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    Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 102, April 23, 1892
    Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 102, April 23, 1892
    Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 102, April 23, 1892
    Ebook96 pages43 minutes

    Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 102, April 23, 1892

    By Various Various

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    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateNov 27, 2013
    Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 102, April 23, 1892

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      Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 102, April 23, 1892 - Various Various

      The Project Gutenberg eBook, Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 102, April 23, 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, Vol. 102, April 23, 1892

      Author: Various

      Release Date: December 29, 2004 [eBook #14514]

      Language: English

      Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

      ***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI, VOL. 102, APRIL 23, 1892***

      E-text prepared by Malcolm Farmer, William Flis,

      and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team

      PUNCH,

      OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

      Vol. 102.

      April 23, 1892.

      TOWN THOUGHTS FROM THE COUNTRY.

      (With the usual apologies.)

      Oh, to be in London now that April's there,

      And whoever walks in London sees, some morning, in the Square,

      That the upper thousands have come to Town,

      To the plane-trees droll in their new bark gown,

      While the sparrows chirp, and the cats miaow

      In London—now!

      And after April, when May follows

      And the black-coats come and go like swallows!

      Mark, where yon fairy blossom in the Row

      Leans to the rails, and canters on in clover,

      Blushing and drooping, with her head bent low!

      That's the wise child: she makes him ask twice over,

      Lest he should think she views with too much rapture

      Her first fine wealthy capture!

      But,—though her path looks smooth, and though, alack,

      All will he gay, till Time has painted black

      The Marigold, her Mother's chosen flower,—

      Far brighter is my Heartsease, Love's own dower.

      A WANT.—There is only one thing, a visitor writes to us, that I missed at Venice, S.W. I've never been to the real place, which is the Bride, or Pride, of the Sea, I forget which, but, as I was saying, there's only one thing I miss, and that is the heather. Who has not heard of 'the moor of Venice'? And I daresay good shooting there too, with black game and such like. I only saw pigeons flying, who some one informed me are the pigeons of SAM MARK. Next time I go, I shall inquire at the Restaurant for fresh Pigeon Pie. However, if Mr. KIRALFY will take a hint, he will, in August provide a moor. It will add to the gaiety of the show. 'The moor the merrier,' eh?

      Neo-Dramatic Nursery Rhyme.

      MRS. GRUNDY, good woman, scarce knew what to think

      About the relation 'twixt Drama and Drink.

      Well, give Hall—and Theatre—good wholesome diet,

      And all who attend will be sober and quiet!

      SPRING'S DELIGHTS IN LONDON.—VIA MALODORA—clearly a lady, DORA for short—wrote to the Times complaining that the result of the splendid weather for the first ten days of the month was the reproduction of summer effluvium rank and offensive in Piccadilly. Poor Piccadilly! Oh, its offence is rank, and Miss DORA might add, quoting to her father from another scene in Hamlet, And smells so. Pa'! West-Enders, in a dry summer, must he prepared to have a high old time of it.

      SANCTA SIMPLICITAS.

      Orthodox Old Maid. BUT, REBECCA, IS YOUR PLACE OF WORSHIP CONSECRATED?

      Domestic (lately received into the Plymouth Brotherhood). OH NO, MISS—IT'S GALVANISED IRON!

      MY SOAP.

      I'm the maker of a Soap, which I confidently hope

      In the advertising tournament will win,

      And remain the fit survival, having vanquished every rival

      Which is very detrimental to the

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