The Project Gutenberg eBook, Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 102, June 18, 1892, by Various, Edited by F. C. Burnand

PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 102.

June 18, 1892.

THE COURIER OF THE HAGUE.

(By the "Vacuus Viator.")

He is an elderly amiable little Dutchman in a soft felt hat; his name is BOSCH, and he is taking me about. Why I engaged him I don't quite know—unless from a general sense of helplessness in Holland, and a craving for any kind of companionship. Now I have got him, I feel rather more helpless than ever—a sort of composite of Sandford and Merton, with a didactic, but frequently incomprehensible Dutch Barlow. My Sandford half would like to exhibit an intelligent curiosity, but is generally suppressed by Merton, who has a morbid horror of useful information. Not that BOSCH is remarkably erudite, but nevertheless he contrives to reduce me to a state of imbecility, which I catch myself noting with a pained surprise. There is a statue in the Plein, and the Sandford element in me finds a satisfaction in recognising it aloud as WILLIAM the Silent. It is—but, as my Merton part thinks, a fellow would be a fool if he didn't recognise WILLIAM after a few hours in Holland—his images, in one form or another, are tolerably numerous. Still, BOSCH is gratified. "Yass, dot is ole VOLLIAM," he says, approvingly, as to a precocious infant just beginning to take notice. "Lokeer," he says, "you see dot Apoteek?" He indicates a chemist's shop opposite, with nothing remarkable about it externally, except a Turk's head with his tongue out over the door. "Yes, I, speaking for Sandford and Merton, see it—has it some historical interest—did VOLLIAM get medicine there, or what?" "Woll, dis mornin dare vas two sairvans dere, and de von cot two blaces out of de odder's haid, and afderwarts he go opstairs and vas hang himself mit a pedbost," BOSCH evidently rather proud of this as illustrating the liveliness of The Hague. "Was he mad?" "Yass, he vas mard, mit a vife and seeks childrens." "No, but was he out of his senses?" "I tink it vas oud of Omsterdam he vas com," says BOSCH. "But how did it happen?" "Wol-sare, de broprietor vas die, and leaf de successor de pusiness, and he dells him in von mons he will go, begause he nod egsamin to be a Chimigal—so he do it, and dey dake him to de hosbital, and I tink he vas die too by now!" adds BOSCH, cheerfully. Very sad affair evidently—but a little complicated. Sandford would like to get to the bottom of it, but Merton convinced there is no bottom. So, between us, subject allowed to drop. Sandford (now in the ascendant again) notices, as the clever boy, inscription on house-front, "Hier woonden GROEN VAN PRINSTERER, 1838-76." "I suppose that means VAN PRINSTERER lived here, BOSCH?" "Yass, dot vas it." "And who was he?" "He vas—wol, he vos a Member of de Barliaments." "Was he celebrated?" "Celebrated? oh, yass!" "What did he do?" (I think Merton gets this in.) "Do?" says BOSCH, quite indignantly, "he nefer do nodings!" BOSCH takes me into the Fishmarket, when he directs my attention to a couple of very sooty live storks, who are pecking about at the refuse. "Dose birts are shtorks; hier dey vas oblige to keep alvays two shtorks for de arms of de Haag. Ven de yong shtorks porn, de old vons vas kill." Sandford shocked—Merton sceptical. "Keel dem? Oh, yass, do anytings mit dem ven dey vas old," says BOSCH, and adds:—"Ve haf de breference mit de shtorks, eh?" What is he driving at? "Yass—ven ve vas old, ve vas nod kill." This reminds BOSCH—Barlow-like—of an anecdote. "Dere vas a vrent to me," he begins, "he com and say to me, 'BOSCH, I am god so shtout and my bark is so dick, I can go no more on my lacks—vat vas I do?' To him I say, 'Wol, I dell you vat I do mit you—I dake you at de booshair to be cot op; I tink you vas make vary goot shdeak-meat!'" Wonder whether this is a typical sample of BOSCH's badinage. "What did he say to that, BOSCH?" "Oh, he vas vair moch loff, a-course!" says BOSCH, with the natural complacency of a successful humorist.

We go into the Old Prison, and see some horrible implements of torture, which seem to exhilarate BOSCH. "Lokeer!" he says, "Dis vas a pinition" (BOSCH for "punishment") "mit a can. Dey lie de man down and vasten his foots, and efery dime he was shdrook mit de can, he jomp op and hit his vorehaid.... Hier dey lie down de beoples on de back, and pull dis shdring queeck, and all dese tings go roundt, and preak deir bones. Ven de pinition vas feenish you vas det." He shows where the Water-torture was practised. "Nottice 'ow de vater vas vork a 'ole in de tile," he chuckles. "I tink de tile vas vary hardt det, eh?" Then he points out a pole with a spiked prong. "Tief-catcher—put'em in de tief's nack—and ged 'im!" Before a grim-looking cauldron he halts appreciatively. "You know vat dat vas for?" he says. "Dat vas for de blode-foots; put 'em in dere, yass, and light de vire onderneat." No idea what "blode-foots" may be, but from the relish in BOSCH's tone, evidently something very unpleasant, so don't press him for explanations. We go upstairs, and see some dark and very mouldy dungeons, which BOSCH is most anxious that I should enter. Make him go in first, for the surroundings seem to have excited his sense of the humorous to such a degree, that he might be unable to resist locking me in, and leaving me, if I gave him a chance.

Outside at last, thank goodness! The Groote Kerk, according to BOSCH, "is not vort de see," so we don't see it. Sandford has a sneaking impression that I ought to go in, but Merton glad to be let off. We go to see the pictures at the Mauritshuis instead. BOSCH exchanges greetings with the attendants in Dutch. "Got another of 'em in tow, you see—and collar-work, I can tell you!" would be a free translation, I suspect, of his remarks. Must say that, in a Picture-gallery, BOSCH is a superfluous luxury. He does take my ignorance just a trifle too much for granted. He might give me credit for knowing the story of ADAM and EVE, at all events! "De Sairpan gif EVA de opple, an' EVA she gif him to ADAM," BOSCH carefully informs me, before a "Paradise," by RUBENS and BRUEGHEL. This rouses my Merton half to inquire what ADAM did with it. "Oh, he ead him too!" says BOSCH in perfect good faith. I do wish, too, he wouldn't lead me up to PAUL POTTER's "Bull," and ask me enthusiastically if it isn't "real meat." I shouldn't mind it so much if there were not several English people about, without couriers—but there are. My only revenge is (as Merton) to carefully pick out the unsigned canvases and ask BOSCH who painted them; whereupon, BOSCH endeavours furtively to make out the label on the frames, and then informs me in desperation, "it was 'School.'—yass, he baint him!" BOSCH kindly explains the subject of every picture in detail. He tells me a DROOCHSLOOT represents a "balsham pedder." I suppose I look bewildered, for he adds—"oppen air tance mit a village." "Hier dey vas haf a tispute; dis man say de ham vas more value as de cheese—dere is de cheese, and dere is the ham." "Hier is an old man dot marry a yong vife, and two tevils com in, and de old man he ron avay." "Hier he dress him in voman, and de vife is vrighten." "Hier is JAN STEEN himself as a medicine, and he veel de yong voman's polse and say dere is nodings de madder, and de modder ask him to trink a glass of vine." "Hier is de beach at Skavening—now dey puild houses on de dunes—bot de beach is schdill dere." Such are BOSCH's valuable and instructive comments, to which, as representing Sandford and Merton, I listen with depressed docility. All the same, can't help coming to the conclusion that Art is not BOSCH's strong point. Shall come here again—alone. We go on to the Municipal Museum, where he shows me what he considers the treasures of the collection—a glass goblet, engraved "mit dails of tobaggo bipes," and the pipes themselves; a painting of a rose "mit ade beople's faces in de leafs;" and a drawing of "two pirts mit only von foots."

Outside again. BOSCH shows me a house. "Lokeer. In dot house leef an oldt lady all mit herself and ade sairvans. She com from Friesland, yassir." Really, I think BOSCH is going to be interesting—at last. There is a sly twinkle in his eye, denoting some story of a scandalous but infinitely humorous nature. "Well, BOSCH, go on—what about the old lady?" I ask, eagerly, as Merton. "Wol, Sir," says BOSCH, "she nefer go noveres." ... That's all! "A devilish interesting story, Sumph, indeed!" to quote Mr. Wagg.

But, as BOSCH frequently reminds me, "It vas pedder, you see, as a schendlemans like you go apout mit me; I dell you tings dot vas nod in de guide-books." Which I am not in a position to deny.

BY ONE OF THE UNEMPLOYED.—"It is a curious fact," wrote the Recording Angel, a very superior sort of person to "the Printer's Devil," on the Daily Telegraph, "that in Greater London last week the births registered were just one more than twice the number of deaths. Thus grows the population in this great Babylon." Very appropriate, in this instance, is the title of "Great Baby-lon." If you put it down an "e," my Lord, and spell it "berths," then these are by no means in proportion to the unemployed youth in search of them.

DISSOLUTION—(AS THE ENEMY OF THE LONDON SEASON).

There was a sound of revelry by day,

And England's Capital had gathered then,

Her Beauty and her Masherdom, and gay

Spring's sun shone o'er smart women and swell men;

A thousand shops shone showily; and when

MAY came to Mayfair, FLORA to Pall-Mall,

Shrewd eyes winked hope to eyes which winked again,

And maids heard sounds as of the marriage-bell.

But hush! hark! a harsh sound strikes like a sudden knell!

Did ye not hear it? Is it howling wind?

The tram-car rattling o'er the stony street?

The groans of M.P.'s wearily confined

To the dull House when night and morning meet,

Dragged to Divisions drear with dawdling feet?

No, hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more,

The street, the hall its echoes now repeat,

And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!

Arm! Arm! it is—it is—the Elections' opening roar!

'Tis in our midst—that figure draped and dim,

Whose mocking music makes us all afraid.

"Death as the Foe!" Can it indeed be Him?

Duller, more dirge-like tune was never played

On strings more spirit-chilling. Feet are stayed

Though in mid-waltz, and laughter, though at height,

Hushes, and maidens modishly arrayed

For matrimonial conquest, shrink with fright;

And Fashion palsied sits, and Shopdom takes to flight.

Ah! then and there are hurryings to and fro

And gathering tears, and poutings of distress,

And cheeks all pale, which some short hours ago

Glowed with the deep delights of Dance and Dress;

And there are sudden partings, such as press

The hope from Spoons of promise, meaning sighs

Which ne'er may be repeated; who can guess

If ever more shall meet those mutual eyes,

When Dissolution snaps the Season's tenderest ties?

And there is scuttling in hot haste: the steed,

The Coaching Meet, the Opera's latest star,

The Row, the River, the Vitellian feed,—

All the munitions of the Social War,

Seem fruitless now, when peal on peal afar

And near, the beat of the great Party Drum

Rouses M.P.'s to platform joust and jar,

While tongue-tied dullards scarcely dare be dumb,

When the Whips whisper "Go!" Wirepullers clamour "Come!"

"Too bad! Too bad!" The Influenza chilled,

Court-mourning marred, the Season's earliest prime,

And now, just as with hope young breasts are filled,

When young leaves still are verdant on the lime,

When diners-out are having a good time,

When Epsom's o'er and Ascot is at hand;

To cut all short, is scarcely less than crime.

Confusion on that wrangling party-band

Whose Dissolution deals the doldrums round the land!

Ah! wild and high those Phantom-fiddlings rise!—

All jocund June with palsying terror thrills;

Fashion sits frozen dead with staring eyes.

How that dread dirge the ambient Summer fills

Savage and shrill! Smart frocks, soft snowy frills,

Long trains which dancing Beauty deftly steers.

Through waltzes wild or devious quadrilles,—

All vanish; bosoms white, beset with fears;

Beat flight as that fell strain falls harsh on Beauty's ears.

And June yet waves above them her green leaves,

Dewy with Springtide's night-drops as they pass

Grieving,—if aught that's modish ever grieves,—

Over the unreturning chance. Alas!

Their hopes are all cut down ere falls the grass.

That with corn-harvest might have seen full blow.

See how foiled Shopdom flies, a huddled mass

Of disappointment, hurrying from the foe,

Who all their Season's prospects shatters, and lays low.

Last month beheld them full of lusty life.

Beauty, and Wealth, and Pleasure, proudly gay;

This music brings the signal-sound of strife,

This month the marshalling to arms. Away!

Party's magnificently sham array

The muster of Mode's mob will soon have rent.

Play on, O Phantom, ominously play!

Death as the Foe! They fly before thee, blent,

Maid, Matron, Masher, Mime, in general discontent!

THE DARWINIAN THEORY—VARIATION FROM ENVIRONMENT.

ADVICE GRATIS.

DEBT.—"SIMPLE SIMON" writes: "A man owes me money which he cannot pay. He lives in furnished lodgings, and has given me a Bill of Sale on the furniture. Is this sufficient security? He also offers to insure his life for £200 if I will advance him £100, which will be the cost of the first premium, which he says is always heavy. I am disposed to close with this offer. Am I prudent?"—Prudent is hardly the word to describe you. We should not in your position make the advance mentioned. A retreat would be much better tactics. We fancy, from your description, that your friend would do well as a Company Promoter.

STOCK-DEALING TRANSACTIONS.—"Will you advise me under the following circumstances?" asks "CHEERFUL SOUL," on a post-card. "I placed £50 with an Outside Broker as a speculation for the rise in Cashville and Toothpeka First Preference. Yesterday I received a note to say I had lost my money, as 'cover had run off.' On repairing to the Broker's Office, I was surprised to find it apparently deserted. What is my remedy?"—We should imagine that the Broker had "run off" too. Your remedy is—not to speculate again. "Flutters" lead to the Gutters.

THINGS ONE WOULD RATHER HAVE EXPRESSED OTHERWISE.

Married Vicar, "WELL, MY BISHOP WAS VERY PARTICULAR WITH ME. AMONG OTHER THINGS, HE ASKED ME, BEFORE PRESENTING ME, WHETHER MY WIFE WAS A LADY!"

His Curate (reflectively). "I CAN QUITE UNDERSTAND THAT!"

THE WAY THEY HAVE IN THE ARMY.

(A Conversation—Purely Imaginary.)

SCENE—Pall Mall. Present, SECRETARY OF STATE and Military Adviser.

Mil. A. I want to know your ideas about the Autumn Manoeuvres. Are we to have any this year?

Sec. of S. (with a melancholy smile). That depends upon circumstances not entirely under my control.

Mil. A. Oh, yes; I know. But Governments may come and Governments may go, but the State flows on for ever. Whatever you commence they will have to carry out.

Sec. of S. Can we have these Manoeuvres without expense?

Mil. A. Well, scarcely. For instance, there is the ammunition.

Sec. of S. Oh, we can get over that! Every soldier, when he is supposed to fire, can say, "Bang!" or words to that effect. We might add the direction to the new Provisional Drill-Book.

Mil. A. (drily). Yes, you might; and it would prove about as useful as the other regulations in that remarkable volume! Well, suppose the difficulty of ammunition surmounted, what next?

Sec. of S. Well, I suppose we shall have to spend some money on the farmers for rights of way and the rest of it?

Mil. A. I suppose so, if you want the troops to move over an unfamiliar country.

Sec. of S. But I am not sure I do. Why shouldn't they learn how to defend Aldershot? Then it would cost nothing. What next?

Mil. A. Well, there will be the Commissariat expenses.

Sec. of S. Suppose food costs the same in most places. Besides, isn't TOMMY ATKINS supposed to purchase his own victuals?

Mil. A. Yes, theoretically I suppose he is; but practically he—

Sec. of S. Oh, bother practice! Of course he must, somehow; he must pay for the Commissariat out of his own pocket.

Mil. A. Well, then there is the question of transport. Of course, many regiments have their own waggons and carts, but for a special occasion I think it would be advisable if—

Sec. of S. (interrupting). What nonsense! Why, of course we will make them all walk. It will do them a world of good!

Mil. A. Well, as we want to bring some from Scotland, it will distinctly be a long walk—a very long walk indeed!

Sec. of S. (heartily). So much the better—so much the better!

Mil. A. (sarcastically). I fancy you will have to pay a large bill in shoe-leather!

Sec. of S. (aghast). So we shall! Oh, bother the Manoeuvres just now! The fact is, I have to think of other things!

[Scene closes in upon Secretary thinking of other things.

STUDIES IN THE NEW POETRY.

No. II.

MR. PUNCH's first example of the New Poetry was, it may be remembered, in the rhymed, irregular style. It is not a difficult style. The lines may be long or short; some may groan under an accumulation of words, while others consist of merely two or three—a most unfair distribution. The style of the following specimen, (also by Mr. H-NL-Y) is, however, even easier to manage. There are no rhymes and very few restrictions. The lines are very short, and a few words, therefore, go a very long way, which is always a consideration, even if you don't happen to be paid by the column. This style is very fierce and bloodthirsty and terrible. Timid people are, therefore, advised, for the sake of their nerves, not to read any farther.

THE SONG OF THE POKER.

The Poker,

Clanging.

I am the Poker the straight and the strong,

Prone in the fire grate,

Black at the nether end,

Knobby and nebulous.

Fashioned for fight

In the Pit Acherontic:

Many have grappled me,

Poised me and thrust me

Into the glowing,

The flashing and furious

Heart of the fire.

Raked with me, prized with me,

Till on a sudden

Besparked and encircled

With Welsh or with Wallsend,

Shattering, battering

They drew me away.

Others in rivalry,

Thinking to better

The previous performance,

Seized me again;

Pushed with a leverage

Hard on the haft of me,

Till with the shocks

Sank the red fire,

Shivered and sank

Subdued into blackness.

That is my Toil;

I am the Poker.

Oh, and the burglar's head

Often hath felt me,

Hard, undesirable

Cracker of craniums.

I have drunk of the blood,

The red blood, the life-blood

Of the wife of the drunkard.

Hoh! then, the glory.

The joyous, ineffable

Cup of fulfilment,

When the policeman,

Tall with a bull's-eye,

Took me and shook me,

Produced me in evidence,

There in the dim

Unappeasable grisliness

Of the Police-Court.

Women to shrink at me,

Men to be cursed with me,

Bloodstained, contemptuous,

Laid on the table.

I am the Minister,

Azrael's Minister.

I am the Poker.

VENUS (ANNO DOMINI 1892) RISES FROM THE SEA!!

OPERATIC NOTES.

Wednesday.—Great German Night. Third Part of the Festival Play for Four Nights by RICHARD WAGNER, with (thank goodness just to lighten it) an English translation by the Messrs. CORDER.

"Sursum Corder!" A light and airy work as everyone knows is Der Ring des Nibelungen, or The Nibelung's Ring, requiring all the power of lungs to get the true ring out of the work. Hard work for singers, more so for orchestra, and most so for audience. As for the "Ring," there are a lot of animals in the Opera, but no horse, so the Circus entertainment is not complete until Brünnhilde shall appear in the next part of the tetralogy, with her highly-trained steed. Odd! Throughout two long (and, ahem! somewhat weary, eh?) Acts, not a female singer visible on stage (though one sings "like a bird" off it,—that is, quite appropriately, "at the wings"), and not until the Third Act, does Erda the witch "rise from below," and we all saw her and 'Erd 'er. Then, later on, appears Brünnhilde, asleep, "in a complete suit of gleaming plate-armour, with helmet on her head and long shield over her body," a style of free-and-easy costume which, as everyone knows, is highly conducive to sleeping in perfect comfort. No wonder Siegfried mistakes her for a man-in-armour out of the Lord Mayor's Show, and exclaims,

"Ha, a Warrior, sure!

I scan with wonder his form!"

(I was scanning with wonder the verses,—but passons!)—he continues:—

"His haughty head

Is pressed by the helm!"

This at first sight looks nautical; and therefore his next question is, "Can I speak to the man at the wheel?" He decides that, as the sleeping warrior "heaveth his breast," and "is heavily breathing," it will be a humane act to give him a little air,—[which is done in the orchestra whatever air there is],—and then Siegfried asks himself if it won't be as well, or "better, to open his byrnie?" Those among the audience who have been carefully reading the translation up to this point, here look up and closely watch Siegfried's proceedings, being evidently uncertain as to what "his byrnie" may be. Some clever person in Stalls observes that up to now, he has always thought that "'byrnie' was the affectionate diminutive for a mountain 'byrne' in Scotland." Which clever person had evidently much to learn. However the effect of the operation for "byrnie" (which ought to have been performed by Dr. BYRNIE YEO, ever ready to rescue a fellow-creature in distress) is to show that the supposed Knight is a Lady. Whereupon Siegfried with "surprise and astonishment starts back" exclaiming:—

"This is no man! Burning enchantment"—he meant "Byrnieing"—"charges my heart;"—(what charge does a heart make in these circumstances?)—"fiery awe falls on my eyesight;" (bad symptoms these!)—"My senses stagger and sway,"—So he swaggers and stays.

It is some time before he can pull himself together, and then the "Bewitched Maiden" awakes and addresses him bewitchingly. This causes him to be taken with a fit of "exalted rapture," while the lady, on her part, cannot help being "deeply stirred."

After a mad wooing, she laughs in a "wild transport of passion," calls him a "high-minded boy," likewise "a blossoming hero," also "a babe of prowess;" all which epithets, styles and titles, are in quite the vein of Falstaff addressing Prince Hal. Then, in return, Siegfried can hit on no better compliment than to style her "a Sun" and "a Star." Having thus exhausted their joint-stock of complimentary endearments, they throw themselves into each other's arms. On which situation the Curtain discreetly falls.

All very fine and large, of course. Orchestra splendid. Siegfried and Brünnhilde recalled four times. Everybody, including Mr. MAHLER the Conductor, and Sir AUGUSTUS WAGNERENSIS, called before Curtain. Madame ROSA SUCHER had her evening all to herself, to go wherever she liked, as she had only to drop in at the Opera at 11 P.M., don her armour in which to appear before the public at midnight, sing a few solos, join in a duet, and be off the stage again by 12:30 A.M. punctually.

The English translation will repay perusal. There are in it some really choice morsels. This subject must be considered at the earliest operatunity.

The Singing Dragon is delightful throughout, and his death as tragic as anything in Pyramis and Thisbe as played by Bottom the Weaver & Co, Limited.

Saturday.—Production of the Illustrious ISIDORE DE LARA's Light of Asia. So the operatic day, that is Saturde-ay, finishes with generally-expressed opinion that this Opera is a

"DE-LA-RA-Boom-de-ay!"

Everything scenically and stage-managerially that could be done to make The Light of Asia brilliant, Sir DRURIOLANUS has done; but, after a first hearing, it strikes me that, regarded as a work for the stage, it is a mere Night-light of Asia, which, like Macbeth's "brief candle," will go "out," and "then be heard no more." If, however, it be relegated to the concert-hall, as a Cantata, The Light of Asia may appear lighter than it does on the boards of Covent Garden, where, intended to be a dramatic Opera, it only recalls to me the title of one of RUDYARD KIPLING's stories, viz., The Light that Failed.

A SUTTON THOUGHT.—Mr. CHAMBERLAIN can now allude to Lord ROSEBERY as "a Sutton person of his acquaintance."

QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS.

Unfashionable Mother. "WHAT A SWEET CHILD! HOW OLD IS SHE?"

Fashionable Mother. "WELL, REALLY, IF YOU ARE GOING TO ASK THAT SORT OF QUESTION, I'D BETTER SEND FOR THE NURSE!"

AN OLD SONG REVIVED.

(As sung by the Champion Ulster "Comique," Colonel S-nd-rs-n, to the old tune of "De Groves of de Pool," written by "honest Dick Millikin.")

Whillaloo! If they droive us to foighting,

'Tis ourselves who will lead 'em a dance,

Till, loike the Cork bhoys, they're deloighting,

Back again to their homes to advance!

No longer in beating such rebels

We'll take than in baiting a bull.

How they'll squake, in effeminate trebles,

When Ulster's battalions are full!

Ri fol didder rol didder rol!

We trate 'em as loving relations?

We trust to the "Union of Hearts"?

We heed the Grand Old One's orations?

We play the Minority's parts?

We bow to the yoke of TIM HEALY?

We stoop to the Papisthry rule?

Faix! them who imagine it really

Must fancy that "Orange" spells "fool."

Ri fol didder rol didder rol!

We consint to a sham House o' Commons

Established on ould College Green?

They fancy we're Radical rum 'uns!

Allaygiance we owe to our QUEEN!

But we're fly to their thraitorous dodges;

Our loyalty's edge would they dull?

Fwit! We'll pour like a flood from our Lodges,

And crack every "National" skull!

Ri fol didder rol didder rol!

We're all friends of Law and of Order,

But would they wrench us from the Crown?

We'll soon be a-singing "Boyne Water,"

And marching to "Croppies, lie down!"

'Tis we have the Men and the Money,

We don't want to foight, we're quite cool.

But, by Jingo, our foes will look funny,

When Ulster turns out 'gin Home Rule!

Ri fol didder rol didder rol!

To-day in our myriads we muster.

Friendly warning is all that we mean.

About SOLLY's "incitement" Rads fluster;

We're thrue to the Crown and the QUEEN:

But Ulster no "pathriot" shall sever,

And Ulster no "Papish" shall school.

Whillaloo! Here's the Union for ever,

And into the Boyne wid Home Rule!

Ri fol didder rol didder rol!

Och! Here's to Dutch WILLIAM the Pious!

And here's to VICTORIA the Good!

If they think we won't foight, let 'em try us!

They mock at an Orangeman's mood,

But once set the Green 'gainst the Yellow,

(Wid no one our coat-tails to pull,)

And I pity the pathriots who bellow

(Like bhoys in a bog) for Home Rule!

Ri fol didder rol didder rol!

Come, all loyal props of the nation,

Come fill up a bumper all round!

Drink success to our great federation;

With Brummy JOE's blessing 'tis crowned.

He says we are heroes, right stingo,

He vows W.G.'s an old fool.