BUMBLE BROUGHT TO BOOK.
["Mr. Ritchie ... has taken the unusual step of preparing a memorandum explanatory of ... the Public Health (London) Act, which comes into operation on the 1st of January ... The Vestries and District Councils ... have come out with increased powers, but also with increased responsibilities. They are in future known as 'the sanitary authorities'; they must make bye-laws, and enforce not only their own, but those made by the County Council; and, if they fail in their duty—as, for example, in the matter of removing house-refuse, or keeping the streets clean—they are liable to a fine. It is pleasant to think that, in future, any ratepayer may bring Mr. Bumble to book."—The Times.]
Bumble. Wot, more dooties piled upon me? It's a beastly black shame and a bore.
Which Ritchie beats Oliver Twist in a canter at "asking for more."
Didn't grasp his dashed Hact, not at fust, though of course I opposed it like fun;
But this 'ere Memyrandum's a startler. I want to know what's to be done.
Me keep the streets clean, me go poking my dalicot nose into 'oles
As ain't fit for 'ogs, but is kep' for them Sweaters' pale wictims—pore soles?
Me see that the dust-pails is emptied, and underground bedrooms made sweet?
Me nail the Court Notices hup upon Butchers as deals in bad meat?
Great Scissors, it's somethink houtrageous. I knew Ritchie's Act meant 'ard lines,
And it's wus than I could 'ave emagined. But wot I funk most is them FINES!!!
Fine Me—if I make a mistake, as, perhaps, even BUMBLE may do!
That is turning the tables a twister! More powers? Ah, well, that might do,
But increase my great "Responsibilities," give them Ratepayers a chance
Of a calling me hover the coals! Won't this make my hold henemies dance?
I never did like that HYGEIA, a pompous and nose-poking minx—
A sort of a female Poll Pry, with a heye like an 'ork or a lynx;
But the making me "Sanit'ry," too—oh, I know wot that means to a T.
She's cock—or say, hen—of the walk, and her sanit'ry slave'll be Me!
Oh, I fancy I see myself sweeping the snow from the streets with a broom,
Or explorin'—with fingers to nose—some effluvious hunderground room!
Or a-trotting around with the dust-pails when scavengers chance to run short!
Oh, just won't the street-boys chyike me and 'ousemaids of BUMBLE make sport?
Disgustin'! But there RITCHIE stands with his dashed Memyrandum. A look
In his heye seems to tell me that he too enjoys bringing BUMBLE to book,
As the Times—I'm serprised at that paper!—most pleasantly puts it to-day.
My friend BONES the Butcher too! Moses! wot would my old parlour-chum say
If he saw me a nailing a Notice—but no, that's too horrid a dream.
I must be a 'aving a Nightmare, and things cannot be wot they seem.
I could do with mere Laws—bye or hother-wise—Hacts, jest like Honours, is easy,
But this Memyrandum of RITCHIE's queers BUMBLE, and makes him feel queasy,
Can't pertend as I don't hunderstand it, it's plain as my nose, clear as mud.
I'm responsible for—say Snow-clearing! It stirs up a Beadle's best blood!
And when they can Fine me for negligence, jest like some rate-paying scrub—
Oh! Porochial dignity's bust! I must seek a pick-up at my Pub! [Does so.
