The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe Part 109

A don't object at all to War With a set a fellas like the Fwench, But this dem wupcha with the Czar, It gives one's feeling quite a wench.

The man that peace in Yawwup kept Gives all his pwevious life the lie; A fina fella neva stepped, Bai JOVE, he's maw than six feet high!

He cwushed those democwatic beasts; He'd flog a Nun; maltweat a Jew, Or pawsecute those Womish Pwiests, Most likely vewy pwoppa too.

To think that afta such a cawce, Which n.o.body could eva blame, The EMP'WA should employ bwute fawce Against this countwy just the same!

We all consida'd him our fwiend, But in a most erwoneus light, In shawt, it seems you can't depend On one who fancies might is wight.

His carwacta is coming out; His motives--which A neva saw-- Are now wevealed beyond a doubt, And we must fight--but what a baw!

THE LAST KICK OF FOP'S ALLEY.

PUNCH.

Air--"Weber's Last Waltz."

My wawst feaws are wealized; the Op wa is na maw, And the wain of DONIZETTI and TAPISCHOWE are aw!

No entapwising capitalist bidding faw the lot, In detail at last the pwopaty is being sold by SCOTT.

Fahwell to Anna Bolena; to Nauma, oh, fahwell!

Adieu to La Sonnambula! the hamma wings haw knell; I Puwitani, too, must cease a cwowded house to dwaw, And they've knocked down lovely Lucia, the Bwide of Lammamaw.

Fahwell the many twinkling steps; fahwell the gwaceful fawm That bounded o'er the wose-beds, and that twipped amid the stawm; Fahwell the gauze and muslin--doomed to load the Hebwew's bags; Faw the Times a.s.sauts the wawdwobe went--just fancy--as old wags!

That ev'wy thing that's bwight must fade, we know is vewy twue, And now we see what sublunawy glowwy must come to; How twue was MAIDSTONE'S pwophecy; the Deluge we behold Now that HAW MAJESTY'S Theataw is in cawse of being sold.

THE MAD CABMAN'S SONG OF SIXPENCE [Footnote: This inimitable burlesque was published soon after the cab fare had reduced from eightpence to sixpence a mile.]

PUNCH.

Wot's this?--wot hever is this 'ere?

Eh?--arf a suvrin!--feels like vun-- Boohoo! they won't let me have no beer!

Suppose I chucks it up into the sun!-- No--that ain't right-- The yaller's turned wite!

Ha, ha, ho!--he's sold and done-- Come, I say!--I won't stand that-- 'Tis all my eye and BETTY MARTIN!

Over the left and all round my hat, As the pewter pot said to the kevarten.

Who am I? HEMPRER of the FRENCH LEWIS NAPOLEON BONYPART, Old Spooney, to be sure-- Between you and me and the old blind oss And the doctor says there ain't no cure.

D' ye think I care for the blessed Bench?-- From Temple Bar to Charing Cross?

Two mile and better--arf a crown-- Talk of s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g a feller down!

As for poor BILL, it's broke his art.

Cab to the Moon, sir? Here you are!-- That's--how much?-- A farthin' touch!

Now as we can't demand back fare.

But, guv'ner, wot can this 'ere be?-- The fare of a himperial carridge?

You don't mean all this 'ere for me!

In course you ain't heerd about my marridge-- I feels so precious keveer!

How was it I got that kick o' the 'ed?

I've ad a slight hindisposition But a Beak ain't no Physician.

Wot's this 'ere, sir? wot's this 'ere?

You call yerself a gentleman? yer Sn.o.b!

He wasn't bled: And I was let in for forty bob, Or a month, instead: And I caught the lumbago in the brain-- I've been confined-- But never you mind-- Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho! I ain't hinsane.

Vot his this 'ere? Can't no one tell?

It sets my ed a spinnin-- The QUEEN'S eye winks--it ain't no sell-- The QUEEN'S 'ed keeps a grinnin: Ha, ha! 't was guv By the cove I druv-- I vunders for wot e meant it!

For e sez to me, E sez, sez e, As I ort to be contented!

Wot did yer say, sir, wot did yer say?

My fare!--wot, that!

Yer knocks me flat.

Hit in the vind!--I'm chokin--give us air-- My fare? Ha, ha! My fare? Ho, ho! My fare?

Call that my fare for drivin yer a mile?

I ain't hinsane--not yet--not yet avile!

Wot makes yer smile?

My blood is bilin' in a wiolent manner!

Wot's this I've got?

Show us a light-- This 'ere is--wot?-- There's sunthin the matter with my sight-- It is--yes!--No!-- 'Tis, raly, though-- Oh, blow! blow! blow!-- Ho, ho, ho, ho! it is, it is a Tanner!

ALARMING PROSPECT PUNCH.

To the Editor of "PUNCH."

SIR--You are aware, of course, that in the progress of a few centuries the language of a country undergoes a great alteration; that the Latin of the Augustan age was very different from that of the time of Tarquin; and no less so from that which prevailed at the fall of the Roman empire. Also, that the Queen's English is not precisely what it was in Elizabeth's days; to say nothing of its variation from what was its condition under the Plantagenets.

I observe, with regret, that our literature is becoming conversational, and our conversation corrupt. The use of cant phraseology is daily gaining ground among us, and this evil will speedily infect, if it has not already infected, the productions of our men of letters. I fear most for our poetry, because what is vulgarly termed SLANG is unfortunately very expressive, and therefore peculiarly adapted for the purposes of those whose aim it is to clothe "thoughts that breathe" in "words that burn;" and, besides, it is in many instances equivalent to terms and forms of speech which have long been recognized among poetical writers as a kind of current coin.

The peril which I antic.i.p.ate I have endeavored to exemplify in the following

AFFECTING COPY OF VERSES (WITH NOTES).

Gently o'er the meadows prigging, [1]

Joan and Colin took their way, While each flower the dew was swigging, [2]

In the jocund month of May.

Joan was beauty's plummiest [3] daughter; Colin youth's most nutty [4] son; Many a n.o.b [5] in vain had sought her-- Him full many a spicy [6] one.

She her faithful bosom's jewel Did unto this young un' [7] plight; But, alas! the gov'nor [8] cruel, Said as how he'd never fight. [9]

Soon as e'er the lark had risen, They had burst the bonds of snooze, [10]

And her daddle [11] link'd in his'n, [12]

Gone to roam as lovers use.

In a crack [13] the youth and maiden To a flowery bank did come, Whence the bees cut, [14] honey-laden, Not without melodious hum.