My task is done! but, ere I "drown my book,"
And "break my staff," I'll take a parting look.
If I have made a fool, in sportive fit,
A lapstone meet, whereon to shape my wit,
So gently have I used him, that, with care,
He'll serve my purpose for another year:
As old Majendie skinned the Italian hound,
And time too short for demonstration found,
Then told his pupils, if they managed right,
They'd keep the dog alive another night.
Of embryo asses I've a pretty store,
Who crave a flaying in a twelvemonth more;
Subjects of every colour and complexion,
Contending for the honour of dissection;
While some there are, who, blest in their condition,
Would waive the honours of my exhibition.
As bashful Bishops, at an ordination,
Cry "_Nolo_," to the gentle invitation:
And some, the only merit of whose life
Will be, their forming victims for my knife.
Now, John,—not Sir John Ross—I mean John Bull
Thou silly, soft, good-natured, guileless gull!
Why wilt thou let each knave enrich his nest
With treasures pilfered from thy downy breast?
Pill-bolting glutton of all sorts of trash!
In jest or earnest needing still the lash,
Thy cure (no sinecure) will keep, I fear,
My rod in pickle for another year.
[Illustration]
THE
COMIC ALMANACK
FOR 1837.
┌────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┬────────────┐
│ JANUARY. │ [1837.│
├──┬─────────────────────────────────────────────────────┴────────────┤
│ │ Now folks trudge on with muffled faces, │
│ │To meet Dan Winter's cold embraces; │
│ │But he has not the freezing air, │
│ │That upstart, purse-proud worldlings wear. │
│ │ Now mischief-making urchins plan, │
│ │With glassy slide, the fall of man; │
│ │But Summer friends, with Wint'ry looks, │
│ │Are slipp'rier far than icy brooks. │
├──┼─────────────────────────────────────────────────────┬────────────┤
│D.│ =Great Events and Odd Matters.= │_Prognosti- │
│ │ │fications._ │
├──┼─────────────────────────────────────────────────────┼────────────┤
│ 1│Curaçoa taken (rather too freely). │ │
│ │ │ │
│ 2│The _Sandwich_ Islands discovered by a _Cook_. │ Touching │
│ │ │ │
│ 3│ Let shame and foul disgrace betide the enervated │ the Stars, │
│ │ land, which │ │
│ │ Forsakes old English suppers for that make-believe,│ │
│ │ a Sandwich. │ │
│ 4│ │ ♄ ☉ ☌ ♊ │
│ │ │ │
│ 5│Dividends due. Very _Consoling_, but "Take care of │ │
│ │ your pockets!" │ │
│ │ │ (That │
│ 6│TWELFTH DAY. _Hilarity_ Term ends. │ │
│ │ │ is to say │
│ 7│ │ │
│ │ │ │
│ 8│General Election. _Tower Hamlets voters soak their_│ ☊ ♄ ♂ ☉ │
│ │ Clay, _and vote_ │ │
│ │_for_ Lushington.—_Lambeth ditto give three_ │ │
│ 9│hips _for_ Hawes, _and huzza_! │ with a │
│ │ │ │
│10│[Illustration] │ figurative │
│ │ │ │
│11│_Cayenne_ taken by as-_salt_, 1809. Enemy well │tangibility,│
│ │ _peppered_. │ │
│ │ │ │
│12│ │ ⚹ ☉ │
│ │ │ │
│13│ │ │
│ │ │seeing they │
│14│[Illustration] │ │
│ │ │ are out of │
│15│ │ │
│ │ │ our reach) │
│16│ FROZE-OUT GARDENERS. │ │
│ │ │ │
│17│ Poor half-starv'd, froze-out Gardeners, good │ ♂ ♄ │
│ │ gentlefolk, we be— │ │
│ │ Hard lines for us, my masters all, as ever you did │ │
│ │ see; │ │
│18│ We sits among the trenches in a shake and in a │ │
│ │ shiver, │ │
│ │ And our poor little babbies are without a bit of │I do opine, │
│ │ kiver; │ │
│19│ Like snails among the cabbages, they curls │ │
│ │ themselves around, │ │
│ │ Or, like the little caterpillars, grubbing on the │ that │
│ │ ground. │ │
│20│ We wanders home and dreads to hear of some mishap │ │
│ │ or other, │ │
│ │ And scarcely dares to ax the pretty darlings │ whereas, │
│ │ "_how's your mother?_" │ │
│21│ │ │
│ │ │ │
│22│Lord BACON born. (Query, The _Fry-er_.) │ ♏ ♄ ☌ ♀ │
│ │ │ │
│23│ _She sold her mangle_ long ago,—'twere better far │ │
│ │ nor prigging; │ │
│ │ For we only turns up spades whene'er we tries our │ according │
│ │ hands at digging. │ │
│24│ Without some rain 'tis all in vain. Alack! our │ │
│ │ hearts is breaking, │ │
│ │ And surely we should break our _teeth_ if we should│ to Hamlet, │
│ │ go a-_raking_: │ │
│25│ So, night and day, we ever pray the frost it may be│ │
│ │ going, │ │
│ │ No more they'll let us _owe_, unless we gets a │ │
│ │ little _hoe_ing: │ │
│26│ The parish board don't heed our word; but, looking │ ♌ ☋ │
│ │ black or blue, │ │
│ │ They reads the Hact o' Parliament, and then cries— │ │
│ │ "_Who are you?_" │ │
│27│ So help the froze-out Gardeners, kind masters every│ there are │
│ │ one, │ │
│ │ For while _you_'re sporting on the ice, _we_'re │ │
│ │ starving till it's gone. │ │
│28│ │more things │
│ │ │ │
│29│ │ in │
│ │ │ │
│30│Lecture on _Heads_ at Whitehall. Price, a _crown_. │ heaven and │
│ │ │ │
│31│Ben Jonson born. "Shikspur—who wrote Shikspur?" │ earth │
│ │ │ │
└──┴─────────────────────────────────────────────────────┴────────────┘
[Illustration:
JANUARY,—Last Year's Bills.
]