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قراءة كتاب Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 101, October 31, 1891
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Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 101, October 31, 1891
PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
Vol. 101.
October 31, 1891.
YOUNG GRANDOLPH'S BARTY.
(Afrikander Version of the great Breitmann Ballad, penned, "more in sorrow than in anger," by a "Deutscher" resident in the distant regions where the Correspondent of the "Daily Graphic" is, like der Herr Breitmann himself, "drafellin' apout like eferydings.")
Young GRANDOLPH hat a Barty—
Vhere is dat Barty now?
He fell'd in luf mit der African goldt;
Mit SOLLY he'd hat a row;
He dinks dat his secession
Would make der resht look plue,
But, before he drafel vast and var,
His Barty sphlit in two.
Young GRANDOLPH hat a Barty—
Dere vash B-LF-R, W-LFF, and G-RST,
Dey haf vorgot deir "Leater,"
Und dat ish not deir vorst.
B-LF-R vill "boss" der Commons,
Vhile GRANDOLPH—sore disgraced—
Ish "oop a tree," like der Bumble Bee,
Und W-LFF and G-RST are "placed."
Young GRANDOLPH hat a Barty—
Vhen he dat Barty led,
B-LF-R vash but a "Bummer,"
A loafing lollop-head.
Young Tories schvore by GRANDOLPH,
(Dey schvear at GRANDOLPH now,)
Now at de feet of der "lank æsthete"
Der Times itshelf doth bow!
Young GRANDOLPH hat a Barty,
Dere all vash "Souse und Brouse."1
Now he hets not dat prave gompany
All in der Commons House,
To see him skywgle GL-DST-NE,
Und schlog him on der kop.
Young Tory bloods no longer shout
Till der SCHPEAKER bids dem shtop.
Und, like dat Rhine Mermaiden
"Vot hadn't got nodings on,"
Dey "don't dink mooch of beoplesh
Vat goes mit demselfs alone!"
Young GRANDOLPH hat a Barty—
Where ish dat Barty now?
Where ish dat oder ARTHUR's song
Vot darkened der Champerlain's prow?
Where ish de himmelstrahlende stern,
De shtar of der Tory fight?
All gon'd afay, as on Woodcock's wing,
Afay in de ewigkeit!
Young GRANDOLPH hat a Barty;
He hunt der lions now,
All in der lone Mashonaland,
But he does not "score"—somehow.
One Grand Old Lion he dared to peard,
Und he "potted" Earls and Dukes,
But eight or nine real lions at once,
He thinks are "trop de luxe"
Young GRANDOLPH hat a Barty,
But he scooted 'cross der sea,
Und he tidn't say to dem, "Come, my poys,
Und drafel along mit me!"
"CORRECT CARD, GENTS!"—"Wanted a Map of London" was the heading of a letter in the Times last Thursday. No, Sir! that's not what is wanted. There are hundreds of 'em, specially seductive pocket ones, with just the very streets that one wants to discover as short cuts to great centres carefully omitted. What is wanted is a correct map of London, divided into pocketable sections, portable, foldable, durable, on canvas,—but if imperfect, as so many of these small pocket catch-shilling ones are just now, although professedly brought up to date '91, they are worse than useless, and to purchase one is a waste of time, temper and money. We could mention an attractive-looking little map—which, but no— Publishers and public are hereby cautioned! N.B.—Test well your pocket map through a magnifying glass before buying. Experto crede!
OYSTERLESS.
(By an Impecunious Gourmet.)
[Oysters are very dear, and are likely, as the season advances, to be still higher in price.]
Oh, Oyster mine! Oh, Oyster mine!
You're still as exquisitely nice;
With perfect pearly tints you shine,
But you are such an awful price.
The lemon and the fresh cayenne,
Brown bread and butter and the stout
Are here, and just the same, but then
What if I have to leave you out?
What wonder that my spirits droop,
That life can bring me no delight,
When I must give up oyster soup,
So softly delicately white.
The curry powder stands anear,
The scallop shells, but what care I—
You're so abominably dear,
O Oyster! that I cannot buy.
With sad imaginative flights,
I think upon the days of yore;
Like TICKLER, on Ambrosian nights,
I have consumed them by the score.
And still, whenever you appeared,
My pride it was to use you well;
I let the juice play round your beard,
And always on the hollow shell.
I placed you in the fair lark-pie.
With steak and kidneys too, of course;
Your ancestors were glad to die,
So well I made the oyster sauce.
I had you stewed and featly fried,
And dipped in batter—think of that;
And, as a pleasant change, I've tried
You, skewered in rows, with bacon-fat.
"Where art thou, ALICE?" cried the bard.
"Where art thou, Oyster?" I exclaim.
It really is extremely hard,
To know thee nothing but a name.
For this is surely torment worse
Than DANTE heaped upon his dead;—
To find thee quite beyond my purse,
And so go oysterless to bed.
À PROPOS OF THE SECRETARY FOR WAR'S ROSEATE AFTER—DINNER SPEECH (on the entirely satisfactory state of the Army generally).—(STAN-)"HOPE told a flattering tale."
UNIVERSITY MEM.—The Dean of Christ Church will keep his seat till Christmas, and just a LIDDELL longer.
THE RAVEN.