"COUNTRY AND DUTY."
Old Morality (in flannels) sings;—
Ouf! Free from their "howlings and whinings" awhile,
(Which, as the Times tells us, are frightful—are frightful.)
But here Nature smiles, a true Smithian smile,
And the change from the House is delightful—delightful!
A smile which, as Goschen would say, one can hear;
A susurrus sweeps over the river—the river.
Oh, Henley in May to my heart is as dear
As to Spaniards the gay Guadalquivir—dalquivir!
No doubt they are yelping and yapping like mad;
In such hobbles cantankerous spleen lands—rous spleen lands.
I peacefully sprawl on the turf, and am glad;
The Blue Devils never reach Greenlands—reach Greenlands.
By Jove, they have led me a doose of a life!
Their conduct is sheer criminality—nality.
Here, though, thank Heaven, I'm far from the strife,
Here the wicked won't vex Old Morality—rality!
True, 'tisn't for long, a clear week at the most.
They would worry us out of our Whitsuntide—Whitsuntide.
But still we all feel, though I don't want to boast,
Like Park-hacks in paddock, or "tits" untied—"tits" untied.
They mock my wide smile, and my scantness of thatch;
I think, though, in managing skill I am—skill I am,
All things considered, much more than a match
For swaggering, swashing Sir William—Will-i-am!
Lawks! this is lovely! But, Smithy my lad,
In the midst of Arcadian beauty—an beauty,
You mustn't forget (the reflection is sad)
What is due to your Country and Duty—and Duty.
That's why I have brought down this Holiday Task.
Though slumber-inviting the weather—the weather,
I'll turn my true hands, whilst in sunshine I bask,
To the use of the brush and wash-leather—wash-leather!
It's got a bit rusty from sheer want of use;
Though they tell me I'm promptish at pouncing—at pouncing.
Ah me! E'en an angel comes in for abuse,
Or me they would not be denouncing—denouncing.
A crocodile's sure to be down on the Gag,
And Harcourt's a fair alligator—ligator;
He's awfully wide in the jaw, for a wag,
But I'll tie up the would-be dictator—dictator!
They're out without muzzles, the whole noisy pack,
(I wish some sharp Bobby would run 'em in—run 'em in,)
But I'll be prepared for them when they come back.
The fight for free jaw I have done 'em in—done 'em in.
Good gracious! One's duty to Country and Queen
Cannot be well done, as all know, by a—know, by a
Man amidst yelpings of furious spleen,
Suggestive of sheer hydrophobia—phobia!
And so, whilst sub tegmine fagi I sit,
And pass in May sunshine a jolly day—jolly day,
I think I'll just brush up this weapon a bit,
And so make a good use of my holiday—holiday.
They're bound to come back, and if barking they come,
I'll be ready—and willing—to muzzle 'em—muzzle 'em.
Dumb dogs may bite, but when this makes 'em dumb,
To bite us, I fancy, will puzzle 'em—puzzle 'em!
[Left smiling and scrubbing.
Mr. Dunthorne of Vigo Street is exhibiting a collection of "Atmospheric Notes," which are not, as Esoteric Buddhists might conclude, missives forwarded by astral current from a Mahatma, but a series of very charming pastels, by Mr. George Hitchcock. They are records of land, sea, and sky effects in Holland, characterised by a poetry and feeling, and a subtlety of colour that give equal pleasure to mind and eye. Mr. Punch predicts, that the fortunate possessor of any one of these Notes, will be in no hurry to change it.
