BON MOT-TO WAFERS:
OR, SEALS FOR "SHUTTING-UP" GOVERNORS, LOVERS, DEBTORS, AND CREDITORS.
| Obliged to be sharper, | ||
| because less blunt than usual. | ||
| Love should come with a | ||
| ring, but not without a rap. | ||
| To-day I write; | ||
| To-morrow I writ. | ||
| Rat-a-tat! | ||
| Look out for a Latitat. | ||
| A little "soft solder" | ||
| for a little tin. | ||
| A billet more than doux | ||
| for a bill that's over-due. | ||
| Pig's cheek pleases—Woman's | ||
| tickles—Man's offends. | ||
| I send you an oat (a note), | ||
| Respondez wheat. | ||
| May we never differ, | ||
| But always correspond. | ||
| Like a sheep I seek | ||
| consolation in my pen. | ||
| This is between you and me | ||
| and the post. | ||
| Though we correspond, I | ||
| trust there'll be no words | ||
| between us. | ||
| You can't do wrong, | ||
| If you do write. | ||
| May the female be as | ||
| trustworthy as the mail. | ||
| I write on spec: | ||
| and hope it will answer. | ||
| You know the hand; | ||
| Become the possessor of it. | ||
| Though a person of extreme diffidence, | ||
| I write this in confidence. | ||
| Pray give me your countenance; | ||
| it will put a better | ||
| face upon the matter. | ||
| I trust you wont be dreadfully | ||
| affected on receipt of this. | ||
| Sow your wild oats, and | ||
| reap five-p'un'-'otes. | ||
| You do! | ||
| I dun. | ||
| The "Governor" holds out, | ||
| and wont give up the keys. | ||
| Eat a hearty breakfast, and | ||
| Dinner forget. | ||
| To one who possesses a good large | ||
| chere amie (share o' me). | ||
| If I correspond with you, | ||
| You must "match" with me. | ||
| You're dying for me you declare; | ||
| So you are, poor old | ||
| fellow,—your hair. | ||
| Friendship is the cement of | ||
| life, and we the "bricks." | ||
| You require bleeding; | ||
| Allow me to stick you. | ||
| This is the land of Liberty, | ||
| so I take one. | ||
| Don't be always for-getting, | ||
| And never for-giving. | ||
| For cleaning your tables | ||
| there's nothing like a good | ||
| "Sponge." | ||
| One chaste salute, | ||
| Go it my two-lips. | ||
| Give your countenance, and | ||
| you'll give something | ||
| extremely handsome. |
THE LORD MAYOR IN IRELAND.
It is sad pity the City of London broke off their bargain about the Connaught waste land. Everybody was waiting for the fun, when his Civic Majesty should pay his state visit to the Kingdom of Bogs that he had added to that of Gog's. How the "boys" would have laughed to see the whole procession stick fast in the mud, and the man in armour, weighed down in his own scales, sink up to his helmet in the swamp. How the "finest pisinthry" would have cheered to see the gilt coach, Lord Mayor, Recorder and all, suddenly disappear in the illigant muck.
In compliment to his new subjects, the Emperor of all the Bogs and Gogs, of course, would have ordered the faithful Birch (for spare the birch spoil the "boys") to supply a "feast" replete with every Irish delicacy of the season. The bill of fare for this most probably would have been, First Course—Praties wid de bones in 'em; Remove—the smallest taste in life of salt mate, to make the poteen come like a "rale blessin." Then to win the hearts of his new subjects the King of Cockneydom would, doubtlessly, have spoken in the richest brogue he could manage. At Donnybrook he would have chucked all the girls under the chin and called them "Macrees," and "Astores;" and delighted the men by flourishing his shillelah and crying "Och! Goroo! Goroo! Tare an 'ouns will nobody thrid on the tails of my gownd?" while, to complete the thing, he would have directed the "Mace-bearer, darlint, to feel round the tint for the bald hids of the Aldermin."
Realty our London Mayors are almost as strange animals as the Irish Bulls.
The Fearful, but probable ultimate effects of—feeding John Bull—upon Foreign produce
