Punch, or The London Charivari | Page 3

am able The Celt-hating Sassenach wholly to s-c-rr-unch! Yet for me ye won't work, But sneak homeward and shirk, Ye've an eye on the ould spider, GLADSTONE, a Saxon! He'll sell ye, no doubt. Sure, a pig with ring'd snout Is a far boulder baste Than such mongrels! The taste Of the triple-plied thong BULL will lay your base backs on Will soon make ye moan That ye left me alone On St. Grouse's Day in the morning!
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TO LORD TENNYSON.
_ON HIS EIGHTY-SECOND BIRTHDAY, AUGUST 6, 1891._
Ay! "After many a summer dies the Swan."[1] But singing dies, if we may trust the Muse. And sweet thou singest as when fully ran Youth's flood-tide. Not to thee did Dawn refuse The dual gift. Our new Tithonus thou, On whom the indignant Hours work not their will, Seeing that, though old age may trench thy brow, It cannot chill thy soul, or mar thy skill. Aurora's rosy shadows bathe thee yet, Nor coldy. "Give me immortality!" Tithonus cried, and lingered to regret The careless given boon. Not so with thee. Such immortality is thine as clings To "happy men that have the power to die." The Singer lives on whilst the Song he sings Charms the world's heart. Such immortality Is better than unending lapse of years. For that the great god-gift, Eternal Youth, Accompanies it; the failures, the chill fears Tithonus knew thou may'st be spared in truth, Seeing that thine Aurora's quickening breath Lives in thee whilst thou livest, so that thou Needst neither dread nor pray for kindly Death, Like "that grey shadow once a man." And now, Great Singer, still we wish thee length of days, Song-power unslackened, and unfading bays!
[Footnote 1: "Tithonus."]
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[Illustration: VICISSITUDES OF A RISING PERIODICAL.
The Proprietor. "I'LL TELL YOU WHAT IT IS, SHARDSON, I'M GETTING SICK OF THE 'OLE BLOOMIN' SHOW! THE KNACKER AIN'T SELLING A SCRAP--NO NOTICE TOOK OF US ANYWHERE--NOT A BLOOMIN' ADVERTISEMENT! AND YET THERE AIN'T 'ARDLY A LIVIN' ENGLISHMAN OF MARK, FROM TENNYSON DOWNWARDS, AS WE 'AVEN'T SHOWN UP AND PITCHED INTO, AND DRAGGED 'IS NAME IN THE MUD!"
The Editor. "DON'T LET'S THROW UP THE SPONGE YET, OLD MAN! LET'S GIVE THE DEAD 'UNS A TURN--LET'S HAVE A SHY AT THACKERAY, BROWNING, GEORGE ELIOT, OR, BETTER STILL, LET'S BESPATTER GENERAL GORDON AND CARDINAL NEWMAN A BIT,--THAT OUGHT TO FETCH 'EM A FEW, AND BRING US INTO NOTICE!"]
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WHAT HOE! RAIKES!--When King RICHARD--no, beg his pardon, Mr. RICHARD KING--says, as quoted in the Times, "That he can only assume that Mr. RAIKES purposely availed himself of a technicality to cover a statement which was a palpable suggestio falsi," he throws something unpleasant into the teeth of RAIKES. It is as well to remember that rakes have teeth.
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"LATIN�� DOCTUS."--A Cantab, neither a first-rate sailor nor a first-class classic, arrived at Calais after a rough passage, looking, as his friend, who met him on the quai, observed, "so changed he would hardly have known him." "That's it," replied the staggering graduate, "_quantum mutatus ab billow!_" Oh! he must have been bad!
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THE SONG THAT BROKE MY HEART.
I paused in a crowded street, I only desired to ride-- Only to wait for a Hammersmith 'bus With room for myself outside; When I caught the nastiest tune My ear had ever heard, And asked the Police to take it away, But never a man of them stirred.
So the singer still sang on; She would not, would not go; She sang a song of the year before last That struck me as rather low. She followed with one that was high, That made the tear-drops start, That was "_Hi-tiddly-i-ti! Hi!-ti!-hi!_" The song that broke my heart!
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WHAT is A "DEMOGRAPHER"?--Those Londoners who ask this question will have already obtained a practical answer, as, this week, London is full of Demographers, to whom _Mr. Punch_, Grand Master of all Demographers (or "writers for the people"), gives a hearty welcome. All hail to "The New Demogracy!"
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'ARRY ON A 'OUSE-BOAT.
[Illustration]
Dear CHARLIE,--It's 'ot, and no error! Summer on us, at last, with a bust; Ninety odd in the shade as I write, I've a 'ed, and a thunderin' thust. Can't go on the trot at this tempryture, though I'm on 'oliday still; So I'll pull out my eskrytor, CHARLIE, and give you a touch of my quill.
If you find as my fist runs to size, set it down to that quill, dear old pal; Correspondents is on to me lately, complains as I write like a gal. Sixteen words to the page, and slopscrawly, all dashes and blobs. Well, it's true; But a quill and big sprawl is the fashion, so wot is a feller to do?
Didn't