قراءة كتاب Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 103, December 10, 1892
تنويه: تعرض هنا نبذة من اول ١٠ صفحات فقط من الكتاب الالكتروني، لقراءة الكتاب كاملا اضغط على الزر “اشتر الآن"
اللغة: English
Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 103, December 10, 1892
الصفحة رقم: 6
class="smcap">Jack and Nancy, of Jolly Salts at sea, and Old Tarry-Breeks ashore;
But if Britons rule the waves, as the grog-fired sailor raves, when he dreams of glorious graves in the deep dark main,
Daddy Neptune must allow Davy shares his empire now, or the Sultan and the Howe have gone down in vain.
Daddy Neptune loves me not. Plumped by storm or by shot, my Locker held a lot in the days gone by,
But 'tis daily growing fuller. Is the British Tar off colour, are the sea-dogs slower, duller, though as game to die?
Has Science spoilt their skill, that their iron pots so fill my old Locker? How I thrill at the lumbering crash,
When a-crunch upon a rock, with a thundering Titan shock, goes some shapeless metal block, to immortal smash?
But 'tis daily growing fuller. Is the British Tar off colour, are the sea-dogs slower, duller, though as game to die?
Has Science spoilt their skill, that their iron pots so fill my old Locker? How I thrill at the lumbering crash,
When a-crunch upon a rock, with a thundering Titan shock, goes some shapeless metal block, to immortal smash?
Oh! it's real, rasping fun! Mighty hull, monster gun, all are mine ere all's done; and the millions madly spent
On a lollopping wolloping kettle, with ten thousand tons of metal sink as the Titans settle, turtle-turned, or wrenched and rent,
To my rocks and my ooze. I seem little like to lose by the "Progress" some abuse, and the many crack up.
Ah! Neptune, sour old lad, Davy Jones may well look glad at the modern Iron-clad, and thank Armstrong and Krupp!
On a lollopping wolloping kettle, with ten thousand tons of metal sink as the Titans settle, turtle-turned, or wrenched and rent,
To my rocks and my ooze. I seem little like to lose by the "Progress" some abuse, and the many crack up.
Ah! Neptune, sour old lad, Davy Jones may well look glad at the modern Iron-clad, and thank Armstrong and Krupp!
Science and Salvage? Fudge! If I am any judge, my sea-depths and salt sludge will not lose by them.
Nep calls me callous mocker, but, according to my Cocker, I may laugh, with a full Locker, whilst the fools condemn.
Think of daring the blue brine with a chart of the Eighty-Nine, and "a regular goldmine" in one huge black hulk!
Whilst the lubbers stick to that, I shall flourish and grow fat like a shark or ocean-rat, though old Nep may sulk.
Nep calls me callous mocker, but, according to my Cocker, I may laugh, with a full Locker, whilst the fools condemn.
Think of daring the blue brine with a chart of the Eighty-Nine, and "a regular goldmine" in one huge black hulk!
Whilst the lubbers stick to that, I shall flourish and grow fat like a shark or ocean-rat, though old Nep may sulk.
Demon-Sexton of the Deep! Ha! ha! Ho! ho! I keep my old office. Wives may weep, and the taxpayers moan;
Let the grumblers make appeal to King Science! Lords of Steel, Iron Chieftains, do ye feel when your victims groan?
Davy Jones is well content with that tribute ye have sent, with the millions ye have spent just to glut his gorge;
He had seldom such a fill in the days of wood—and skill—constant sea-fights, or the spill of the Royal George.
Let the grumblers make appeal to King Science! Lords of Steel, Iron Chieftains, do ye feel when your victims groan?
Davy Jones is well content with that tribute ye have sent, with the millions ye have spent just to glut his gorge;
He had seldom such a fill in the days of wood—and skill—constant sea-fights, or the spill of the Royal George.
Good old false last-century Chart! Though the conning may be smart, and the steersman play his part, Palinurus-like,
Whilst they trust to your vain vellum, which is almost sure to sell 'em, even Davy Jones can tell 'em, they may sink or strike.
Hooray, King Death, hooray! Who says we've had our day! Pass the rum and let's be gay. Not that "dead man's chest,"
Robert Louis grimly sings, like my "Locker Chorus" rings—mingling weirdly wedded things—grisly doom and jest!
Whilst they trust to your vain vellum, which is almost sure to sell 'em, even Davy Jones can tell 'em, they may sink or strike.
Hooray, King Death, hooray! Who says we've had our day! Pass the rum and let's be gay. Not that "dead man's chest,"
Robert Louis grimly sings, like my "Locker Chorus" rings—mingling weirdly wedded things—grisly doom and jest!
On an Irish Landlord.
