THE NEW, AND BAD, "HATCH."
Mr. Punch loquitur:—
Well, Partlet, old hen, here's a pretty fiasco
The Poultry profession seems going to pot.
You might search the whole kingdom, from Greenwich to Glasgow,
And never encounter an uglier lot.
They're crooked, and cranky, and wry-neck'd, and lanky;
I cannot discover one point that is good.
What, join in your cackle of triumph? No, thankye!
We can't accept this as a Jubilee brood.
I did expect something a little bit better
From one some crack up as the pride of the House.
Of decentish broods you have been a begetter,
And, though you are dowdy, I thought you had nous.
But these scraggy scramblers, ill-fledged and ill-fashioned?
By Jingo, old bird, they're a perfect disgrace.
No wonder the public disgust grows impassioned;
They simply degrade a respectable race.
Just think of the beauties, the silver and gold chicks,
That often have left that identical coop!
I'm sure there's not one of those comely, plump, bold chicks
That would not despise this contemptible troop.
They look like the work of a villanous vamper.
Just take a glance at 'em, my Partlet, I beg;
They've too much top-hamper, they scarcely can scamper.
A shabbier brood, Partlet, never chipped egg.
Pray how do you think that the Fancy will class them,
So scraggy, and leggy, and bandy, and bald?
You'll find it most difficult, Partlet, to pass them;
In fact, 'tis a pity they can't be recalled.
I'm really ashamed of 'em; so, Ma'am, should you be.
The kindliest hen-wife would banish the batch.
What? Say one word for 'em? Now, don't be a booby:
You must be aware they're a precious Bad Hatch!