As I listlessly turn o'er the page You hardly would guess at my youth. Yes, alas! I feel seedy and old, Though the notion is highly absurd, For I've plenty of silver and gold, And there's nothing I cannot afford : I've only to touch my hand-bell For although not respected, I'm feared, Though I live as a sot, I'm a swell And am thinking of growing a beard. V. Ye wiles that have made me your sport, Or begin life again and you'd see Just once in a way, I don't mind, But, thus happening night after night! And the thoughts which the fumes leave behind, Are anything but pleasant or bright; I drink or I gamble till three, And, if I do reach the right square, Very often can't find my latch key, Or perhaps take my bath for a chair. As I dally awhile o'er my toast and the Times, I see them, deprived of the comforts they need, Diurnally grow more distraught and distress'd, And doom'd at hotels in succession to feed On food that they loathe, and can never digest. Whilst worse than all else, there is death in the air, And rumours the stoutest of hearts to appal, As each Galignani increases the scare, And dread of the Cholera broods over all ! And then when at night I retire to my bed- I think of those friends who from London have fled For I see them condemned-for the heed that they pay To Fashion's decrees-in a cupboard to sleep, Where the lodging-house flea works its merciless way, And causes its victims long vigil to keep. Poor wretches! I think of the sum that they pay, And poisoned by cooking all reeking with grease; Whilst e'en the ozone that they yearn to obtain, And which to inhale they 'midst miseries tarry, Can only be breathed by the side of the main Arm-in-arm, so to speak, with gay 'Arriet and 'Arry In a month or two's time I shall welcome them back- THE LIMITED MONARCH. "Her Majesty's ship Monarch, having then continued on her course at a speed of barely eight knots an hour, finally, when she was distant from Malta fully 250 miles, came to a dead stop, and broke down." I'M the Monarch of all I survey, And Brassey the fact won't dispute, Like some waterlogged sea-going brute ! That Northbrook has seen in thy face! And yet mine's but a typical case. But the upshot of all is quite clear; Well, the Navy will soon disappear, And "My Lords," well-they'll disappear too! So now that I'm docked, and they find That I never was fit for the main, Let us hope that a thing of the kind Punch. April 25, 1885 A SONG FOR MR. JOSEPH CHAMBERLAIN. O SOCIETY, where are the charms That once I could see in thy face? To escape from these Duchesses' arms, I would live in a desolate place! But alas since I've turned on my chief, My peace has been wrecked in this way, And nothing can bring me relief Whilst I still with the Unionists stay! Ah, me! I once said of the Primrose, And instead of the orchid so famous Truth. Christmas Number, 1886. THE LAMENT OF THE SPORTIVE M.P. I AM weary of all I survey, I am sick to the heart of debate ; It is something too awful, I say, To be thus kept in London so late. O Parliament! where are the charms That candidates in thee can trace? For, worn out by the "Whips' " false alarms, I am sick of the horrible place! I am out of Society's reach ; At the Club I am well-nigh alone; And not e'en the smile of Hicks-Beach For my dulness extreme can atone. Yet the Irishmen, brutally stern, Have not the least pity on me, But they all make long speeches in turn In garments most shocking to see. Had I known it was certainly meant The House through September should meet, My money I'd never have spent In order to carry a seat! It is shameful, this tax on my brain, And yet fussy voters complain If by chance a division I shirk ! Each post brings to me a report That but makes my position more hard. As I read of the excellent sport From which I am wholly debarr'd. Big bags are content to secure Yes, I think of these fortunate men, As I aimlessly wander about, Or rush to my place now and then, When Biggar attempts a "count out." And sometimes I doze till I dream Of the things which my thoughts always fill, Till I wake with disgust most extreme, To find Dr. Tanner up still! And then there are Radicals too, Who want all the votes to discuss, Instead of "Supply" rushing through At one sitting, without any fuss. Whilst some seek the people's applause By stating that we of the House Had better be there making laws Than shooting at blackcock and grouse. Such rubbish I never have heard, For what, pray, becomes of my ease? It seems to me too, too absurd BURBABAN'S DEFEAT. A Warwickshire Lay. COUNT Peste, he was a nobleman, A jockey-club man, too, was he, Count Peste said to his love, “My dear, To-morrow is a racing day, I am a nobleman so bold, You'll see how we will go." Quoth Lady Peste, "That is well said, So you can ride, and be your own, * That is both nice and clear." He lost the race, he lost it quite, All wished he never had been up, Now let us sing, "Long live the Queen! And when he next a race does ride, May I be there to see!" There are twenty-two verses in all in this not very interesting parody, which is to be found in Lays of the Turf, by Rose Grey. London: G. H. Nichols, 1863. -:0: A RIDDLE. I AM just two and two, I am warm, I am cold, And the parent of numbers that cannot be told; I am lawful, unlawful-a duty, a fault, I am often sold dear, good for nothing when bought; The answer, not given by Cowper, is "A Kiss." The riddle was first published in The Gentleman's Magazine in 1806. In a later number the following answer was given, the initials “J. T" being appended to it :— A riddle by Cowper Made me swear like a trooper, Of beauty's soft kiss, I now long for such riddles again. ; "Sisters and brothers, little Maid, How many may you be?" "How many, Seven in all," she said, "And where are they? I pray you tell," "Two of us in the churchyard-lie, "You say that two at Conway dwell, Yet ye are seven !-I pray you tell, Then did the little Maid reply, "You run about, my little Maid, If two are in the church-yard laid, "Their graves are green, they may be seen," The little Maid replied, "Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, And they are side by side. "My stockings there I often knit, My kerchief there I hem : And there upon the ground I sit, I sit and sing to them. "And often after sun-set, Sir, When it is light and fair, "The first that died was sister Jane ; In bed she moaning lay, Till God released her of her pain; "So in the church-yard she was laid; And, when the grass was dry, Together round her grave we played, My brother John and I. "And when the ground was white with snow, And I could run and slide, My brother John was forced to go, And he lies by her side." "How many are you, then," said I, "If they two are in heaven?" The little Maiden did reply, "O Master! we are seven." |