Volume 107, September 15, 1894

edited by Sir Francis Burnand

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ALL MY EYE!

OR, RHYME AND REASON.

(_By Baron Grimbosh._)

Since first the Muse to melody gave birth, And with rhyme's chymings blest a happy irth, Poetic seekers of a "perfect rhyme" Have missed the bull's-eye almost every thyme. We want a brand-new Versifiers' Guide, And he who Pegasus would neatly ruide, Must shun bards' beaten highways, read no hymn, Nor by phonetic laws his stanzas trymn. The eye's the Muse's judge, and by the eye Parnassian PITMANS must the poet treye. Rhyme to the ear is wrong; at any rate, Rhyme that greets not the eye cannot be grate, And though by long wrong usage sanctified, It may not pass my new Poetic Gied. These new Rhyme-Rules let bardlings get by heart, For from the New Parnassus must depeart, From TOPLADY to TENNYSON, all those Who prove sweet Poesy's false phonetic fose. COWPER and ROWLAND HILL must be arraigned; In KEBLE, HEBER, NEWMAN, are contaigned False rhymes the most atrocious upon earth, Which might move MOMUS to derisive mearth. Of Rhyme's true laws I'm getting to the root, And a New Poetry will be the froot, The Muse, now by the few acknowledged fair, Shall then be warmly welcomed everywhair, And not, as now, in one loud howl sonorous, As "footle" banned by Commonsense in chorous. Then a verse-scorning world, in pleased surprise, Will to Parnassus lift delighted ise; And from St. Albans to the Arctic Pole, The "lyric cry" (in Grimbosh rhymes) shall role. The people then not hymns alone shall praise, But the sweet secular singer's luscious laise, Phonetic laws to wish to change at once Must prove a man a duffer and a donce, The laws of spelling are less fatal foze. (You can spell "does" as either "duz" or "doze," And if you wish to make it rhyme with bosh, What easier than writing wash as "wosh"?) If TENNYSON were all rewritten _thus_, His verse indeed would be de-li-ci-us; And ISAAC PITMAN'S spelling would add lots Of charm to the great works of ISAAC WOTTS. There! Grimbosh sets the world right once again! May lesser poets mark! A-main!! A-main!!!

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LITERARY INTELLIGENCE.

SCENE--_A Sea-side Library._

_Visitor (wearily, after a series of inquiries and disappointments)._ What I want is a _recent_ novel. I haven't read _The Vermilion Gillyflower_ yet. It's been out six months or more. Surely you've got _that_?

_Shop Attendant._ I don't _fancy_ it's in our catalogue. I don't _remember_ hearing of it. (_Brightly._) We've got _Ivanhoe_.

_Visitor (ignoring the suggestion)._ Well, then, I could do with CONAN DOYLE'S last, or STANLEY WEYMAN'S.

_Shop Attendant._ STANLEY, did you say? Oh yes, we've _ordered_ the _Life of Dean Stanley_, but it hasn't come yet.

_Visitor (gloomily)._ I don't want anybody's life. I want--let's see--_A Gentleman of France_.

_Shop Attendant. A Gentleman of France?_ I don't recollect the title. But (_cheerfully_) we've _John Halifax, Gentleman_, if that'll do as well.

_Visitor (groaning)._ Oh no, it won't! How about _So-so_, by BENSON, you know? Or I hear Mrs. CLIFFORD'S latest is worth reading. Or _Bess of the Curvybills_, by HARDY. That's been out a couple of years at least. (_Hopefully._) Oh, I'm sure _that_'s got to you.

_Shop Attendant (floored)._ Would you look through the shelves for yourself, if you please? You'll find _something_ to suit you, I _know_. There's one or two of DICKENS'S, and _Middlemarch_--now, _that_'s a rather recent work. Or _The Channings_. We've had _The Channings_ bound again, and it's a _great_ favourite.

[_Flits off quite relieved at the entrance of a girl who desires a penny time-table and a halfpennyworth of writing-paper._

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The Plague of Poets.

(_By a Rabid Reviewer._)

What's this the log-rollers are gushing about? "Captain JACK CRAWFORD, the Post Scout!" Oh, bother the Bards! How the rhyme-grinders go it! My future rule shall be "scout the poet!"

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"MUTES AND LIQUIDS."--Some clever detectives, of the Birmingham Police Force--not by any means Brummagem detectives--disguised themselves as "Mourners' Mutes" and such like black guards of hearses, and, after a re-hearsal of their several parts, they went to a tavern for drink--grief, professionally or otherwise, being thirsty work--and managed to discover that this public-house was only a privately conducted betting-house, being, like themselves, in disguise. The result has yet to be ascertained, but so far it has proved a most successful "undertaking."

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GOOD NEWS.--"Cheer, Boys, Cheer!" "There's a Good Time Coming"; for the evergreen veteran, Mr. HENRY RUSSELL, is "preparing his reminiscences for publication." _Mr. Punch_ looks forward with pleasure to perusing them, and wishes that HENRY'S congenial collaborator, CHARLES MACKAY, were yet living to share the treat.

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_Slow strolled the weary PUNCHIUS, and saw, Betwixt the white cliff and the whiter foam, Sweet faces, rounded arms, and bosoms prest To little harps of gold. And PUNCHIUS said:_-- "Lo! I am lucky, after session long, To light upon these sirens; and their song I fear not, though I'm wary as Ulysses, Nor do I dread their kisses, (Seeing that far away PENELOPE-JUDY Abides.) Oh! hang this maudlin muck from MUDIE! I love not, I, these new, neurotic novels, In which the wild New Woman soars--and grovels. Emancipated females are _not_ sirens! There's pleasure in the peril that environs Old-fashioned witchery. A pretty English maiden at her stitchery, Or a scaled mermaid, siren, or sea-fairy, Alike have charms for me. Yet I'll be wary, 'Maidens mit nodings'--or but little--'on,' As BREITMANN hints, are dangers For weak wayfaring strangers. But Beauty never hurt _me_. Fears begone! See how the long-tressed charmers smile and beckon! I'll go and risk a chat with them, I reckon!" _And while Punch mused, They whispering to each other as in fun, Soft music reached the Unsurpassable One:_--

"Whither away, whither away, whither away? Fly no more! Whither away from the bright white cliff and the sandy siren-haunted shore? Back to town--which is horrible now--or to politics--the beastliest bore? Day and night do the printers'-devils call? Day and night do stump-orators howl and squall? Bless 'em--and let 'em be! Out from the city of singular sights, and smells. Come to these saffron sands and these silvery shells, Far from the niggers, and nursemaids, and howling swells, Here by the high-toned sea: O hither, come hither, and furl your sails! Come hither to me, and to me, Hither, come hither, and frolic and play, (Of course, in a highly-respectable middle-aged way). Good company we--if you do not object to our--tails. And the least little tiny suspicion of silver scales. We will sing to you lyrics gay, Such as LOCKER, or AUSTIN DOBSON, or LANG might pen. Oh, we know your society-singers, and now and then, When old Father Nep's in the sulks, or amusement fails, Or we're tired of the "merry carols" of rollicking gales (As young ALFRED TENNYSON said When just a weeny bit 'off his (poetical) head') We study another than _Davy Jones's_ Locker, And read your Society Novel or Shilling Shocker! Oh, spangles are sparkling in bight and bay! Come down, Old Gentleman, give us your hand. We are modern mermaids, as you may understand, And fair, and frolic, fun-loving, and blamelessly free. Hither, come hither, and see!"

And PUNCHIUS, waggishly winking a wary eye, Cried, "Coming, my nautical darlings!--at least, I'll try. Middle-aged? I'm as young as a masher of five-and-twenty! I love pretty girls, honest fun, and the _far niente_. I'm 'a young man,' but not 'from the country,' as you will find, And if you are game for flirtation, well, _I_ don't mind!" And he stepped him down, and he sat by the sounding shore, And chatted, and flirted, and laughed with the sirens four; And he sang, as young TENNYSON might have, or UHLAND, the German, This song of the Modern Merman!--

"Who would not be A merman bold, And sit by the sea, With mermaids free. And sweet converse hold With nice nautical girls, And toy with their curls, And watch the gleam Of their glistening pearls, As they chatter, chatter On,--well, no matter Each with her tale And whisks her--narrative. (Pink skin or scale, Charms are all comparative!) Oh what a happy life were mine With Beauty (though caudate) beside the brine! With four sea-fairies beside the sea _Punch_ can live merrily, merrily!" And the Mermaids pinched the Punchian cheek (For his Caudal lecture) and made him squeak. And he cried "Revenge!" (like TIMOTHEUS, Miss) And a sweet revenge for a nip is a kiss. And around the rock siren laughter rang And that bevy of sweet sea-fairies sang:--

"O the laugh-ripple breaks on the breaking wave, And sweet are its echoes from cove and cave, And sweet shall your welcome be, You dear old Cove, Whom all she-things love, O hither, come hither and be our lord, For merry mischiefs are we! We kiss sweet kiss, and we speak sweet word: O listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten. ('Tis better than being by B-RTL-YS bored!) Business? O fiddle-de-dee!!! With pleasure and love make jubilee. Leucosia, Ligea, Parthenope Will load your briar and brew your tea. And we keep rare stingo down under the sea, For we tithe earth's commerce, all duty-free! Where will you light on a happier shore. Or gayer companions or richer store, All the world o'er, all the world o'er? Whither away? listen and stay! To _Judy_ and Parliament fly no more!"

_And sick of St. Stephen's, in holiday mood, The Modern Ulysses half wishes he could!_

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LYRE AND LANCET.

(_A Story in Scenes._)