Punch, Or The London Charivari | Page 8

colleague or as rival. WOODALL? Well, he is gentle, genial, good all; But there's a twinkle in his eye Persuades me that he would not die Did you consent to drop your "claim." And now there comes another name To raise for Shes the party slogan. Well, trust, dears--if you like--to LOGAN; He "will support you _at all times_!" Keep your eye on him! SHAKSPEARE's rhymes Tell you "Men were deceivers ever." M.P.'s wise, foolish, crass, and clever, Are--nominally--on your side, And--privately--your cause deride. Take the straight tip, my dears--I glean it From private talk--_they don't half mean it!_
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THE VOLUNTEERS' FOOTHOLD.--SHOEBURYNESS.
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
BORN, FEB. 22, 1819. DIED, AUG. 12, 1891.
"We could not have been prouder of him had he been one of us."--Times.
Bard of two worlds, and friend of both, As ripe in years as culture, verily To miss that voice two worlds are loth, In which much wisdom spake so merrily. A voice, and no mere echo, thine, Of many tones, but manly ever. Thy rustic _Biglow's_ rugged line A grateful world neglecteth never! It smote hypocrisy and cant With flail-like force; sleek bards that ripple Like shallow pools--who pose and pant, And vaguely smudge or softly stipple,-- These have not brain or heart to sing As Biglow sang, our quaint _Hosea_, Whose "Sunthin in the Pastoral line," Full primed with picture and idea, Lives, with "The Courtin'," unforgot, And worth whole volumes of sham-Shen-stone. Yes, you could catch, as prigs may not, Pure women's speech and valiant men's tone. Zekle and Huldy in our hearts Have found a place. But a true Poet, Like SHAKSPEARE's Man, plays many parts. You chid us sharply, well we know it, For you'd the gift of Satire strong, And knew just how to lay the lash on. You smote what you thought British wrong, Well, that won't put us in a passion. "I ken write long-tailed if I please," You said. And truly, polished writer, More like "a gentleman at ease," Never touched quill than this shrewd smiter. Your "moral breath of temperament" Found scope in scholarly urbanity; And wheresoever LOWELL went Sounded the voice of Sense and Sanity. We loved you, and we loved your wit. Thinking of you, uncramped, uncranky; Our hearts, ere we're aware of it, "Run helter-skelter into Yankee." "For puttin' in a downright lick 'Twixt Humbug's eyes, there's few to metch it." Faith, how you used it; ever quick Where'er Truth dwelt, to dive and fetch it. Vernacular or cultured verse, The scholar's speech, the ploughman's patter You'd use, but still in each were terse, As clear in point as full in matter. You'd not disdain "the trivial flute," The rustic Pan-pipe you would finger, Yet could you touch "Apollo's lute" To tones on which Love's ear would linger. Farewell, farewell! Two countries loved, Two countries mourn you. None will quarrel With English hands, which, unreproved, Lay on your bier an English Laurel!
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AN OLD SCHOOL BUOY.--Under the heading of "Church and Schools," the _St. James's Gazette_ gave an interesting illustration of "public spirit in schools." It recounted how "An Old Bedford Boy"--no relation to ROBERT, the Waiter, we believe--in the course of returning thanks, said, "I have bathed in all the great rivers of the world." Then he added, "the water of the sluggish Ouse is the sweetest of them all." Oddly enough his name was "ZINCKE," though evidently he must be a first-rate "Zwimmer." With genuine love for his old school, he might have added that he wished he was a Buoy again. But he seems to have got on swimmingly everywhere.
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"HELPS" AND WHELPS.
The following advertisement appeared some little time since in the columns of a daily contemporary:--
To those who have not time to give their dogs sufficient exercise in London.--A Lady, experienced, would EXERCISE DOGS in the Park. Terms, one hour daily, 5s. a week; two hours, 7s. 6d.--Address, &c.
[Illustration]
Listen to this, _Rover_, my hound! This passes expectation! A "Lady Guide," who'll trot you round For scant remuneration!
When pain and anguish wring my brow Because I'm doomed to hark To your "Why-not-go-out?" bow-wow, _She_'ll take you to the Park!
Cometh this ministering sprite, Smiling upon us meekly, And says, "I'll make your burden light For seven-and-sixpence weekly."
They talk of "woman's sphere," when sole, Her hemisphere, when mated; But surely here she's reached the goal For which she was created!
She'll chaperon you down the Row, With silken cord she'll lead Your footsteps where the flowerets blow,-- A "lucky dog," indeed!
She'll win your love by bits of cake, She'll let you bark, or growl, And fight with other dogs, and make War on the water-fowl.
Yet is it right your wayward tramp Her maiden steps should hamper? No one who knows you for a scamp Would take