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    Punch, or the London Charivari Volume 107, December 1, 1894
    Punch, or the London Charivari Volume 107, December 1, 1894
    Punch, or the London Charivari Volume 107, December 1, 1894
    Ebook101 pages41 minutes

    Punch, or the London Charivari Volume 107, December 1, 1894

    By Various Various

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    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateNov 15, 2013
    Punch, or the London Charivari Volume 107, December 1, 1894

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      Book preview

      Punch, or the London Charivari Volume 107, December 1, 1894 - Various Various

      The Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, by Various

      This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with

      almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or

      re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included

      with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

      Title: Punch, or the London Charivari

             Volume 107, December 1, 1894

      Author: Various

      Release Date: October 29, 2012 [EBook #41223]

      Language: English

      *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI ***

      Produced by Punch, or the London Charivari, Paul Marshall,

      Malcolm Farmer and the Online Distributed Proofreading

      Team at http://www.pgdp.net

      PUNCH,

      OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

      Vol. 107.

      December 1, 1894.

      ICHABOD.

      As over London Bridge I went

      A constable I spied:

      His head upon his breast was bent,

      Against the parapet he leant,

      He gazed upon the stream intent,

      And as I passed he sighed.

      What ails thee, officer? I cried

      In sympathetic tone.

      "What sorrow in thy soul is bred?

      Nay, never shake thy mournful head,

      But tell me of thy woes instead—

      Thou shalt not weep alone."

      He eyed me for a moment's space

      In half-suspicious doubt;

      But reading not a single trace

      Of aught but pity in my face,

      He told me of his hapless case

      And poured his sorrows out.

      Time was, not many months ago—

      His voice began to quiver—

      "When, in a stately march and slow,

      The tide of traffic used to flow

      In floods as full as that below"—

      He pointed to the river.

      "From early dawn to dewy night

      It still blocked up the way:

      The creaking wain, the hansom light,

      The gaudy bus, in colours bright,

      The gilded coach, the buggy slight,

      And e'en the donkey-shay.

      "Amid the throng I took my stand,

      I watched them come and go.

      Anon the serried lines I scanned,

      Anon I raised a warning hand,

      And lo! at my supreme command

      The flood forgot to flow!

      "The bus, the cab, the coach, the fly,

      Were motionless and still.

      In all the crowds that passed me by

      Was no one of degree so high

      That dared my sovereignty defy,

      Or disobey my will.

      "The hansom hasting on her way

      Paused when she heard my call.

      The coster checked his donkey-shay,

      The gartered lord his prancing bay—

      All, all were subject to my sway,

      My word was law to all.

      "Alas! alas! 'tis thus no more!

      Gone is my pride and power!

      Where thousands passed in days of yore

      Across the bridge, we've scarce a score,

      For now the tides of traffic pour

      Round by the busy Tower.

      "And I am left to mourn alone

      The glories that are fled.

      None heed me now—alas! not one!

      My life is lived! my day is done!

      Othello's occupation's gone—

      Ah! would that I were dead!"

      He ceased. The manly voice broke down.

      I could no longer stay,

      But, as I hurried off to town,

      I pressed upon him half-a-crown,

      And joyed to see the hopeless frown

      Die for a while away.

      THE ADVANTAGE OF HIGHER EDUCATION.

      Eton Boy (who has come to see his Brother at Harrow). I say, these Floods are stunning! We're all sent home, Four Weeks before the time!

      Harrow Boy (gloomily)."I wish to goodness the Gov'nor had sent me to Eton. We're up on a beastly Hill here, an' no chance of any Floods!"

      The Raiders.—Sure as our Raiders know, just one hundred and nine persons, suspected of resorting to the

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