A JUBILEE GREETING!
(Set to a Song from Sir Walter Scott.)
NOVEMBER 9, 1891.
Mr. Punch (for self and everybody) loquitur:—
My Prince, 'tis for our coming King
We all lift glass in hand;
For him that loud hurrahs do ring
To-day all round the land,
My Prince,
All round a loyal land!
Let sycophantish slave kotoo;
You love not such display;
Let courtiers cringe and creatures "boo."
'Tis not our English way,
My Prince,
'Tis not our English way.
As FLORA to Prince CHARLIE bent
It is no shame to bow;
And you're a man to be content
With man's respect, I trow,
My Prince,
With man's respect, I trow.
For Fifty Years we've known you, Sir,
And liked you. Love is free!
That's why the land is all astir,
To hail your Jubilee,
My Prince,
To hail your Jubilee.
In Forty-Six Punch pictured you,
"A Sailor every inch," [1]
Toasting "Mamma!" in a stiff brew
Without a sign of flinch,
My Prince,
Without one sign of flinch.
In Seventy-One he stood beside
Your door in sad "Suspense."[2]
We saw the turn in that dark tide
With thankfulness intense,
My Prince,
With gratitude intense.
From stage to stage your course he's marked
Abroad as eke at home;
Where'er you've travelled, toiled, skylarked;
And now mid-age has come,
My Prince,
And now mid-age has come.
Come as it comes to all. Most true!
But, "let the galled jade wince,"
Still Punch's pencil pictures you
As every inch a Prince,
My Prince,
Yes, every inch a Prince!
And now your Jubilee we greet,
With hearty English joy,
Who, as those Fifty Years did fleet,
Have watched you, man and boy,
My Prince,
Have watched you, man and boy.
When all is done that Prince can do,
All is not done in vain.
That's why we drink Good Health to you
Again and eke again,
My Prince,
Again and eke again!
Punch turns him round and right about,
And leads the British roar
Which rises in one loyal shout,
"Health to the Prince once more!
My Prince,
Health to him evermore!"
And health to her, the unfading flower
From Denmark, o'er the foam.
Ad multos annos, grace, and power,
Love, and a Happy Home,
My Prince,
Love, and a Happy Home!
Now youth has gone, and manhood come,
Your Jubilee we keep,
Good-will shall strike detraction dumb,
And sound from deep to deep,
My Prince,
From white-cliff'd deep to deep!
AN APPARENTLY HARD CASE.—Miss Print is responsible for a great deal. The other day a tender-hearted person read in a daily paper, that a stranger "arriving in Paris, did not even know where to go and die." How sad! But the compositor had only omitted the "n" from the last word of the sentence. So it wasn't so bad after all, though for the stranger bad enough.
"Music's the Food."—At the Savoy Hotel the band of Herr WURMS is advertised to perform during dinner. The name of the dinner might follow suit, and be entitled "The Diet of Wurms, for Gentle and Simple." Of course the band of Herr WURMS is an attraction; "Wurms for bait," eh?
