Oh! why does your eye gleam so bright?
Russian Bear?
Oh! why does your eye gleam so bright?
You've broken your fetters. Like some of your betters,
Your freedom moves some with affright.
All right?
Well, _that_'s reassuring,--oh! _quite_!
Yes, your optic gleams piggishly bright,
Russian Bear;
It gleams with true ursine delight.
'Tis done--France is won, And 'tis capital fun
To hold it in shackles, which, slight--
Ho! ho!--
Yet fit so remarkably tight.
The chains may feel light as a thread,
Russian Bear!
As light and as slight as a thread;
But though light be the chain. Will his might and his main
Again rend it in twain? Fear is fled!
Quite fled!
And old animosity dead.
Haw! haw!
Nay, laugh not I pray you so loud,
Russian Bear!
Oh! laugh not so loud and so clear!
Though sly is your smile The heart to beguile,
Bruin's chuckle is horrid to hear,
O dear!
And makes quidnuncs quake and feel queer.
You have quite turned the tables, that's true,
Russian Bear,
The dancer did use to be _you_.
Now _you_ thump the tabor, And France, your "dear neighbour,"
Seems game to dance on till all's blue.
Hurroo!
Alliances _are_ pretty things,
Russian Bear!
Seductive and promising things;
That rat-a-tat-too, Which suggests a Review--
Makes his legs whirl as swiftly as wings.
How he springs
And leaps to the wild whillaloo!
You pipe and he dances this time,
Russian Bear!
The Bear and his Leader change places.
Quicker and quicker he, Steps; Miss TERPSICHORE
Scarce could show prettier paces.
_Houp là!_
_Atta Troll_ could not rival his graces.
He who pays for the Pipe calls the tune--
Russian Bear!
Pooh! _that_ old saw's quite obsolete.
Just look at that stocking! What matters men's mocking?
_He_'ll pay, but your tune is so sweet--
Rat-tat-too!--
That it keeps him at work hands and feet!
How long? That remains to be seen,
Russian Bear;
But in spite of political spleen,
And Treaties and Fables, You _have_ turned the tables.
Such sight is not frequently seen.
You've slipped yourself out of your chains,
Russian Bear;
'Till hardly a shackle remains
In Black Sea or Bosphorus. This may mean loss for us,
Bruin cares not whilst he gains.
Treaties and protocols irk,
Russian Bear;
And therefore are matters to shirk.
Berlin and Paris, No longer must harass
This true friend of France--and the Turk.
Hrumph! hrumph!
Well, well, we shall see how 'twill work!
* * * * *
"HANGING THEOLOGY."--Readers of the _Times_ have been for some time
in a state of suspense--most appropriately--as to the result of the
correspondence carried on by Lord GRIMTHORPE & Co. under the above
heading. At all events the Editor of the _Times_ has been giving his
correspondents quite enough rope to ensure the proverbial termination
of their epistolary existence.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "TURNING THE TABLES."
("The success of a Russian Loan is not dearly purchased by a little
effusion, which, after all, commits Russia to nothing. French
sentiment is always worth cultivating in that way, because, unlike
the British variety, it has a distinct influence upon investments."
--_Daily Paper_.)]
* * * * *
"REVOLTED MORTIMER."
[Dr. MORTIMER GRANVILLE, in a letter to the _Times_,
attacks the logic and disputes the dogmas of the fanatical
Teetotaller, and carries the war into the enemy's country by
boldly asserting that "incalculable harm has been done to the
average human organism, with its functions, which we are wont
to classify as mental and physical, by the spread of teetotal
views and practices."]
Oho! Doctor MORTIMER GRANVILLE,
You are scarcely as bland as DE BANVILLE.
On the Knights of the Pump
Your assertions come thump
Like an old Cyclops' "sledge" on his anvil.
Fanatical logic _is_ "quisby";
Each crank in his bonnet has _his_ bee.
They swagger, dod rot'em!--
Like loud Bully _Bottom_
When playing the _Thraso_ to "_Thisby_."
Total abstinence purely pernicious?
Oh, Doctor, that's really delicious!
That's turning the tables
On faddists, whose fables
Do make the judicious suspicious.
Your modest and moderate drinker,
Who's also a fair-minded thinker,
Would look in the face
The fell scourge of our race.
Sense from logic should not be a shrinker.
But drinking and drunkenness, truly,
Should not be confounded unduly.
Fanatics here blunder;
As far they're asunder
As Tempe and Ultima Thule!
We thank you, whose lucid urbanity
Assures us our favourite "vanity"
(To quote cheery SAM)
Need _not_ be a "dram"
To drive us to death or insanity.
Good wine and sound ale have their uses,
To distinguish 'twixt which and abuses
The clear-headed want;
But illogical cant
Will ne'er solve our worst social _cruces_.
"Table waters and watery" wines, Sir,
Don't cheer up a man when he dines, Sir.
To gases and slops,
And weak "fizzles," and "pops,"
The weak stomach only inclines, Sir.
Like teetotal cant, they're "depressing,"
And if you can give them a dressing.
With logic compact,
Firmly founded on fact,
Sober sense will bestow its best blessing.
But drunkenness, Doctor is awful,
'Tis that we could wish made unlawful.
'Tis that which will prick
A man's conscience when sick
Of fanatics of flatulent jaw full.
Your sots are sheer abominations,
But they who deserve castigations
Much more than poor "drunks,"
Are those pestilent skunks
Who _poison the people's potations_!
Good wine and sound ale need apology?
No! But there's something to follow, G.!
Distilling and Brewing
Must work our undoing
_When branches of mere Toxicology_!
Good malt, hop, and grape, though fermented,
May leave a man well and contented,
But poisons infernal
(See any Trade Journal!)
Drive decent souls drunk and demented.
_Verb. sap._! You'll, excuse the suggestion.
They soften brains, ruin digestion;
Sap body and soul,
In the (drugged) Flowing Bowl.
There, Doctor, 's the real Drink Question!
Meanwhile, _Punch_ admires your plain speaking.
Enough of evasion and sneaking!
Let fact, logic stout,
And sound pluck fight it out.
Truth's "at home" to right valorous seeking.
Of course, my dear Doctor, you'll catch it.
The Pump is aggressive; you match it.
Whoever proves right,
Your pluck starts a good fight,
And _Punch_ is delighted to watch it!
* * * * *