SEPTEMBER 14, 1872.]

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

113

MR. EDITOR,

DON'T "STRIKE, BUT HEAR."

I HAVE uncomfortable misgivings as to the propriety of the course I have resolved to take after long and anxious consideration, an almost sleepless couch, and an interview, far protracted into the night, with a friend to whom I always turn for advice and guidance in seasons of doubt and difficulty like the present juncture. I am aware that I render myself liable to be misunderstood, that I expose myself to the charge of plagiarism, and to the imputation -one of the most serious under which a public writer can labour-of being unable to discriminate, either through ignorance or wilfulness, between an old joke and a new one. But all personal considerations must be thrust aside. I have a duty to perform on the one hand to the public, and on the other to an important, hard-working, and, I believe, hardly-used section of the community, from which, if you, Mr. Editor, will stand by me, neither ridicule nor reproach shall turn me aside.

AN OLD PARTRIDGE'S COMPLAINT.

MR. PUNCH, I'm a poor old Partridge,
And love the stubble-field,

And I say bad luck to the cartridge

And the weapons which sportsmen wield.

A lot of men with breech-loaders

May think it very good fun

(-I wish they'd turn out exploders,

And kill every son of a gun-)

To go out shooting in mobs,

And knock us down, young and old ;

And O! the dirty snobs!

They send us to Town to be sold.

Why, the Parson and our Squire GILES,
And some of the good old race,
Would walk their twenty miles,
And be content with six brace,

And a hare or two, and a rail,

But they let us roam at large;

And the old dog wagged his tail

When he heard the words "Down charge!"

Of course we have to die,

Like the Parson and Squire, some day;

But we did not mope and cry

When we always had fair play.

And when the day was over,

At the Manor House, warm and snug,
The Shooters dined; and old Rover
Lay at full length on the rug.

And then the grand old buffers
Would drink their tawny port-
Too good for modern duffers-
And chatter about their sport.

But now a lot of strangers

Of the Manor take a lease;
And, like a set of bushrangers,
Won't let anyone be at peace.

They bring about us the poachers,

And their gamekeepers" catch it hot;
They think their neighbours encroachers,
And blaze away for the pot.

Now, if vulgar rich people think

That a monster bag proves skill,
They'll bring themselves to the brink
Of having nothing to kill.

However great their desire

To play a gentleman's part,
They can't come the Country Squire
Without a gentleman's heart.

And so I give this warning

To every Sporting Cad,
That he 'll wake up some fine morning
With the Game Laws gone to the bad.

Woman's Own Work.

She

I grant that the connection, real or imaginary, between one of the highest A STRONG-MINDED lady has written an article in which legal functionaries in the land and the humble process of preparing food she maintains that needlework is an occupation below What she thinks of needlework made of flour (or meal) baked in an arched cavity over a fire, has before the dignity of Woman. now found employment for numerous pens, many of them writing in a jesting she would probably have thought of spinning in the old strain; but I contend never in the same serious circumstances as those we are days when they that span were living Jennies. now called upon to face. We are threatened with a Bakers' Strike, we are would have turned up her nose, of course, at the distaff menaced with a total suspension of the Staff of Life (except in the inadequate and spindle. It is too probable, however, at least for guise of biscuit); and I for one cannot sit still with folded hands, without men who might be blest if they chose, that the ladies doing my utmost to prevent such a calamity, by suggesting both to masters and who would scorn to do the work of looms will for the men that they should at once, without an hour's delay, submit their differences most part themselves remain spinsters all their lives. for arbitration to the one man in the realm supremely qualified to undertake the task-to (no, not the Author of Yeast, but) the MASTER OF THE ROLLS.

114

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

OUR RESERVES.

SCENE-The Quarter Guard-Tent of the Galway Light Infantry Militia. The Prisoner, outside, joining in the Athletic Amusements of his Comrades-("Shure, why n-hot!")

Sentry (impatiently). "Y-H! SEE, HERE, TIM! TAKE A HOULD AV ME FIRELOCK, I'LL TACHE YER TO JOMP!"

A NOBLE FISHERMAN. FROM the Fraserburgh Advertiser Mr. Punch culls the following:

"One of our oldest and most worthy fishermen died on Sunday, in the seventy-ninth year of his age. GEORGE NOBLE was a man of firm resolution, and he had none of that superstitious notions so common, but on the contrary could give advice worth listening to and being acted upon. He was a member of the Independent Church for fifty-three years, and more than once stood forward in defence of its principles. GEORGE has left upwards of fifty progenitors behind him, children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, who mourn his departure very much."

"That superstitious notions" we do not profess to understand. But what a remarkable fisherman, to leave progenitors behind him! If a crab were a fish, and walked backwards (which it isn't and doesn't), we should think that the late MR. NOBLE had taken lessons from one of the fishes whom he has been slaying for so many years, and whose survivors probably do not mourn his departure so very much.

Lines to a Lady.

PAT a cake, pat a cake, MARY ANNE!

Learn to make bread, love, as fast as you can.
Knead me my dough with such hands as those;
Knuckles more clean than the Baker shows.

Intemperance in Paris.

PEDIGREE AND POET.

TAFFY has been contravening an axiom of hitherto undoubted authority. A few days since a newspaper contained this announcement:

"Yesterday, the Eisteddford at Portmadoc, which is described as having been an unqualified success, was brought to a conclusion. In the course of the day SIR WATKIN WYNN, M.P., was initiated as a bard in the presence of an immense number of spectators.'

The members of the Portmadoc Eisteddfod, by initiating S WATKIN WYNN as a bard, have overruled the old saying that Poeta nascitur non fit. Perhaps they considered that an exception to this ancient adage should be recognised in the case of the head of a still more ancient Welsh family.

A PITHY and pleasing telegram from Paris the other day announced soldiers of our Northern Army.

that:

"The Bourse has been better."

The Bourse would always be well enough if it could only restrain itself from getting tight.

Brown. JONES, as a good Protestant, I cannot wish success to the
Jones. Without discussing the goodness of your Protestantism-
why?
Brown. Because they are all Pewseyites.
Jones. Stultus es, et asinus quoque.

[Exeunt.

Printed by Joseph Smith, of No. 24, Holford Square, in the Parish of St. James, Clerkenwell, in the County of Middlesex, t the Printing Offices of Messrs. Bradbury, Evans, & Co., Lombard
Street, in the Precinct of Whitefriars, in the City of London, and Published by him at No. 86, Fleet Street, in the Parish of St. Bride, City of London.-SATURDAY, September 14, 1872.