAÄME!!"
STUDIES IN THE NEW POETRY.
No. III.
It is with the greatest possible pleasure that Mr. Punch presents to his readers the following example of the New Poetry. It is taken from a collection entitled "Rhymes of the Ropes" These Rhymes are intended to illustrate the everyday life of the British prize-fighter, his simple joys, his manly sorrows, his conversational excellences, and his indomitable pluck. The author has never been a prize-fighter himself, but he claims for these Rhymes the merit of absolute truth in every detail. In any case it is quite certain that every critic who reviews the volume will say of it, that no previous book has ever presented to us, with such complete fidelity, the British prize-fighter as he lives and moves, and has his being—not the gaudy, over-dressed and over-jewelled creature whom the imagination of the public pictures as haunting the giddy palaces of pleasure, and adored by the fairest of the fair, but the rough, uncouth, simple creature to whom we Britons owe our reputation for pluck and stamina. How the critic knows this, never having been a prize-fighter himself, and never having associated with them, is a question which it might be difficult to answer. But, nevertheless, the critic will guarantee the "Rhymes of the Ropes."
If some of Mr. Punch's readers, while recognising the force and go of the lines, shall think them tant soit peu coarse and brutal, the fault must not be ascribed to Mr. Punch, but to the brilliant young author. Moreover, Mr. Punch begs leave to say, that squeamishness of that kind is becoming more and more absurd every day under the influence of the New Poetry and its professors. Here then is—
KNOCKED OUT.
By Mr. R*d**rd K*pl*ng.
Oh it's bully when I land 'em with a counter on the jaw,
When the ruby's all a drippin' and the conks are red and raw;
And it's bully when I've downed 'em, and the lords are standin' booze,
Them lords with shiny shirt-fronts, and their patent-leather shoes.
But you'd best look jolly meek
When you're up afore the beak,
For they hustle you, and bustle you, and treat you like a dog.
And its 'Olloway for you
For a month or may be two,
Where the Widow keeps a mansion and purvides you with your prog.
It was 'ero 'ere and 'ero there, I might 'ave been a King,
For to 'ear 'em 'ip 'urraying as I stepped into the ring,
When I faced the Tipton Slasher, me and 'im in four-ounce gloves,
Just to make us look as 'armless as a pair o' bloomin' doves.
Then I bruises 'im and batters,
And 'e cuts my lips to tatters,
And I gives 'im 'alf a dozen where 'is peepers ought to be.
And 'e flattens out my nose
With a brace of bally blows,
Which I 'ardly 'ad expected from a pug as couldn't see.
Next round the Slasher's groggy, 'e 'angs 'is 'ands and gropes
(I'd knocked him orf 'is legs at last) a-feelin' for the ropes.
And, lor, 'e looked so cheerful with 'is face a mask of red
That I bust myself with laughin' when I bashed 'im on the 'ead.
Then they counted up to ten,
But 'e couldn't rise again;
'E gasped a bit, and puffed a bit, and laid there in a 'eap.
And I copped a thousand pounds
For a fight of seven rounds,
Which was all the time it took me for to put my man to sleep.
Ah, the soft uns call it brutal; there's Mr. H.P. COBB,
And 'is talk, which isn't pretty, about ruffians (meanin' us).
I'd like to tap 'is claret when 'e's up and on the job,
And send 'im 'ome a 'owlin' to 'is mammy or 'is nuss.
But I'd rather take the chuck
For a show of British pluck,
And do my month in chockee, and eat my skilly free;
And I'll leave the curs to snivel
With their 'Ouse o' Commons drivel,
Which may suit a pack of jaw-pots, but, by gosh, it don't suit me.
"What I suffer from, at this time of year, when I go into the country," says Mrs. R., "is 'Flybites.'" She pronounced it as a word of three syllables, and then added, "I rather think the learned way of spelling it is 'Phlybites.'"
CORIOLANUS.
"I WOULD HE HAD CONTINU'D TO HIS COUNTRY
AS HE BEGAN, AND NOT