Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 104, February 11, 1893

[Mr. GLADSTONE (replying to Mr. JOHNSTON, of Ballykilbeg) announced that no recommendation had been submitted to Her MAJESTY upon the subject of the succession to the office of Poet Laureate, and that there was no immediate intention of submitting one.]

Glorious Apollo! This is wondrous hard! Fancy JOHN BULL without Official Bard! His plight is sad as that of the great men Who lived, unmarked by the Poetic Pen, Before great AGAMEMNON. Ah, my HORACE, Britons are a Boeotian, heavy, slow race! As for the "Statesman" who treats bards so shabbily, 'Twill serve him right if thine "_illacrimabile_" Applies to him. A Premier, but no Poet? England, you are dishonoured, and don't know it. Void of a Sacer Vates to enshrine In gorgeous trope and long-resounding line, Thy Victories, and Weddings, Shows and Valour? Parnassus shakes, the Muses pine in pallor. When foreign princelings mate our sweet princesses, When Rads of fleets and armies made sad messes, And stand in need of verbal calcitration; When--let's say ASHMEAD-BARTLETT--saves the nation In the great name of glorious Saint Jingo; When BULL gives toko or delivers stingo. To Fuzzy-Wuzzy, or such foolish savages; When our great guns commit most gallant ravages Among the huts of some unhappy village, Where naughty "niggers" have gone in for pillage; When SOMEONE condescends to be high-born, Or deigns to die, who now shall toot the horn, Or twang the lyre, emitting verse divine, For Fame and--say, about a pound per line? I must submit. I have not been "submitted," But poetless JOHN BULL is to be pitied. Of course self-praise is no "recommendation," (In GLADSTONE'S sense) or else, unhappy nation, I, even I, could spare you natural worry at, Your non-possession of a Poet-Laureate!

IN A PICKWICKIAN SENSE.--When "a nate Irishman" (as the song has it) "meets with a friend," he incontinently "for love knocks him down," whether with a "sprig of shillelagh" or a "flower of speech," depends upon circumstances. In either case he "means no harm," or at any rate far less harm than the phlegmatic and matter-of-fact Saxon is apt to fancy. Probably, therefore, an "Irish Phrase Book," giving the real "meaning" of Hibernian rhetorical epithets, would prove a great peacemaker, in Parliament and out. Colonel SAUNDERSON, when he had recovered his temper, and with it his wit, "toned down" the provocative "murderous ruffian," into the inoffensive "excited politician." But what a pity it is that "excited politicians" so often string themselves up to (verbal) "ruffianism."

It scarce can be thou art the last To fade before my watchful gaze; So short the part that each one plays, A flickering flame, and life is past.

And thou wert clothed in robe of snow, A crimson veil around thy head, And now thou liest, charred and dead, Erstwhile with ruddy fire aglow.

I held thee in a fond embrace To guard thee from the whistling wind; And not another can I find To comfort me and take thy place.

And though I lay aside my weeds, Yet like a widow I bemoan; Nor all the wealth the Indies own, Could satisfy my present needs.

Thy spark has vanished from my sight, Useless cigar, tobacco, pipe; Of perfect misery the type, A man without another light.

EMPLOYMENT FOR THE UNEMPLOYED.--On Tuesday, in last week, the Unemployed had their hands full, when at Temple Avenue they unsuccessfully attempted to overcome the effective resistance of the Police. The Unemployed might have been better employed.

"_Punch_ pictures with prophetic pen, a brighter, cheerier page, Which must be turned, and speedily."--_See "The Sweet Little Cherub that Sits up Aloft_," (Modern Version as it Must Be) Vol. ci., p. 254.

Mr. Punch is mightily pleased that his injunction has been obeyed, and that his prophecy is in process of fulfilment.]

I.

Ye Mariners of England, Shipwrecked in our home seas, How this will calm your wives' wild fears, And give your stout hearts ease! Hope's blue eyes gleam above the main, Her lifted light will glow, And sweep o'er the deep, When the stormy winds do blow; When the tempest rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow.

II.

The spirit comfort gathers, From schemes designed to save Brave fellows, who have dared the deep, Near home to find a grave. See how o'er rock and quicksand fell, The Electric ray doth glow, And sweep o'er the deep, While the stormy winds do blow; While the tempest rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow!

III.

BRITANNIA needs as bulwarks Light-towers along the steep, To save her gallant sons from graves Near home, though on the deep. With levin as from Jovian hand She'll light the floods below, As they roar on the shore, When the stormy winds do blow; When the tempest rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow.

IV.

The Mariners of England Glad eyes shall shoreward turn In danger's night. Behold, brave hearts, Where the Star of Hope doth burn! Science, tired by Humanity, Their grateful song shall flow To the fame of your name, When the storm has ceased to blow; When the storm is o'er, and they're safe ashore, Thanks to Hope's beacon-glow!

Q. Are there any Lighthouses away from the Coast?--_A._ Certainly. Q. Where?--_A._ In London. Q. Name them.--_A._ The Comedy, Toole's, the Opera Comique, and Strand. All Light-and-leading Houses.

_Lord Mayor's Day._--Ah, if only we had not got Parliament to sanction the plan of splitting London up into distinct Municipalities, what a proud day this would be for me! As it is, must try and remember that I am not LORD MAYOR of London at all, but only Mayor of the new Corporate Borough of Cripplegate Without, one of the half-dozen boroughs into which the old City has been divided.

_The Show._--Well, thank goodness, we do keep that up! All the 674 Mayors of all the different districts of London take part in it. That reminds me that I must put on my Civic robes, edged with imitation ermine, and my aluminium chain of office, and prepare to start. A little hitch to begin with. Mayors all assembled outside Guildhall. Mayor of South-South-West Hammersmith tries to join us. Nobody seems to know him. Very suspicious, especially as, on referring to official records, we find that there is no such borough as South-South-West Hammersmith! We tell him so. He replies, sulkily, that it was created last night by a Special Vote of the South-West Hammersmith Town Council, who found the work getting too much for them, and that, anyhow, "he intends to take part in the procession." Awkward--but we have to yield.

_In the Streets._--The 675 Mayors don't inspire as much respect as I should like. Perhaps it is due to the fact that a regular scramble took place for seats in the old LORD MAYOR'S Coach, in the course of which the Mayor of Tottenham Court Road was badly pommeled by the Mayor of Battersea Rise, and the coach itself had one side knocked out of it. Also that we other Mayors have to follow on foot, and are repeatedly asked if we are a procession of the Unemployed!

_At the Law Courts._--In the good old days Lord Chief Justice used to deliver a flowery harangue congratulating the Chief Magistrate on his elevation. But who is the Chief Magistrate now? To-day a free fight among the Mayors to get first into the Court. In consequence, Chief Justice angrily orders Court to be cleared, and threatens to commit us for contempt! Yet surely in former days a Judge would have been imprisoned in the deepest dungeons of the Mansion House for much less.

_Evening._--The hospitable custom of the Ministerial banquet still retained. Prime Minister adopts tactics of the Music Hall "Lion Comique," and, after addressing a few genial words to the guests assembled at the table of the Mayor of West Ham, jumps into brougham, and appears a few minutes later at Mayor of Shadwell's banquet, and so on to Poplar and Whitechapel, and as many as he can crowd in. Other Ministers do the same. Still, not enough Cabinet Councillors to go round, and to-night I am horrified to find that the assistant Under-Secretary to the deputy Labour Commissioner had been chosen to reply to the toast of the health of the Ministry at my banquet! Ichabod, indeed! [By the way, what a good name for a new Lord Mayor, "Ichabod," say, if knighted, "Sir THOMAS ICHABOD." Air to be played by band on his entering Guildhall, "Ichabody meet a body." But alas! these are dreams! Ichabod!] Yet, as the only building in which the Mayor of Cripplegate Without can entertain his guest is the fourth floor of an unused warehouse, perhaps we really don't deserve a higher official. Still, one can't help regretting that the City, in its natural dread of the so-called "Unification of London," persuaded the Government to agree to this sort of "Punification of London."