Punch, Or The London Charivari | Page 6

to complain that cows and trees, and woodmen and
farms, and sheep and wains, and hay and turnips, do not necessarily
suggest the highest happiness, and that it is not always dignified for an

aspiring Poet to be led about helpless through the byeways of sense by
those wilful, wanton playfellows, his rhymes. The two factions may be
left to fight out their quarrel over the present example, which, by the
way, is not taken from the collected edition of the Poet's works.
IS LUNCH WORTH LUNCHING?
(_BY A-FR-D A-ST-N._)
Is Lunch worth lunching? Go, dyspeptic man, Where in the meadows
green the oxen munch. Is it not true that since our land began The
hornéd ox hath given us steaks for lunch?
Steaks rump or otherwise, the prime sirloin, Sauced with the stinging
radish of the horse. Beeves meditate and die; we pay our coin, And
though the food be often tough and coarse,
We eat it, we, through whose bold British veins Bold British hearts
drive bubbling British blood. No true-born Briton, come what may,
disdains To eat the patient chewers of the cud.
Or seek the uplands, where of old Bo Peep (So runs the tale) lost all her
fleecy flocks; There happy shepherds tend their grazing sheep (Some
men like mutton, some prefer the ox).
Ay, surely it would need a heart of flint To watch the blithe lambs
caper o'er the lea, And, watching them, refrain from thoughts of mint,
Of new potatoes, and the sweet green pea.
Is Lunch worth lunching? The September sun Makes answer "Yes;" no
longer must thou lag. Forth to the stubble, cynic; take thy gun, And add
the juicy partridge to thy bag.
Out in the fields the keen-eyed pigeons coo; They fill their crops, and
then away they fly. Pigeons are sometimes passable in stew, And
always quite delicious in a pie.
Or pluck red-currants on some summer day, Then take of raspberries an

equal part, Add cream and sugar--can mere words convey The luscious
joys of this delightful tart?
Is Lunch worth lunching? If such cates should fail, Go out of country
bread a solid hunch, Pile on it cheese, wash down with country ale,
And, faring plainly, yet enjoy thy lunch.
Yea, this is truth, the lunch of knife and fork, The pic-nic lunch, spread
out upon the earth, Lunches of beef, bread, mutton, veal, or pork, All,
all, without exception all, are worth!
* * * * *
NINETY-NINE OUT OF A HUNDRED CANDIDATES MUST BE
"PILLED."--The Living of "Easington-with-Liverton, Yorkshire, worth
£600 per annum," is vacant. Is it in the gift of the celebrated Dr.
COCKLE? or of Dr. CARTER, of Little-Liverpill-Street fame?
* * * * *
[Illustration: "BACK!"]
* * * * *
PLAYFUL HEIFERVESCENCE AT HAWARDEN.
[Mr. GLADSTONE met with an extraordinary adventure in Hawarden
Park one day last week. A heifer, which had got loose, made for Mr.
GLADSTONE as he was crossing the park, and knocked him down. Mr.
GLADSTONE took refuge behind a tree. The heifer scampered off, and
was subsequently shot.]
[Illustration]
G.O.M. _sings_:--
How happy could I be with heifer, If sure it were only her play. Is't
LABBY? or Labour? Together In one? I'll get out of the way. Singing
(_to myself_)--With my tol de rol de rol LABBY, &c.

She comes! On her horns she is playing A tune with a nourish or two!
No cow-herd am I but my staying To play second fiddle won't do.
Singing (_to myself_)--With my tol de rol tol-e-rate LABBY, &c.
Don't chivey her! I would allot her "Three acres," and lots of sweet hay.
Alas! while I'm talking, they've shot her! Well! heifers, like dogs, have
their day! Singing (_to myself, as before_)--With my tol lol de
rol-licking LABBY, &c.
_Latest._--After dinner, Mr. GLADSTONE fell asleep in his chair! He
was seen to smile, although his repose seemed somewhat disturbed.
Presently he was heard to murmur melodiously the words of the old
song, slightly adapted to the most recent event,--"_Heifer of thee I'm
fondly dreaming_!" Then a shudder ran through his frame as he
pronounced softly a Latin sentence; it was "Labor omnia vincit!" Then
he awoke.
* * * * *
SONGS OUT OF SEASON.
NO. II.--KEW-RIOUS!
It's a pleasure worth the danger, Deems your gorgeous DE LA
PLUCHE, To become the main arranger Of a drive in your barouche;
And your Coachman, honest JOE too, When approached thereon by
JEAMES, Doesn't say exactly "no," to Such inviting little schemes.
JEAMES has doffed them "'orrid knee-things;" Plush gives way to
tweed and socks; And a hamper with the tea-things, Fills his place upon
the box; With MARIA, JANE, and HEMMA, He is playing archest
games, And they're in the sweet dilemma, Who shall make the most of
JAMES.
Mr.