Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 104, April 15, 1893

Excerpt

POLITICAL MEETINGS.

A Crowded, gas-lit, stuffy hall,

A prosy speaker, such a duffer,

A mob that loves to stamp and bawl,

Noise, suffocation—how I suffer!

What is he saying? "Mr. G.

Attacks the British Constitution,

It therefore—er—er—falls to me

To move the first—er—resolution:

"That—er—the Shrimpington-on-Sea

United Primrose Habitations

Pronounce ('Hear, hear!') these Bills to be

Iniquitous (cheers) innovations."

I'll bear this heat and noise no more;

My constitution would be weaker.

I hurry out, and find, next door,

Another meeting and its speaker;

Another crowded, stuffy hall,

A frantic shouter, greater duffer,

A mob more prone to stamp and bawl,

Noise, suffocation still I suffer.

What is he saying? "Mr. G.,

Despite drink's cursed coalition,

Dooms publicans (groans), as should be,

On earth, as elsewhere, to perdition!

"I move, the Shrimpington-on-Sea

United Bands of Hope, with pleasure,

Pronounce the Veto Bill to be

A great (cheers), good (shouts), just (roars) measure."

Enough! O frantic fools who rave

And call it "Temperance"! This body

Would drive me to an early grave;

I'll hurry home and get some toddy.

ADVICE TO A YOUNG PARTY SCRIBE.

You may, an it please you, be dull,

(For Britons deem dulness "respectable");

Stale flowers of speech you may cull,

With meanings now scarcely detectable;

You may wallow in saturnine spite,

You may flounder in flatulent flummery;

Be sombre as poet Young's "Night,"

And dry as a Newspaper "Summary";

As rude as a yowling Yahoo,

As chill as a volume of Chitty;

But oh, Sir, whatever you do,

You must not be witty!

Plod on through the sand-wastes of Fact,

Long level of gritty aridity;

With pompous conceit make a pact,

Be bondsman to bald insipidity;

Be slab as a black Irish bog,

Slow, somnolent, stupid, and stodgy;

Plunge into sophistical fog,

And the realms of the dumpishly dodgy.

With trump elephantine and slow,

Tread on through word-swamps, dank and darkling;

But no, most decidedly no,

You must not be sparkling!

Be just as unjust as you like,

A conscienceless, 'cute special-pleader;

As spiteful as Squeers was to Smike,

(You may often trace Squeers in a "leader.")

Impute all the vileness you can,

Poison truth with snake-venom of fable,

Be fair—as is woman to man,

And kindly—as Cain was to Abel.

Suggest what is false in a sneer,

Suppress what is true by confusing;

Be sour, stale, and flat as small-beer,

But don't be amusing!

Party zealots will pardon your spite,

If against their opponents it sputters,

The way a (word) foeman to fight,

Is to misrepresent all he utters.

That does not need wisdom or wit,

(Ye poor party-scribes, what a blessing!)

No clean knightly sword, but a spit

Is the weapon for mangling and messing;

Wield that, like a cudgel-armed rough

Blent with ruthless bravo,—such are numerous!—

Lie, slander, spout pitiful stuff,

But—beware of the humorous!

For if you should fall into fun,

You might lapse into manly good-nature,

And then—well your course would be run!

No,—study up spleen's nomenclature;

Learn all the mad logic of hate,

And then, though your style be like skilly,

Your sense frothy Styx in full spate....