How do the Gentlemen do after marriage?—
Oh, then nothing pleases 'em,
But everything teases 'em;
Then they're grumbling and snarling—
You're a "fool" not a "darling;"
Though they're rich as the _Ingies_,
They're the stingiest of stingies;
And what is _so_ funny,
They've _never_ got money;
Only ask them for any
And they haven't a penny;
But what passes all bounds,
On themselves they'll spend pounds—
Give guineas for lunch
Off real turtle and punch;
Each week a noise brings about, when they pitch all the things about;
Now bowing in mockery, now smashing the crockery;
Scolding and swearing, their bald heads tearing;
Storming and raging past all assuaging.
Heaven preserve us! it makes one so nervous,
To hear the door slam to, be called simple Ma'am too:
(I wonder if Adam called Mrs. Eve Madam;)
As a matter of course they'll have a divorce;
Or "my Lord Duke" intends to send you home to your friends:
Allow ten pounds a quarter for yourself and your daughter;
Though you strive all your might you can do nothing right;
While the maids—the old song—can do nothing wrong;
"Ev'ry shirt wants a button!" Every day they've cold mutton;
They're always a-flurrying one, or else they're a-hurrying one, or else
they're a-worrying one;
Threatening to smother your dear sainted Mother, or kick your big
Brother;
After all your fine doings, your strugglings and stewings—why, "the
house is in ruins!"
Then the wine goes like winking, and they cannot help thinking you've
taken to drinking;
They're perpetually rows keeping, 'cause out of the house-keeping
they're in bonnets their spouse keeping;
So when they've been meated, if with pies they're not treated, they vow
that they're cheated;
Then against Ascot Races, and all such sweet places, they set their old
faces;
And they'll never leave town, nor to Broadstairs go down, though with
bile you're quite brown;
For their wife they unwilling are, after cooing and billing her, to
stand a cap from a Milliner—e'en a paltry twelve shillinger;
And it gives them the vapours to witness the capers of those bowers and
scrapers the young linendrapers;
Then to add to your woes, they say nobody knows how the money all goes,
but they pay through the nose for the dear children's clothes;
Though you strive and endeavour, they're so mightily clever, that
please them you'll never, till you leave them for ever—yes! the
hundredth time sever—"_for ever_—AND EVER"!!
Now the gentlemen sure I've no wish to disparage,
But this is the way they go on _after_ marriage.
[Illustration:
"I SINK YOU DID SAY, MADAME, YOU SHALL TAKE VON COBBLARE AND A LEETEL
BEESHOFE TO FOLLOW."
]
ANACREONTIC
IN PRAISE OF "SHERRY COBBLERS,"
BY
A LADY OF QUALITY.
Oh, I have quaff'd of many a drink,
Right from "Tokay" to "Tiddlelywink;"
I have grown dizzy upon the "Mountain;"
Cool'd me with "Soda from the fountain;"
My eyes have glisten'd with "Malmsey" brightening;
My soul been rous'd with "Thunder and Lightning;"
With "Rossignol" I've fill'd my throat,
Till another "jug! jug!" was all my note;
And when that cloy'd—the feast to vary—
I've madly swallow'd my "Canary;"
I've tippled Punch of my own brewing;
Gone first to "rack," and then, to "ruin;"
Like Cleopatra, th' Egyptian girl,
I've drain'd my draught of precious "purl;"
My heart I've warm'd with nice "lamb's wool;"
I've had at your "dog's nose" many a pull;
And cried aloud between my sips too,
"It's the sweetest thing I've put my lips to."
But tho' sweet your "dog's nose" to my two lips,
Oh, sweeter still are those "mint juleps;"
Yet much as Juleps I adore,
I love my neat "Old Tom" still more;
But—away with all vain artful dodges!—
I doat upon my "cordial Hodges;"
And yet it must—_shall_ be confest—
I love a little "Jackey" best.
Still it doth Jackey—Tom eclipse,
To press my "Bishop" to my lips;
Yes, 'tis that "Bishop" most I prize,
That lifts my soul up to the skies.
Yet no!—there's one so sweet and good,
That I could die with—_that_ I could!
What tho' "Old Tom" this heart enthrall?
I love a "Cobbler" more than all!
What tho' my "Bishop" spicier be?
A "Cobbler" give—oh, give to me!
My "Jackey's" strong-my "Hodges'" fine;
But ah! my "Cobbler" is divine;
In summer cool "dog's noses" are,
But "Cobblers" cooler—sweeter far.
When to the Opera I repair,
I always take my "Cobbler" there;
When at a ball I seek delight,
My "Cobbler" makes me dance all night;
For 'tis my greatest joy and pride
To have a "Cobbler" by my side.
I love all "Cobblers!"—If any best,
The last alone excels the rest;
With each I cry, between my sips too,
"'Tis the sweetest 'Cobbler' I've put my lips to."
[Illustration:
ARABIAN NIGHTS' ENTERTAINMENT.
]
"ANY ONE FOR EGYPT?—EGYPT!"
Of course we shall have a Railway to Grand Cairo—the LONDON AND GREAT
DESERT DIRECT. How the antiquaries will get over this attack upon the
very seat of their learning it is impossible to say. Will they stand
idly by and not resent this blow levelled at their renowned Sesostris—
this slap given to their Cheops?
However, as a matter of course, there will be a continual succession of
cheap trips under the influence of Crisp. Every Englishman, who can
afford to spend a week and a five-pound note in the pursuit of pleasure,
will be sure to go. For in addition to the "MAGNIFICENT SCENERY," "FREE
ADMISSION TO ALL THE PYRAMIDS," &c. &c., the advertisements will
doubtless assure us that in every town at which the train stops, a
professor will be engaged, so that whilst the travellers are swallowing
their soup, they may be crammed with a complete knowledge of the
language of the country—a process which will enable Englishmen to digest
Coptic and Oxtail at one and the same time.
This Railway will assuredly be the making of Egypt and the Egyptians. In
a very little time the Desert Sara will become as lively as Cremorne,
and its sands as much frequented by the ladies as those of Ramsgate
while the gentlemen are bathing. Villages will spring up in the bosom of
the country almost as rapidly as mustard and cress would in the bosom of
an Irishman. The sources of the Nile will afford beautiful spots for
picnics where parties bringing their own tea may be accommodated with
hot water; and the great Lake of Mæris will of course be thoroughly
repaired, and opened as a National Swimming Bath—warranted free from
Crocodiles.
[Illustration:
_Cheap Excursion Trains_—
]
Then the Pyramids will be just the very place for some Mustapha Bunn to
begin an operatic season in; the only thing required to be done will be
to fit up each Sarcophagus as a private box; get a monster band with a
mammoth ophicleide to play the Desert, and engage the celebrated vocal
statue of Memnon to sing a solo. What a splendid joke too for the clown
to let off on the first night of the Pantomime; when, after turning his
toes in, rolling his eyes, and thrusting his tongue out, he cries, "Here
we are again! Thirty centuries are a-lookin' down on us! Somebody's
a-coming!" This alone would fill the Pyramids.
Then again as a place for posters, the Pyramids would soon "shut up"
Waterloo Bridge. Noses and Son alone doubtless would engage one entire
side of Ptolemy's, whilst Jullien would cover Cyphreus with a monster
broadside.
Of course all caravans would be superseded, and camels only used for
picnics and penny rides at fairs. The once-renowned Ben Haroun ad Deen
will be waiting to comfort the hungry passenger, crying aloud as he
stands beneath the glorious Sphinx, "Allah is good!—Baked 'taturs all
hot!—and Mahomet is his Prophet. Here's your prime flowery sort!" Whilst
the once bloodthirsty Ben Hassan, as he leans against the bright gas-lit
Cleopatra's Needle, will lift up his voice with "May the Prophet bless
you. Ham sandwiches a penny."
The salutary effect that this mixing of the English with the Egyptian
will have upon our Poetry and Romance, "can be much better imagined than
described,"—as George Robins used to say in every one of his
advertisements. Instead of our trumpery "Wilt thou love me then as now?"
and "Yes, dearest, then I'll love thee more!" we shall have good
wholesome emotion, and "no nonsense," in the shape of the following
little Anglo-Arabian snatch:
"For thirty days I could not eat—neither have I slept for the fleas and
excessive weeping.
"Her face is like the full moon, her hair like capsicums, and her nose
is the finest of Grecians.
"She moveth like the willow branch, and she speaketh Coptic with a pure
Pyramidical accent.
"Her breath is like ambergris; she hath rubies and pearls, and jacinths,
and heaps of red gold in the consols."
This is sterling affection if you like. There are few Englishmen who
could keep a flame burning for thirty days.
When all these things are worked out, it will be time to begin agitating
for that great moral change, the introduction of Polygamy into England.
If true-born Britons are to be forced still to continue monogamists,
what, we would ask, is to become of the surplus lady population? Either
they must be induced to emigrate in a body to the Grand Sultan, or an
act must be passed to make bigamy according to law. Something _must_ be
done for as matters are at present our wives _are just one too many for
us_.
"THE GOOD OLD TIMES."
The "good old times" are past, my boys,
The "good old times" are past,
And, if it's true what Hist'ry says,
It's lucky we live in other days
Than the "good times" past;
Then the Noble's might was the only right,
But the people have grown stronger:
The iron collar's off their necks—
Thank God they're dogs no longer!
The "good old times" are past, my boys,
The "good old times" are past,
When the skies were bloody with martyr fires,
And daughters lighted their fathers' pyres,
In the "good times" past.
Then, mothers at the stake gave birth;
And, to make their sufferings stronger,
Had their new-born babe flung in the flames—
Thank God, we burn no longer!
The "good old times" are past, my boys,
The "good old times" are past,
When we kill'd—not kept—our aged poor,—
Burnt them as witches by the score,
In the "good times" past.
Then a child of five was burnt alive,
For making the tempest stronger;
And a dog they tried, and a corpse beside—
Thank God, _that_ lasts no longer!
The "good old times" are past, my boys,
The "good old times" are past,
When the balls were cut from each dog's paw,
For fear they should hunt—so ran the law,
In the "good times" past.
Then manure, they said, was bad for the game,
And rendered the flavour stronger;
So they made it death to Manure the land—
Thank God, _that_ lasts no longer!
The "good old times" are past, my boys,
The "good old times" are past,
When the walls of Temple Bar were spread
With many a "traitor's" rotting head,
In the "good times" past.
Then for forty shillings men were hung,
And the thirst for blood grew stronger
Man's life was valued then at a sheep's—
Thank God, _that_ lasts no longer!
[Illustration:
_What it must come to, at last, if the Ladies go on blowing themselves
out as they do!_
]
[Illustration:
BLOWING UP ONE'S WIFE.
]