FROM PROFESSOR MUDDLE.
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 "Pâtisserie 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.