(_Wrought by a cheap Foreign Cigar._)
I'm feeling--great heavens!--all sixes and sevens,
And dizzy, and giddy, and green;
Knocked flat as a pancake, I've got a blank, blank ache
All over--a sight to be seen!
Alas! for the reason 'tis easy to seize on--
The same I'll proceed to relate:--
I've just come from Brussels, whence, after some tussles
With conscience, I rushed to my fate.
For by Calais and Dover I safely brought over
A contraband hatful of weeds;
Ah, why did I struggle to juggle and smuggle,
Thus paying the price for my deeds?
They cost each five farthings, and goodness! they _are_ things
You'd not get your worst foe to smoke,
This "Cabbagio Fino" _has_ giv'n me a beano--
But there! I'm too seedy to joke!
So this crude composition I pen in contrition,
My state of collapse to explain;
I thought to be clever, but never, oh never,
Will make such a bargain again!
* * * * *
CONTRADICTION.--A fortnight ago, in the law reports of the _Times_,
were reported proceedings in bankruptcy "_in re_ TOBY." We have been
requested to state that this gentleman is not _Mr. Punch's_ "TOBY,
M.P.," nor is "our Mr. TOBY" the gentleman mentioned in the same case
as "the bankrupt's brother, M. P. TOBY." The coincidence was,
naturally, somewhat startling. Our M.P. for Barks will, by now, have
appeared in his place at St. Stephen's.
* * * * *
[Illustration: A LOGICAL INFERENCE.
"I WONDER WHY HE'S SO BLACK, MUMMY? I SUPPOSE HE WAS BORN IN THE DARK!"]
* * * * *
"PITY THE POOR ARTIST!"
["I have had occasion to speak on the difficulties of a minister
who finds himself pledged to a very large and extensive programme,
to each point of which programme there is a large circle of
adherents who consider it the foremost and the preeminently
important point."--_Lord Rosebery._]
_Westminster Pavement Artist loquitur:_--
Who would be a political "screever"? A drudge
Foredoomed to designing, and destined to smudge,
Like impressionist painters of posters?
Art's in a rum way. Lor! what humbug it is!
Far better the days of old CRUIKSHANK and PHIZ,
Than our era of blobbers and boasters.
With chalks, and my thumb, and a bit of old rag,
I can do better work on a rough slab of flag
Than they do on smooth hot-pressed paper.
But oh! what a bother to squat and to smear
All sorts of strange subjects, quaint, squiffy and queer,
To please every lounger and gaper.
There once was a time when the old repertore
The public would fetch. Now they want a lot more,
And always a somethink that's novel,
And then such a choice of 'em! Not one or two
Seascapes, with a liberal yaller and blue,
Or some picture of cottage or hovel.
Two mackerels crossed, or a slice o' red salmon,
A rasher o' bacon, or lump o' brown "gammon,"
A ginger-beer bottle and candle.
A rat in a trap and a portrait or two,
Say old GARIBALDI, the Wandering Jew,
And p'raps JULIUS CÆSAR or HANDEL.
These gave satisfaction to parties all round;
But 'tisn't so now as I lately have found.
They ask a whole National Gallery.
And every one wants his own fav'rite fust off.
Good old "Moonlight Scene"? Why, a yokel would scoff
At anythink bluey-and-yallery.
They claim fancy-chalks now, or pollychrome pastel;
It's no use to tip 'em a storm or a castle;
They want "local colour"--a lot of it.
Yes, something distinctly Welsh, Irish, or Scotch;
My pitch in these critical days is no cotch;
I'm sick of the worry and rot of it!
Pity the artist! What boots that appeal?
No! "Many help one," or "A heart that can feel,"
Won't fetch 'em, however well flourished.
I _did_ think that Guy Fawkes blow-up of the Lords
Would call out the coppers; but shrugs and cold words
Have damped the last hope that I nourished.
Awful cynicle lot! Scarcely one a believer
In _me_, it would seem, since that there Grand Old Screever
To my hands has turned his pitch over.
There! I've touched up the lightning, and now I am ready!
But, though I must look bright, expectant, and steady,
I don't feel percisely in clover!
[_Left waiting for patronage._
[Illustration: "PITY THE POOR ARTIST!"]
* * * * *