Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 93, August 13, 1887

Excerpt

THE END OF THE JUBILEE.

I've been to the Abbey, the Naval Review,

The Maske at Gray's Inn and the Institute too;

In fact I feel just like the Wandering Jew,

Or other historical rover:

I've turned day into night and the night into day,

In a regular rollicking Jubilee way,

And now I can truly and thankfully say,

I'm uncommonly glad that it's over.

I've been to a number of Jubilee balls,

And I'm really worn out by the parties and calls;

I've fed in the City 'neath shade of St. Paul's,

And ate little fish by the river:

I've been to big picnics both up and down stream,

I've wallowed in strawberries smothered in cream,

Which, following lobster, most doctors would deem

Was remarkably bad for the liver.

I've read all the Jubilee articles, loads

Of Jubilee leaders and Jubilee odes,

And seen how each poet his Pegasus goads,

Though gaining but slight inspiration;

A chaos of Jubilee Numbers I've seen,

And Jubilee pictures and lives of the Queen,

And the Jubilee coinage that's greeted, I ween,

With anything but jubilation.

But, now all is over, sincerely I trust

The Nation no longer will kick up a dust,

The Jubilee really has done for me just

As "Commodious" scared Mr. Boffin:

Any more jubilation would finish me quite,

As it is I've a horrible dream every night

That a Jubilee demon is screwing me tight

Down into a Jubilee coffin!

The Correct Card.

Mr. Goldwin Smith says:—"The one thing certain about Tory-Democracy, besides its origin, is, that it is the card of a political gamester." It may perhaps help the ponderous Professor, in a future philippic, to know, in addition, that the associations of Tory-Democracy at once suggest "Clubs," and the game it is playing, the "deuce."

Air—"Ballyhooly."

There's a dashing sort of bhoy who was once his country's joy,

But his ructions and his rows no longer charm me,

He often takes command in a fury-spouting band

Called the "Ballyhooly" Parliamentary Army.

At Donnybrook's famed fair he might shine with radiance rare,

A "Pathriot" he's called, and may be truly,

It is catching, I'm afraid, for when he is on parade

There seems scarce a sober man in "Ballyhooly."

Chorus.

Whililoo, hi ho! Faith they all enlist, ye know,

Though their ructions and their shindies fail to charm me,

Bad language, howls, and hate put an end to fair debate

In the "Ballyhooly" Parliamentary Army.

The Spayker, honest soul, finds they're quite beyond control,

Discussion takes a most extinded radius,

It's about as fine and clear as the stalest ginger-beer,

But the "bhoys," they never seem to find it "tadyious."

And what is worse, to-day all the Army march one way,

That is in being ructious and unruly,

If a Mimber in debate wants to argue fair and straight,

Faith they howl him out of court in "Ballyhooly."

Chorus—Whililoo, hi, ho, &c.

They're supposed to hould debate in the interests of the State,

Which one and all they do their best to injure;

I have said their talk's as clear as the stalest ginger-beer,

And they mix the vilest vitriol with the ginger....