Volume 107, August 25, 1894

edited by Sir Francis Burnand

TO A SURREY HOSTESS.

(_A Parodic Vote of Thanks to a Town Matron, who took a House in the Country._)

LADY CLARA SHERE DE SHERE, Through me you now shall win renown; It nearly broke my country heart To come back to the dusty town. In kindliest way, you bade me stay And nothing better I desired, But Duty with a great big D Called far too loud, and I retired.

Lady CLARA SHERE DE SHERE I wonder if you'll like your name! Oh! how you all began to chaff And laugh the moment that I came. Yet would I take more for the sake Of your dear daughter's girlish charms. A simple maiden not yet four Is good to take up in one's arms.

Lady CLARA SHERE DE SHERE, Some newer pupil you must find, Who, when you pile his plate sky-high, Will meekly say he does not mind. You sought to beat my power to eat, An empty plate was my reply. The cat you left in Grosvenor Square Is not more hungry now than I.

Lady CLARA SHERE DE SHERE, You sometimes took a mother's view, And feared lest winsome DOROTHY Should learn too much from me--or you. Indeed I heard one bitter word That scarce were fit for her to hear; Our language had not that repose Which rightly fits a SHERE DE SHERE.

Lady CLARA SHERE DE SHERE, The marriage bells rang for the Hall. The flags were flying at your door; You spoke of them with curious gall. How you decried the pretty bride And swore her dresses weren't by WORTH, And gaily went to church to stare At her of far too noble birth.

Trust me, _Clara Shere de Shere_, The man I saw who's rather bent, The grand old gardener at your house Prefers the bride of high descent. Howe'er that be, it seems to me 'Tis all important what one eats. Milk pudding's more than caviare, And simple food than coloured sweets.

CLARA, CLARA SHERE DE SHERE, If time be heavy on your hands, And there are none within your reach To play at tennis on your lands, Oh! see the tennis court is marked, And take care that it doesn't rain, Then stay at Shere another month And ask me down to stay again.

* * * * *

A VOICE FROM "THE UPPER SUCKLES."

MY GOOD MR. PUNCH,--I notice that in spite of all London being out of town, a number of persons have been holding, or propose holding, a meeting condemnatory of the House of Lords. I fancy, regardless of the close of the season, the site chosen has been or will be Hyde Park. Perhaps, under these circumstances, you, as the representative of the nation--equally of the aristocracy and the democracy--will allow me a few lines' space in which to express my sentiments.

My good Sir, I am considerably past middle age, and yet, man and boy, have been in the House of Peers quite half-a-dozen years. I cannot say that I was added to the number of my colleagues because I was an eminent lawyer, or a successful general, or a great statesman. I believe my claim to the distinction that was conferred upon me,--now many summers since,--was the very considerable services I was able to afford that most useful industry the paper decoration of what may be aptly termed "the wooden walls of London." When called upon to select an appropriate territorial title, I selected, without hesitation, the Barony of Savon de Soapleigh. Savon is a word of French extraction, and denotes the Norman origin of my illustrious race. Not only was I able to assist at the regeneration of the "great unwashed," but also to do considerable service to the grand cause with which my party in politics is honourably associated. I was able to contribute a very large sum to the election purse, and having fought and lost several important constituencies, was amply rewarded by the coronet that becomes me so well, the more especially when displayed upon the panels of my carriage.

You will ask me, no doubt (for this is an age of questions), what I have done since I entered the Upper Chamber? I will reply that I have secured a page in _Burke_, abstained from voting, except to oblige the party whips, and, before all and above all, pleased my lady wife. And yet there are those who would wish to abolish the House of Peers! There are those who would do away with our ancient nobility! Perish the thought! for in the House of Peers I see the reflection of the nation's greatness.

But you may ask me, "Would I do anything to improve that Chamber?" And I would answer, "Yes." I would say, "Do not increase its numbers; it is already large enough."

It is common knowledge that a gentleman of semi-medicinal reputation, who has been as beneficial, or nearly as beneficial, to the proprietors of hoardings as myself, wishes to be created Viscount Cough of Mixture. Yet another of the same class desires to be known to generations yet unborn as Lord Tobacco of Cigarettes; whilst a third, on account of the attention he has paid to the "understandings" (pardon the _plaisanterie_) of the people, is anxious to figure on the roll of honour as "Baron de Boots."

My good _Mr. Punch_, such an extension of the House of Peers merely for the satisfaction of the vanity of a number of vulgar and puffing men would be a scandal to our civilisation. No, my good Sir, our noble order is large enough. I am satisfied that it should not be extended, and when I am satisfied the opinions of every one else are (and here I take a simile from an industry that has given me my wealth) "merely bubbles--bubbles of soap."

And now I sign myself, not as of old, plain JOE SNOOKS, but Yours very faithfully,

SAVON DE SOAPLEIGH.

P.S.--I am sure my long line of ancestors would agree with me. When that long line is discovered you shall hear the result.

* * * * *

BYGONES.

The midsummer twilight is dying, The golden is turning to gray, And my troublesome thoughts are a-flying To the days that have vanished away, When life had no crosses for me, love, But Proctors and bulldogs and dons, And I used to write sonnets to thee, love, In the dreamy old garden of John's.

By Jove! What a time we just had, love, That week you were up for Commem.! The dances and picnics--egad, love, How strange to be thinking of them! How we laughed at the dusty old doctors, And the Vice with his gorgeous gold gown, And you thought it a shame that the Proctors Were constantly sending me down.

We danced and we dined and we boated, Did the lions all quite _comme il faut_, And I felt a strange thrill when you voted Old JOHNNIE'S the best of the show. I remember your eager delight, love, With our garden and chapel and hall-- And oh, for that glorious night, love, When we went to the Balliol ball!

There is very poor pleasure in dancing In a stuffy hot ball-room in June-- And the Balliol lawn looked entrancing In the silvery light of the moon. I fancy the thought had occurred, love, To somebody else besides me, For I managed, with scarcely a word, love, To get you to smile and agree.

We sat on the Balliol lawn, love, And the hours flew as fast as you please, Till the rosy-tipped fingers of dawn, love, Crept over the Trinity trees. A stranger might say he had never Heard trash in a vapider key; But no conversation has ever Been half so delicious to me.

I seemed to be walking on air, love; And oh, how I quivered when you Snipped off a wee lock of your hair, love, And said you were fond of me too. I clasped it again and again, love, To my breast with a passionate vow. There ever since it has lain, love, And there it is lying just now.

--But my heart gives a horrible thump, love, I find myself gasping for air, For my throat is choked up with a lump, love, Which surely should never be there. And I sadly bethink me that life, love, Won't always run just as we will-- For you are another man's wife, love, And I am a bachelor still.

* * * * *

Common (Gas) Metre.

"Light metres" there are many, The lightest of the lot Is what is called "the Penny-in-the-Slot!"

* * * * *

EMBARRAS DE RICHESSES.

["The Bank Return shows considerable additions to the reserve and the stock of bullion."--_"Times," on "Money Market."_]

Richer Old Lady you'll not meet, Than this one, of Threadneedle Street. Nicer Old Lady none, nor neater, But, like the boy in _Struwwelpeter_, That whilom chubby, ruddy lad, The dear old dame looks sour and sad; Nay, long time hath she seemed dejected, And her once fancied fare rejected. She screams out--"Take the gold away! Oh, take the nasty stuff away! I won't have any gold to-day."

This Dame, like Danaë of old Has long been wooed in showers of gold, By Jupiters of high finance; But, sick of that cold sustenance, Or surfeited, or cross, or ill, The dear Old Lady cries out still-- "Not any gold for me, I say! Oh, take the nasty stuff away!! I _won't_ have any more to-day!!!"

And on my word it is small wonder, For in her spacious house, and under, Of bullion she hath boundless store, And scarcely can find room for more. Filled every pocket, purse, safe, coffer, And still the crowds crush round and offer Their useless, troublesome deposits, To cram her cupboards, choke her closets. What marvel then that she should say-- "Oh, take the nasty stuff away! I won't have any more to-day!!"

The poor Old Lady once felt pride as A sort of modern _Mrs. Midas_; For all she touches turns to gold Within her all-embracing hold; Gold solid as the golden leg Of opulent _Miss Kilmansegge_, But, like that lady, poor-rich, luckless, She values now the yellow muck less, Though once scraped up with assiduity, Because of its sheer superfluity. It blocks her way, it checks the breath of her; She dreads lest it should be the death of her. With bullion she could build a Babel, So screams, as loud as she is able,-- "Not any more, good friends, I say! For goodness gracious go away!! I _won't_ take any more to day!!!"

They beg, they pray, they strive to wheedle The Old Lady of the Street Threadneedle. The cry is still they come! they come! Men worth a "million" or a "plum," The "goblin," or the "merry monk"; Constantly chinketh, chink-chank-chunk! In "Gladstone" or in canvas bag; But sourly she doth eye the "swag," Peevishly gathers round her skirt, As though the gold were yellow dirt. Crying, "Oh, get away now, _do_! I'm really getting sick of you. The proffered 'stuff' I _must_ refuse; I have far more than I can use. I've no more need or wish for money Than a surfeited bee for honey. Money's a drug, a nauseous dose. At cash the Market cocks its nose. 'Tis useless as the buried talent, Or the half-crown to a poor pal lent; As gilded oats to hungry nag. Away with bulging purse and bag! They are a bother and a pest. I _will_ not store, I _can't_ invest. With your 'old stocking' be content, _I_ can't afford you One per Cent. Bullion's a burden and a bore. I cannot do with any more! Not any more for me, I say Oh, take the nasty stuff away I _won't_ have any gold to-day!!!"

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE NEW AIR.

(_To an Old Tune._)

O RAYLEIGH now, this _raelly_ strange is This New Nitrogen! Air that into water changes Seem not new to men, (All our atmosphere this summer Has been "heavy wet,") But sheer solid air seems rummer, More Munchausenish yet! New things now are awfully common; And it seems but fair, With New Humour, Art, and Woman, We should have New Air. "Lazy air," one calls it gaily; Seasonable, very! Will it quiet us, dear RAYLEIGH, Soothe us, make us merry? Still the flurry, cool the fever, Calm the nervous stress? If it be so, you for ever _Punch_ will praise and bless. Will the New Air set--oh! grand Sir!-- Life to a new tune? Lead us to a Lotos-Land, Sir, Always afternoon? One per cent. seems rather little! Can't you make it more? When 'tis solid is it brittle? Liquid, does it _pour_? RAYLEIGH? No? You don't say so! What lots of funny things you know!

* * * * *

THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN A BAD GERMAN BAND AND A BEATEN CRICKET TEAM.--One fails to play in time and the other to "play out time."

* * * * *

LYRE AND LANCET.

(_A Story in Scenes._)