Public-domain ebook
by Various
Language: en450 downloads on Project Gutenberg
Subjects
In: Punch·Humour·Essays, Letters & Speeches
Public-domain ebook sourced from Project Gutenberg #14057.
The opening · free to read
Ah, Summer! now thy wayward race is run, With soft, appeasing smiles thou com'st, like one Who keeps a pageant waiting all the day, Till half the guests and all the joy is gone, And hearts are heavy that awoke so gay.
What though the faithful trees, still gladly green, Show fretted depths of blue their boughs between, Though placid sunlight sleeps upon the lawn, It only tells us of what might have been Of fickle favours wantonly withdrawn.
Blown with rude winds, and beaten down with rain, How can the roses dare to trust again The tricksy mistress whom they once adored? Even the glad heaven, chilled with stormy stain, Grudges its skylark pilgrims of its hoard.
Poor is the vintage that the wild bee quiffs, When the tall simple lilies--the giraffes That browse on loftier air than other flowers-- When all the blooms, wherewith late Summer laughs, Like chidden children droop among the bowers.
Oft like a moorhen scuttling to the reeds, The cricket-ball sped o'er the plashy meads, And rainbow-blended blazers shrank and ran When showers, in mockery of his moist needs, Half-drown'd the water-loving river man.
What woman's rights have crazed thee? Would'st thou be A Winter Amazon, more fierce than he? Can Summer birds thy shrew-heroics sing? Wilt tend no more the daisies on the lea, Nor wake thy cowslips up on May morning?
What, shall we brew us possets by the fire And let the wild rose shiver on the brier. The cowslip tremble in the meadows chill, While thy unlovely battle-call wails higher And dusty squadrons charge adown the hill?
It is too late; thou art no love of mine; I answer not this sigh, this kiss divine; The sunlight penitently streaming down Shines through the paling leaf like thinnest wine Quaff'd in the clear air of a mountain town.
Farewell! For old love's sake I kiss thy hands; Go on thy way; away to other lands That love thee less, and need thee less than we; Pour out thy passion on some desert sands, Forget thy lover of the Northern Sea.
Away with fond pretence; let winter come With snow that strikes the heaviest footfall dumb. We know the worst, and face his rage with glee; And, though the world without be ne'er so glum, Sit by the hearth, and dream and talk--of thee.
Yes, come again with earliest April; stay, Thyself once more, through the fair time when day Clasps hand with day, through the brief hush of night-- A twilight bower of roses, where in play Dance little maidens through from light to light.
[Lord HAWKE's team of Cricketers were beaten at Manheim by the Philadelphians by eight wickets whereat the Philadelphia Ledger cockadoodles considerably. The Britishers, however, won the return match somewhat easily.]
The Yankee Eagle well might squeal and squawk At having licked the British bird (Lord) HAWKE. But when that HAWKE his brood had "pulled together," That Eagle found it yet might "moult a feather." Go it, ye friendly-fighting fowls! But know 'Tis only "Roosters" who o'er conquest crow!
Sweet to return (for home the Briton hankers, After an exile of two months or so, Swiss or Italian). Sweet--to find your Banker's Balance getting low.
Sweet to return from Como or Sorrento. Meshed in their shimmering net of drowsy sheen, Into a climate that you know not when to Really call serene.
Sweet to return from hostelries whose waiters Rush to fulfil your slightest word or whim, Back to a cook who passionately caters Not for you, but him.
Sweet to return from Table-d'Hôtes disgusting (Oh, how you grumbled at the Sauce Romaine!) Fresh to the filmy succulence incrusting Solid joints again.
Sweet to return from Innkeepers demurely Pricing your candle at a franc unshamed, Back to a land where perquisites are surely Never, never claimed.
Sweet to return from bargaining, disputing, Pourboires and Trinkgelds grudgingly bestowed-- Unto the simple charioteers of Tooting, Or the Cromwell Road.
Sweet to return from "all those dreadful tourists," Such mixed society as chance allots, E'en to the social splendour of the purists Of those sparkling spots.
Sweet to return to bills and fogs and duty! (Some of the latter at our Custom House) Sweet, after smaller game, to hail the beauty Of the British mouse!
Sweet too the sight of cockchafer; and sweet'll Welcome the pilgrim, doomed too long to roam, England's tried sentinel, the black, black beetle With his "Home, sweet Home!"
When as VICTORIA rulde this land, The firste of that greate name, Faire Loundonne, of the cockneyes lovde, Attaynd to power and fame.
Most peerlesse was her splendoure founde, Her favour, and her face; Yet was there one thing marred her weale, And wroughte her dire disgrace.
Her dower was all that showered golde, Like Danaë's, could her lende, Yet dwelt she in the ogreish holde Of fell and fearsome fiende.
Yea Loundonne Towne, faire Loundonne Towne, Her name was calléd so, To whom the Witch Monopolie Was known a deadlye foe.
"Cast off from thee those schemes," said she, "That greate and costlye bee, And drinke thou up this deadlye cup, Which I have brought to thee!"
"Take pitty on my awkward plight!" Faire Loundonne she dyd crye, "And lett me not with poison stronge Enforcéd be to dye!"
Then out and laught that wicked Witch: "If that you will not drinke, This dagger choose! Though you be riche, You'll shrinke from that, I thinke."
The dagger was a magic blayde, With figures graven o'er, Which, as you gazed thereon, did seeme To growe to more and more.
"Nay," quothe faire Loundonne, "'tis but choyce 'Twixt dyvill and deepe sea! I praye thee take thyself awaye, And leave the jobbe to me!"
But nothynge could this grasping Witch Therewith appeaséd be. The cup of deadlye poison stronge, As she knelt on her knee,
She gave this comely dame to drinke, Who tooke it in her hande, Then from her bended knees arose, And on her feet did stande.
And casting Council-wards her eyes, She did for rescue call, When--[_Fragmentes further may be founde,_ At presente thys is alle!
If close researche, as welle we hope, Perchaunce complete ye texte, This ballade, as scribes saye, shall be _"Continued in our next!"_]
Wanted, a few good extra Judges, who will be prepared to do all the work at present delayed or neglected by the existing members of the Bench. They will be expected to dispense with all vacations except a week at Christmas, five days at Easter, and a fortnight from the first to the fifteenth of October. They will devote their entire time to the service of the State, both day and night. Their day will be devoted to business in the High Court of Justice in the Strand, and when required they will go Circuit (by special express) sitting at the various assizes from 9 P.M. until 3 A.M., returning to London by trains timed to reach the Metropolis sufficiently early to allow of the usual morning sitting. They will be further required to consider their leisure (if any) entirely at the disposal of those members of the Bar and Solicitors who require it. If they do this punctually and diligently, without knocking up, they will be permitted to draw salaries computed at the rate of about one-third of the emoluments received by a third-rate Queen's Counsel; and if they grow lazy, or are incapacitated by illness, they will be rewarded by a number of personal attacks in the London newspapers. Applications to be sent to the Lord Chancellor (endorsed "Extra Judges to suppress outside clamour") as early as possible. Every candidate for an appointment will be expected to be as strong as a horse, and as insensible to feeling as the back of a rhinoceros.
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