title="[Pg. 2]" id="pgepubid00004"/>
SOME NEW YEAR'S PROBLEMS.
THE BUSY (J.) B.
(Not by Dr. Watts.)
How doth the busy Jerry Builder Improve his shining hoard, And gather money, basely earned, From every opening Board!
How skilfully he scamps his "shells"! How deftly spreads his sludge! And labours to defend his sells By special-pleading fudge!
With what serene, well-practised skill, He "squares" Surveyors too! For Jobbery finds some baseness still For venal hands to do.
Whether for work or healthful play His buildings will not last. May he be called some day, some day, To strict account at last!
Parliamentary Intelligence.—According to the announcement in the Gazette, the Speaker will take the Chair in the House of Commons on Tuesday, the 11th of February, when the new Session opens. But, as a matter of fact, The Speaker will be on the book-stalls on Saturday next, the 4th of January, entering upon what promises to be a useful and prolonged Session. Thereafter The Speaker will take the book-stall once a week regularly, there being Saturday sittings throughout the year. The Speaker will, of course, be on the side of Law and "Order! Order!"
STUDIES IN REPARTEE.
She. "How silent you are! What are you thinking of?"
He. "Nothing!"
She. "Egotist!"
A BALLAD OF EVIL SPEED.
A Cool Collation of Several Bards.
I would I had not met you, Sweet, I wish you had been far away From where, in Upper Wimpole Street, We two foregather'd yesterday. Somewhere in that unlovely street Summer's lost beauty, hid away, Woke at the music of your feet, And sought the little girl in grey. Around your head the sunbeams play— Home to the depths of your deep eyes Soft shadows of the woodland stray, Then sparkle with a quick surprise, As when the branch-entangled skies Shake from the depths of woodland stream, Awhile in laughing circles gleam, Then spread to heaven's peace again. Amber and gold, and feathery grey, You suited well the Autumn day, The muffled sun, the misty air, The weather like a sleepy pear. And yet I wish that you had been Afar, beside the sounding main, Or swaying daintily the rein Of mettled courser on the green, So I had passed, and passed unseen.
For I arose, from dreams of thee, So late that morn, my matin tea Was cold as mutton two days cooked; As in the looking-glass I looked, Methought the razor need not wreak Its wonted vengeance on my cheek, Nor clear the shadow from my chin Till to the City I had been. Thus, horrid with a nascent beard, By chance through Wimpole Street I steered, Trusting therein to shun contempt Of who abhor a man unkempt. For like a mother-bird, who's caught The cant of modern woman's thought, My restless tie refused to sit, And restless fingers vainly sought To soothe the silkworm's stubborn toil. But only did its candour soil, And suffered none the less from it. For all my neck, and head no less, Owned to a vague unquietness, As when the vagrant spiderlet Has spread at large her filmy net To catch the moonbeams, wavering white, At the front gate on Autumn night.
Then suddenly the sombre way Rock'd like the darkness struck by day, The endless houses reel'd from sight, And all romance and all delight Came thronging in a glorious crowd. So, when the drums are beating loud, The mob comes sweeping down the Mall, Far heralding the bear-skins tall. Glorious in golden clothing comes The great drum-major with his drums And sun-smit brass of trumpets; then The scarlet wall of marching men, Midmost of which great Mavors sets The colours girt with bayonets. Yes, there were you—and there was I, Unshaved, and with erratic tie, And for that once I yearn'd to shun My social system's central sun. How could a sloven slave express The frank, the manly tenderness That wraps you round from common thought, And does not ask that you should know The love that consecrates you so. No; furtive, awkward, restless, cold, I basely seemed to set at naught That sudden bliss, undreamt, unsought. What must she think, my girl of gold? I dare not ask; and baffled wit Droops—till sweet hopes begin to flit— Like butterflies that brave the cold— Perhaps she didn't notice it.
"JUST TO OBLIGE BENSON."
Dear Mr. Punch,—It was not a very happy thought to send me to the Globe Theatre at this festive season of the year to witness the representation of a piece, called by the management, for some reason or other, "a faërie comedy." Now, I like a Burlesque, and I am fond of a Pantomime, but a mixture of blank verse and tom-foolery is rather too much for me, especially when that mixture is not redeemed by a plot of any interest. Nothing can be more absurd than the story (save the mark!) told in this particularly uninteresting play. It appears that a "Duke!" of Athens married the Queen of the Amazons, and during the nuptial rejoicings ordered the daughter of one of his subjects to "die the death" unless she transferred her affections from her own true love to a gentleman of her father's choice. The gentleman of her father's choice was beloved in his turn by a school friend of his would-not-be betrothed, and the play which lasted from eight until nearly midnight, was devoted to setting this simple (in more senses than one) imbroglio right. By a clumsy device, Oberon King of the Fairies bewitched the two pairs of lovers during their sleep in a wood, so that one lady had two admirers and the other none. All that was needed to bring the piece to a conclusion was to have another exercise of magic when the
