Punch, or the London Charivari

What a question to ask! If the colour be blue,

A batch of our London Minervas will do:

For each one will dye—the allusion is shocking—

Our town and its streets with the tint of her stocking.

Our pessimist frauds and the Ibsensite pack

Will groan as they thickly bedaub it in black.

Asiatic Sir Edwin, the Poet of Light,

He will wipe out their work, and arrange it in white.

Then the Company-gulls will arrive on the scene,

And, presto, the colour of London is green.

And a rare crew of "Johnnies" will stay out of bed

Till the daylight appears, while they paint the town red.

In fact—and you'll thank me for giving the hint—

Painting London is merely a question of tint.

Grinder, when serenely grinding

On your yacht the Hundredth Psalm,

Tell me, are you truly finding

In this work congenial charm?

"Music hath" (an old quotation)

"Charms to soothe the savage breast,"

Think how you might lull some nation

Into dilettante rest.

Grinder, gentle-hearted Grinder,

Try the savage who has spurned

Culture, for he might grow kinder,

Soothed by barrel deftly turned.

Matabele Lobengula

(Accent on penultimate)

Might be made by music, you'll a-

gree, a model potentate.

Orpheus like, you might so charm him

That a mere Mashona child's

Hand could easily disarm him

In those equatorial wilds.

He would cease to wear his skimpy

Kilts that leave his legs half bare,

He would soon disband his impi;

Culture then would be his care.

Suits of dittos clothe this whopper;

Patent leather boots be got;

You might lead him—"smash, my topper!"—

Even to a chimney-pot.

He would have a daily paper,

Standard authors sold in parts,

Shops of tailor, hatter, draper,

An Academy of Arts.

He would teach, by plays, the loyal

Folk on marsh or fertile plain,

Opening a Theatre Royal,

Where they've only Reeds and Grain.

And, till death made him a Morgue 'un,

Wagner, Brahms and Greig no doubt

He would doat on—then your organ

Might be ruthlessly chucked out.

O barristers' wigs from far and wide

  You gather anew!

The Strand, like meadow with daisies pied,

  Is dotted with you.

You crowd the courts, so stuffy, so small,

  So awkwardly placed;

You don't go into the Central Hall—

   Magnificent waste!

That thing of beauty was meant to be

  For ever a joy,

Just built to accommodate, as we see,

  One messenger boy.

Proud emblem he of the empire's might,

  That thus, for a whim,

Spent pounds in thousands with such delight

   Just to shelter him.

The courts are draughty, the courts are dark,

  The passages small,

And witness, client, solicitor, clerk,

  Are squeezed in them all.

Those lancet windows on winding stairs

  Don't help one to see;

A falling Commissioner even swears

  Without any fee.

Still though we stumble and though we're squeezed,

  We all recollect

That deserted Hall, and we're truly pleased

  With it's fine effect.

The vacant acre of paving there

  Should never annoy,

It has one occupant, we 're aware—

  That messenger boy.

Here we suffer grief and pain,

Here we part to meet again:

No field, no copse, no moor!

O! it will be jawful,

Jawful, jawful, jawful!

O! isn't it awful?

Autumn Meet's an awful bore!

All who hate the "Lords," you know,

Swear this misery below,

We owe to peers above!

O! that, &c.

We'll be lammed by Labouchere,

Who the Afric strife will swear

Is due to Rhodes's rule.

O! won't he be jawful, &c.

Ashmead, too, will strive to prove

Freedom, prestige, all we love

We'll lose to gain no more,

Through Gladstone the jawful, &c.

O! how weary we shall be,

Ere the two Big Bills, or three,

Are passed and Peer-wards gone!

O! Weg will be jawful, &c.

Then the Rads will shout with joy,

And the short Recess employ,

In larrupping the Lords!

O! won't they be jawful?—

Awful, awful, awful!

It shouldn't be lawful

Autumn Meets to summon more!