Punch, or the London Charivari | Page 7

Strategy for our "young bloods," with secret s��ances, and--ahem!--Fagin-like rehearsals, is not a bad notion. But on the whole I agree with Moloch:--
"My sentence is for open war: of wiles, More inexpert, I boast not: there let those Contrive who need, or when they need, not now. For while they sit contriving, shall the rest, Millions that stand in arms, and longing wait The signal to arise, sit lingering here, Prisoners of his tyranny who reigns By our delay? No, let us rather choose, Arm'd with hell-flames and fury all at once, O'er these high towers to force resistless way, Turning Obstruction into horrid arms Against the Obstructor; when to meet the noise Of his 'iniquitous' engine, he shall hear Ulsterian thunder; and for lightning set Green fire and rockets shot with equal rage Among his 'items;' and his seat itself Shake with Tartarean tactics, 'dirty tricks,' His own invented dodges."
Grandolphus (tugging at Balfourius's tunic-tails). Ha! ha! ha! Well quoted, my Orange-plumed Hyperborean hero! (Aside: I must read up the bards a bit. Didn't know they were so practically pertinent. How handy that "senesque" bit came in the other day!)
Balfourius (fidgeting). I say, GRANDOLPHUS, if you'd tug at the rope, instead of my tails, I fancy you'd tire me less, and have more effect on the Ram.
Grandolphus (cheerily). Ah, my old friend, I assure you I intend to stick to you "loyally and unhesitatingly."
Balfourius (drily). Oh--thanks!!!
Chamberlainus. Never were such a United lot as we are:
(Sings sotto voce.)
For I love dear B. as a brother, I do, And dear B. he worships me; But we'll both be blowed if we'll either be stowed In the other chap's hold, you see!
Balfourius. What's that you say?
Chamberlainus. Oh, merely humming "Birds in their little nests agree."
Balfourius. Ah, as the Chief says, there'll be plenty of opportunity for personal sacrifice and pulling together before we're through with this siege. To work this Battering-Ram with effect, unanimity and simultaneity of effort are especially essential.
Saundersonius. Quite so! So bear a hand--at the rope, GRANDOLPHUS, if you please. Now then, boys--all together!!! BANG!!!!!!
Grand Old Voice (from within). "When they do agree, their unanimity is wonderful." Wonder if that gate will stand the shock! Must disable that Rampant Ram of theirs--somehow.
[Left keeping his eye on 'em.
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SUFFICIENTLY ANTIQUE.--Said TOMKINS, "I won't say my ancestors were in this Country before the Flood, but they came in with the High Tide."
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[Illustration: THE ASSAULT!!]
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[Illustration: TRIALS OF A CONVALESCENT.
Tompkins (in a feeble voice, for the fourth or fifth time, with no result). "CHAIRMAN!!! CHAIRMAN!!!"
That Awful Boy. "LYDIES AND GENTLEMEN----!!"]
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A FYTTE OF THE BLUES.
BY AN OLD "CROCK."
(After reading the rattling verses of "Tis," entitled "Good Luck!" in the "Granta.")
Good old Granta! They set the blood glowing, Your verse-grinder's galloping lines, There seems rare inspiration in Rowing! The Muse, who politely declines To patronise pessimist twitters, Has smiled on these stanzas, which smack Of health, honest zeal, foaming "bitters," And vigour of brain and of back.
Good luck to the Light Blues! That burden Befits rattling rhymes from the Cam, Their "movement" might rouse a Dame DURDEN, Or fire a cold victim of cram. Why it stirs up "old Crocks" to peruse 'em-- Slashing lines on "a slashing octette"-- They feel, though 'tis hard to "enthuse" 'em, There must be some life in 'em yet.
Old Crocks! Oh, exuberant younkers! You "guy" "the old gang" as "played out," As fogies, and fussers, and funkers, You've over-much reason, no doubt. But, great Scott! as your rowing-rhymes rattle And lilt lyric praise of the Crews, We too sniff the air of the battle! We too have a Fit of the Blues.
It's oh! just to "swing behind LEWIS," A "youngster as strong as an ox"! Or be one who true Boss of the Crew is,-- Your "pet Palinurus"--the Cox! To feel all the blood in one glowing, And--heedless of love, toil, and "tin"-- Know naught in creation save--Rowing. Deems nothing worth much save--a WIN!
Five minutes, my boys, of such feeling, When rivals look beaten and blown, When the nose of your ship is just stealing Ahead, when your muscles have grown To thews, that--pro tem.--are Titanic, Are worth a whole year of our lives, Whose waistbands are--well, Aldermanic, Who've wrinkles, and worries, and wives!
Well, here's to the two tints of azure, The Dark Blue as well as the Light! At least there's one thing we can say sure,-- There'll be no blue funk in their fight. And here's to the Bard of the Granta, Who sings without "side," "sniff," or "shop." May he live (if he wish it), to plant a Big bay on Parnassus's top!
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TIM O'HOWLIGAN'S LAMENT.
AIR--"Arrah! darlints, we can't do without ye!"
AH! shure boys, the world has gone crazy,