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    Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 102, May 7, 1892
    Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 102, May 7, 1892
    Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 102, May 7, 1892
    Ebook110 pages47 minutes

    Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 102, May 7, 1892

    By Various Various

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    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateNov 26, 2013
    Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 102, May 7, 1892

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      Book preview

      Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 102, May 7, 1892 - Various Various

      The Project Gutenberg eBook, Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 102, May 7, 1892, by Various, Edited by F. C. Burnand

      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.net

      Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 102, May 7, 1892

      Author: Various

      Release Date: January 5, 2005 [eBook #14601]

      Language: English

      Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

      ***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI, VOLUME 102, MAY 7, 1892***

      E-text prepared by Malcolm Farmer, William Flis,

      and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team

      PUNCH,

      OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

      Vol. 102.

      May 7, 1892.

      'ARRY ON WHEELS.

      Our 'Arry Laureate.

      DEAR CHARLIE,—Spring's on us at last, and a proper old April we've 'ad,

      Though the cold snap as copped us at Easter made 'oliday makers feel mad.

      Rum cove that old Clerk o' the Weather; seems somehow to take a delight

      In mucking Bank 'Oliday biz; seems as though it was out of sheer spite.

      When we're fast with our nose to the grindstone, in orfice or fact'ry, or shop,

      The sun bustiges forth a rare bat, till a feller feels fair on the 'op;

      But when Easter or Whitsuntide's 'andy, and outings all round is in train,

      It is forty to one on a blizzard, or regular buster of rain.

      It's a orkud old universe, CHARLIE, most things go as crooked as Z.

      Feelosophers may think it out, 'ARRY ain't got the 'eart, or the 'ead;

      But I 'old the perverse, and permiskus is Nature's fust laws, and no kid.

      If it isn't a quid and bad 'ealth, it is always good 'ealth and no quid!

      'Owsomever it's no use a fretting. I got one good outing—on wheels;

      For I've took to the bicycle, yus,—and can show a good many my 'eels.

      You should see me lam into it, CHARLIE, along a smooth bit of straight road,

      And if anyone gets better barney and spree out of wheeling, I'm blowed.

      Larks fust and larks larst is my motter. Old RICHARDSON's rumbo is rot.

      Preachy-preachy on 'ealth and fresh hair may be nuts to a sanit'ry pot;

      But it isn't mere hexercise, CHARLIE, nor yet pooty scenery, and that,

      As'll put 'ARRY's legs on the pelt. No, yours truly is not sech a flat.

      Picktereskness be jolly well jiggered, and as for good 'ealth, I've no doubt

      That the treadmill is jolly salubrious, wich that is mere turning about,

      Upon planks 'stead o' pedals, my pippin. No, wheeling as wheeling's 'ard work,

      And that, without larks, is a speeches of game as I always did shirk.

      I ain't one o' them skinny shanked saps, with a chest 'ollered out, and a 'ump,

      Wot do records on roads for the 'onour, and faint or go slap off their chump.

      You don't ketch me straining my 'eart till it cracks for a big silver mug.

      No; 'ARRY takes heverythink heasy, and likes to feel cosy and snug.

      Wy, I knowed a long lathy-limbed josser as felt up to champion form.

      And busted hisself to beat records, and took all the Wheel-World by storm,

      Went off like candle-snuff, CHARLIE, while stoopin' to lace up 'is boot.

      Let them go for that game as are mind to, here's one as it certn'y won't soot.

      But there's fun in it, CHARLIE, worked proper, you'd 'ardly emagine 'ow much,

      If you ain't done a rush six a-breast, and skyfoozled some dawdling old Dutch.

      Women don't like us Wheelers a mossel, espech'lly the doddering old sort

      As go skeery at row and rumtowzle; but, scrunch it! that makes a'rf the sport!

      'Twas a bit of a bother to learn, and I wobbled tremenjus at fust,

      Ah! it give me what-for in my jints, and no end of a thundering thust;

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