PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

All modish shapes must melt in gloom,

Great Worth himself must die,

Before the Sex again assume

Eve's sweet simplicity!

I saw a vision in my sleep,

Which made me bow my head and weep

As one aghast, accurst!

Was it a spook before me past?

Of women I beheld the last,

As Adam saw the first.

Regent Street seemed "No Thoroughfare,"

Bond Street looked weird, inhuman;

The spectres of past fashions were

Around that lonely Woman.

Some were the work of native hands,

Some had arrived from foreign lands,

Nondescript jumbles some!

Pall-Mall had now nor sound nor tread,

Park Lane was silent as the dead,

Belgravia was dumb.

Yet, lighthouse-like, that lone one stood,

Or whisked her skirts around,

Like a wild wind that sweeps the wood,

And strews with leaves the ground.

Singing, "Our hour is come, O Sun

Of Fashion! We'll have no more fun.

Solitude is too slow!

True thou hast worn ten thousand shapes

(In spite of man's sour gibes and japes),

But—now the thing lacks go.

"What though the grumbler Man put forth

His pompous power and skill!

He could not make Woman and Worth

The vassals of his will;—

Fashion, I mourn thy parted sway,

Thou dim discrownéd Queen! To play

To empty box and stall;

To dress—when not another She

Exists to quicken rivalry—

No, it won't pay at all!

"Go, let oblivion's curtain fall

Upon the works of men!

Nothing they did that's worth recall,

With sword, or spade, or pen.

Their bumptious bunglings bring not back!

Man always was a noisy quack

Who thought himself a god;

But when he fancied he had scored

Prodigiously, the Sex he bored

Subdued him with a nod.

"Now I am weary. No one tries

The fit of new attire!

Doom, that the joys of Dress denies,

Bids Woman's bliss expire.

But shall La Mode know final death?

Forbid it Woman's latest breath!

Death—who is male—shan't boast

The eclipse of Fashion. Such a pall

Shall not like Darkness cover all—

Till I give up the ghost!

"What would most vex and worry him,

Dull, modeless Man, whose spark

Long (beside Woman's) burning dim,

Has now gone down in dark?

Ha! He'd kick up the greatest shine

(If he could kick) at—CRINOLINE.

Were he recalled to breath,

I'll have one last man-mocking spree

By donning hooped skirts. Victory!

This takes all sting from Death!

"Go, Sun, while Fashion holds me up,

Swollen skirt and skimpy waist

Shall fill—male—sorrow's bitter cup,

And mortify—male—taste!

Go, tell the spheres that sweep through space,

Thou saw'st the last of Eve's fair race,

In high ecstatic passion;

The darkening universe defy,

To quench her taste for Toggery,

Or shake her faith in Fashion!"

Glorious Apollo! This is wondrous hard!

Fancy John Bull without Official Bard!

His plight is sad as that of the great men

Who lived, unmarked by the Poetic Pen,

Before great Agamemnon. Ah, my Horace,

Britons are a Boeotian, heavy, slow race!

As for the "Statesman" who treats bards so shabbily,

'Twill serve him right if thine "illacrimabile"

Applies to him. A Premier, but no Poet?

England, you are dishonoured, and don't know it.

Void of a Sacer Vates to enshrine

In gorgeous trope and long-resounding line,

Thy Victories, and Weddings, Shows and Valour?

Parnassus shakes, the Muses pine in pallor.

When foreign princelings mate our sweet princesses,

When Rads of fleets and armies made sad messes,

And stand in need of verbal calcitration;

When—let's say Ashmead-Bartlett—saves the nation

In the great name of glorious Saint Jingo;

When Bull gives toko or delivers stingo.

To Fuzzy-Wuzzy, or such foolish savages;

When our great guns commit most gallant ravages

Among the huts of some unhappy village,

Where naughty "niggers" have gone in for pillage;

When Someone condescends to be high-born,

Or deigns to die, who now shall toot the horn,

Or twang the lyre, emitting verse divine,

For Fame and—say, about a pound per line?

I must submit. I have not been "submitted,"

But poetless John Bull is to be pitied.

Of course self-praise is no "recommendation,"

(In Gladstone's sense) or else, unhappy nation,

I, even I, could spare you natural worry at,

Your non-possession of a Poet-Laureate!