قراءة كتاب Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 103, December 3, 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 103, December 3, 1892
just been informed that Mr. Saunders McGregor, M.A., is about to lead to the altar the only and orphan daughter of the late Alister McFungus, Esq., of Castle Fungus, Dreepdaily, N.B., the eminent introducer of remarkably improved processes in the manufacture of Heel-ball.
"One Down, t'other Come on!"—Mr. Horace Sedger has a Prima Donna supply always on tap. After two of them have retired from the principal part in Incognita, the lively Miss Aida Jenoure—("'Aid 'em Jenoure,' she ought to be called," quoth Mr. Waggstaff)—comes to the rescue, and "on we goes again" with an excellent danseuse, too, thoroughly in earnest, as her name implies, which sounds like Miss Sin-cere and is written Miss St. Cyr.
THE FIGHT FOR THE STANDARD.
A MERE DETAIL.
Friend of the Family. "Weel, Mrs. M'Glasgie, and how's your Daughter doin', the one that was Married a while ago?"
Mrs. M'Glasgie. "Oh, varra weel, thank ye, Mr. Brown, varra weel, indeed! She canna abide her Man. But then, ye ken, there's aye a Something!!"
THE FIGHT FOR THE STANDARD.
(Modern Monetary Version.)
'Twas the gallant Golden Knight downed his visor for the fight.
All true champions delight in hard tussles.
With his yellow Standard reared at his back, no foe he feared,
And his gaze all comers queered,
There at Brussels.
Like Sir Kenneth, only more so, he expanded his fine torso.
His Standard—bold he swore so—flying proudly,
Still supreme should flow and flaunt, its defenders none should daunt.
'Twas a very valiant vaunt.
Shouted loudly.
Now the Silver Knight had sworn—that the Standard so long borne
By the Aureate One, in scorn irreducible
Should not solitary wave. He'd squabosh that champion brave,
Or would find a torrid grave—
In some crucible!
Such cremation he would dare if that Standard he might bear
To the dust, and upraise there one more Silvery.
For this Argent Knight, though pale, was right sure he could not fail,
He was proud of his white mail,
And his skill—very!
So here, Gentles, you behold that brave Knight in mail of Gold,
Sworn his Standard to uphold high and aureate;
And that blusterous battle-bout, twixt those champions stern and stout,
Will inspire, I have no doubt,
Our next Laureate!
Yank Knights-Errant may evince interest grave; that Indian Prince
Will alternate swell and wince as they struggle;
The young Scottish Knight Balfour (who looks callow more than dour)
Hopes the Silver Knight may score,
By some juggle.
But in spite of Yank and Scot, and the Bimetallic lot,
They who're fly to what is what, back the Gold 'un.
And did I bet—for fun—ere this Standard fight is done,
I should plank my ten to one
On the Old 'Un!
SUN-SPOTS.
Fog, haze, smoke or cloud, almost daily enshroud
The Metropolis—place we should shun—
And day after day the reports briefly say,
"Bright sunshine at Westminster—none,"
Yes, none!
O Sol, not a ray; no, not one!
The Times says that lots, quite a fine group of spots,
Are discernible now on the sun;
Have these stopped heat or light, so that weather-wise write,
"Bright sunshine at Westminster—none?"
Yes, none!
O Sol, what have you been and done?
Have these sun-spots increased? We know London, at least,
Is a spot unconnected with sun;
All day long we burn gas, the report is, alas!
"Bright sunshine at Westminster—none,"
Yes, none!
O Sol, you old son of a gun!
LADY GAY'S SELECTION.
Dear Mr. Punch,
I am proud of being the "selection" referred to above, though, as a matter of fact it was I who "selected" Gay from the numerous sweet young things submitted for my approval during the Season when I was considered "the parti"!—but on this point I maintain a noble silence! In spite of the old Welsh proverb, "Oh, wad some Gay the giftie gie us," &c. &c., I was a bit puzzled on reading Gay's letters, at the similarity of names, but thought it only a coincidence, until she was so upset by the one she read when abroad, that she confessed everything, and asked my advice!—It's very strange how all these clever women, when they get into a fix, apply for assistance to weak "man!" eh? Now that flat-racing is over, we are "resting on our oars" for a time—(that is literally true, for the country has been mostly under water lately!)—but we shall shortly have a cut-in at steeplechasing, when Gay will doubtless have some new experiences to relate; meanwhile, allow me to subscribe myself—(I like to subscribe to everything good)—Yours explanatorily,
ALL ROUND THE FAIR.
No. III.
In the "Fine Art" Exhibition.
Rustic Art Patrons discovered applying their eyes to peepholes, through which a motley collection of coloured lithographs of the Crimean Campaign, faded stereoscopic-views, Scriptural engravings, and daubed woodcuts from the "Illustrated Police News," is arranged for their inspection.
First Art Patron (waiting for his turn at the first peephole). Look alive theer, Ge-arge, ain't ye done squintin' at 'un yet?
Ge-arge (a local humorist). 'Tis a rare old novelty, Ben, th' latest from London, and naw mistake 'bout it!
Ben (with disappointment, as he succeeds to the peephole). Why, 'tain't on'y Adam an' Eve afoor th' Fall! that ain't so partickler noo, as I can see—Lar dear, they're a settin' nekked on a live lion, and a nursin' o' rabbits! (At the next hole Adam and
