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قراءة كتاب Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 98, March 29, 1890
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, Vol. 98, March 29, 1890
just now.
Verb. I have seen so little of him, Papa, I cannot love him—you must really excuse me!
Sir P. Ah, but you will, my darling, you will—I know your unselfish nature—you will, to save your poor old dad from a terrible disgrace ... yes, disgrace, listen! Twenty-seven years ago—(he tells her all). Verbena, at this very moment, there is a subscription on foot in the county to present me with my photograph, done by an itinerant photographer of the highest eminence, and framed and glazed ready for hanging. Is that photograph never to know the nail which even now awaits it? Can you not surrender a passing girlish fancy, to spare your fond old father's fame? Mr. Spiker is peculiar, perhaps, in many ways—not quite of our monde—but he loves you sincerely, my child, and that is, in itself, a recommendation. Ah, I see—my prayers are vain ... be happy, then. As for me, let the police come—I am ready!
[Weeps.
Verb. Not so, Papa; I will marry this Mr. Spiker, since it is your wish.
[Sir Posh. dries his eyes.
Sir P. Here, Spiker, my dear fellow, it is all right. Come in. She accepts you.
Sp. Thought she would. Sensible little gal! Well, Miss, you shan't regret it. Bless you, we'll be as chummy together as a couple of little dicky-birds!
Verb. Mr. Spiker, let us understand one another. I will do my best to be a good wife to you—but chumminess is not mine to give, nor can I promise ever to be your dicky-bird.
Lord B. Sir Poshbury, may I have five minutes with you? Verbena, you need not go. (Looking at Spiker.) Perhaps this person will kindly relieve us of his presence.
Sp. Sorry to disoblige, old feller, but I'm on duty where Miss Verbena is now, you see, as she's just promised to be my wife.
Lord B. Your wife!
Verb. (faintly). Yes, Lord Bleshugh, his wife!
Sir P. Yes, my poor boy, his wife!
[Verbena totters, and falls heavily in a dead faint, R.C., upsetting a flower-stand; Lord Bleshugh staggers, and swoons on sofa, C., overturning a table of knicknacks; Sir Poshbury sinks into chair, L.C., and covers his face with his hands.
Sp. (looking down on them triumphantly). Under the Harrow, by Gad! Under the Harrow!
[Curtain, and end of Act I.
STRIKING HOME.
Well, you have got your way, my lad,
And may it prove good all round.
Liberal pay is your right, I say,
For your grim work underground.
Rise of pay and a shorter day?
Excellent things, belike,
Yet would they were sought in another way
Than the cruel road of a Strike.
I see you've been having a smoke, my lad;
What did you see in the smoke?
Why, some things good, and many things bad,
And nought that is matter for joke.
At every puff there's a picture of gloom,
A moral in every pull.
Motionless wheels and idle loom,
What is their meaning in full?
Capital's greed and Labour's need
These be fair matters for fight.
Must Trade, though, suffer and poor hearts bleed?
Must wrong be the road to right?
Glad there is talk of a better way,
Truly 'tis worth the search;
For little you'll profit by higher pay
If Commerce be left in the lurch.
PROSPECTS FOR THE COMING SEASON.
The Lions are decidedly Small this Year, but the Beauties are Finer, Larger, and more like each other than ever.
A BOAT-RACE VISION.
Winds from the East may provoke us,
Making us angry and ill,
Dust of the Equinox choke us,
Yet we will welcome thee still,
Spring, now the runnels of primrose and crocus
Trickle all over the hill;
Now, when the willow and osier
Flicker in diffident green;
Now, when the poplars are rosier,
When the first daisies are seen,
And the windows of draper and hosier
Are bright with their 'Varsity sheen.
"Not what it was, Sir, in my time,"
Grumbles a fogey, or two;
"Then we had really a high-time,
Lord, what mad things we would do!
Skylarking! Well, it was sky-time.
Blue! It was nothing but blue!"
Well, let the people and papers
Say what it please them to say,
Shops of the politic drapers
Follow them, sombre or gay,
"Men" be austere, or cut capers,
Still 'tis a glorious day!
Visions of Sandford or Ely,
Baitsbite, or Abingdon Lock,
Skies that are stormy or steely,
Seas that we ship with a shock,
"Coaches," whose mouths are not mealy,
"Faithfuls," who riverward flock,
Mornings, inclement and early,
Stinted tobacco and beer,
Tutors reluctant and surly,
"Finals" unpleasantly near—
All are forgot in the hurly—
Lo! the long looked-for is here!
Now, at the start, as I'm eyeing
The back, that I know like a friend,
I wonder which flag will be