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    Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 102, January 9, 1892
    Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 102, January 9, 1892
    Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 102, January 9, 1892
    Ebook92 pages42 minutes

    Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 102, January 9, 1892

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    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateNov 27, 2013
    Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 102, January 9, 1892

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      Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 102, January 9, 1892 - Archive Classics

      The Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 102,

      Jan. 9, 1892, 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.net

      Title: Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 102, Jan. 9, 1892

      Author: Various

      Release Date: November 26, 2004 [EBook #14166]

      Language: English

      *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH ***

      Produced by Malcolm Farmer, William Flis, and the PG Online

      Distributed Proofreading Team

      PUNCH,

      OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

      Vol. 102.

      January 9, 1892.

      ON A NEW YEARLING.

      (Second Week.)

      Second Week. Little 1892 grows rapidly, and begins to look about him.

      My fire was low; my bills were high;

      My sip of punch was in its ladle;

      The clarion chimes were in the sky;

      The nascent year was in its cradle.

      In sober prose to tell my tale,

      'Twas New Year's E'en, when, blind to danger,

      All older-fashioned nurses hail

      With joy another little stranger.

      The glass was in my hand—but, wait,

      Methought, awhile! 'Tis early toasting

      With pæans too precipitate

      A baby scarce an outline boasting:

      One week at least of life must flit

      For me to match it with its brothers—

      I'll wager, like most infants, it

      Is wholly different from others.

      He frolics, latest of the lot,

      A family prolific reckoned;

      He occupies his tiny cot,

      The eighteen-hundred-ninety-second!

      The pretty darling, gently nursed

      Of course, he lies, and fondly petted!

      The eighteen-hundred-ninety-first

      Is not, I fancy, much regretted.

      You call him fine—he's great in size,

      And promising—there issue from his

      Tough larynx quite stentorian cries;

      Such notes are haply notes of promise.

      Look out for squalls, I tell you; soft

      And dove-like atoms more engage us;

      Your fin-de-siècle child is oft

      Loud, brazen, grasping, and rampageous.

      You bid me next his eyes adore;

      So deep and wideawake, they beckon;

      We've suffered lately on the score

      Of deep and wideawake, I reckon.

      You term me an unfeeling brute,

      A monster Herod-like, and so on—

      You may be right; I'll not dispute;

      I'll cease a brat's good name to blow on.

      Who'll read the bantling's dawning days?—

      Precocious shall he prove, and harass

      The world with inconvenient ways

      And lisped conundrums that embarrass?

      (Such as Impressionists delight

      To offer each æsthetic gaper,

      And faddists hyper-Ibsenite

      Rejoice to perpetrate on paper?)

      Or, one of those young scamps perhaps

      Who love to rig their bogus bogies,

      And set their artful booby-traps

      For over-unsuspicious fogies?

      Or haply, only commonplace—

      A plodding sort of good apprentice,

      Who does his master's will with grace,

      And hurries meekly where he sent is?

      And, when he grows apace, what blend

      Of genius, chivalry and daring,

      What virtues might our little friend

      Display to brighten souls despairing?

      What quiet charities unknown,

      What modest, openhanded kindness,

      What tolerance in touch and tone

      For braggart human nature's blindness?

      Or what—the worser part to view—

      Of wanton waste and reckless gambling,

      What darker paths shall he pursue

      With sacrilegious step and shambling?

      What coarse defiance, haply, hurl

      At lights beyond his comprehension—

      An attitudinising churl

      Who struts with ludicrous pretension.

      I know not—only this I know,

      They're getting overstrained, my ditties,

      This kind of poem ought to flow

      Less like a solemn "Nunc Dimittis."

      'Twas jaunty when I struck my lyre,

      And jaunty seems this yearling baby;

      But, as both year and

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