DEAR MR. PUNCH,--Your poet (in this week's issue) reminds me of my own
unfortunate experience. Ever since I read that inspired work, _Alice
in Blunderland_, I do not seem to be able to give a correct version of
any of the poems I have long been accustomed to repeat or sing. After
dinner the other night I was asked to sing, and gave a well-known song
as follows:--
Think of me only with thy nose,
No words need then be said;
Or kiss me sweetly with thine ears,
No lips are half so red.
The thirst that in my body burns
Demands both food and wine,
So when I next shall call on thee
You'll know I've come to dine.
Thou sent'st me late a rose-bud fair,
Not so much honouring me
As hoping near my heart I'd wear
It all for love of thee.
But I returned it through the post--
Forgive me, if you can--
Since when I trow thou hast found out
I'm not a marrying man.
* * * * *
DE TROP.--The last item of the _menu_, as given in the _World_, of
the Royal Wedding Breakfast, after the sweets, was named in plain
English,--all the previous dishes being given in French,--"cold roast
fowls." But how on earth after four courses and sweets, finishing with
"_Patisserie assortie_," could anyone have the conscience--we put it
in this way--to ask for and to eat any portion of "cold roast fowls"?
* * * * *
"THIS IS A GOAK."--The _Weekly Register_, recording the event of a
Baronetcy being conferred on the present LORD MAYOR, remarks, "With
him we know the honour will be no _barren_ one." Very good, _W. R._
The italics are ours, just to emphasize the pun.
* * * * *